Restless Waters (18 page)

A sharp prick nipped at my skin, as if to let me know. The Pomeranian had obviously made it home. I knew, because the canine was biting my leg with its sharp little teeth. Auntie Ellen bent down and scooped up the dog in her arms. The pooch nestled against her neck and licked her face.

“Sammy had called and asked for my help. That’s why I went to meet him,” I tried to explain, not knowing what else to say.

“I’m aware of that. I warned him there would be trouble if he dealt with outsiders. But he insisted on trying to live with his feet in both worlds. That was a mistake. You see for yourself what happened,” Auntie Ellen replied, refusing to release my eyes from her gaze.

“Once again, I’m terribly sorry. It was a horrible accident,” I mumbled, wishing I was anywhere else but there.

That seemed to bring some life into her.

“What accident are you talking about?” Auntie Ellen sharply retorted, her eyes flashing in rage.

The anger in her voice grabbed me around the neck and gave me a hard shake.

“The fact that Sammy fell off the cliff and was killed by a shark,” I responded, beginning to feel somewhat off-kilter.

I hadn’t come all the way out here expecting to be attacked.

“That’s pure rubbish. No such thing ever happened,” she brusquely snapped.

At first, I was taken aback. Then I finally admitted what had been eating away at me all along. I didn’t really believe that Sammy’s death was an accident, either.

“What makes you say that?” I asked, wondering why she felt the same way.

Auntie Ellen scrutinized me so closely, it was as if she could see beneath my skin. What in the hell did the woman possess? Some sort of X-ray vision?

“If you know anything about Hawaiian culture, it should be that sharks are sacred to us as a people. They’re the greatest
aumakua
, or guardian spirit, that we have. In Western terms, it’s akin to a guardian angel watching over you.”

I tried to shake off the feeling that she could read my every thought.

“But why sharks? What makes them so special?” I pressed, curious as to why Hawaiians viewed them so differently from the rest of the world.

Auntie Ellen nodded, as if she understood why I would ask such a question.

“It’s because sharks display many of the same attributes as humans. They’re fierce and stealthy, graceful and magnificent, just as in the best and worst of man.”

In a sense, that made me all the more wary. Humans and sharks are both perfect predators, each lethal in their own way.

“It’s also believed that sharks embody the spirits of our departed ancestors, which is why it’s their job to protect each family,” she continued. “The Kalahikis have a very powerful
aumakua
. That’s another reason why no shark would ever harm us.”

If true, it was one hell of a family god to have looking out for you.

“Then how do you explain the bite marks that were found on Sammy’s body?” I questioned.

A dark cloud came over her face, and I immediately regretted having asked.

“I don’t know,” she softly replied. “But that’s why Sammy boy chose to meet you at Ka’ena Point. It’s the legendary home of the Sharkman. That’s the place where he felt most safe.”

I had heard tales of the Sharkman, a creature that was human on land. However, the space on his back turned into the mouth of a shark upon entering the ocean. It was a story that I didn’t find terribly comforting.

“There is one thing I am curious about, though,” Auntie Ellen wistfully remarked.

“What’s that?” I asked, anxious to help in any way that I could.

“Will you tell me exactly where the two of you were supposed to meet at Ka’ena Point?” she questioned.

“Sammy was very specific about the spot,” I replied. “It was the same place that we’d met the day before. A huge coral rock along the north side of the point.”

Auntie Ellen sharply exhaled, as though the wind had
been knocked out of her, and her complexion turned visibly pale.

Then it’s almost as if he knew,” she responded in a whisper, causing chills to run down my spine. “That coral rock is the leaping-off point.”

“Leaping-off point for what?” I asked, the words sticking to the back of my throat.

“For Hawaiians when we die. It’s believed that the soul leaves the body and travels along the ridges to the west side of the island. Once there, it goes to that large coral rock that you found. The spirit stands on top and then jumps off into the afterworld. Only your soul can sometimes end up there before you die.”

“How does that happen?” I questioned, caught up in her tale.

“Your spirit can wander away if you fall into a deep sleep or lose consciousness. Then it’s up to your
aumakua
to guide you back home. Otherwise, the soul will have no choice but to leap into the abyss of endless night,” she explained.

I tried not to let her see how much the legend affected me. I also knew that it was time to reveal the reason for my visit.

“I assume Sammy must have told you why he asked for my help,” I began.

Auntie Ellen wordlessly nodded, but offered nothing else.

I took a deep breath and plunged in.

“He was supposed to bring evidence to our meeting that night. Sammy said it would support his claims that sharks were being illegally slaughtered for their fins. The problem is that I never found anything. Do you suppose that he might have left those papers here?” I fished.

But Auntie Ellen didn’t so much as blink.

“Maybe he took evidence with him and maybe he
didn’t. But he left something of far more value at Ka’ena Point. Sammy boy gave his life for what he believed in. What are you willing to give?” she responded, with a question of her own.

There were those eyes again, looking straight through me. I had no choice but to answer truthfully.

“Whatever is necessary.”

Auntie Ellen’s lips twitched, and I knew she believed me. It opened the door for another important question.

“Sammy told me that he’d received threatening phone calls. Do you know anything about them?”

“No,” she said, with a shake of her head. “But then he wouldn’t have wanted to worry me. What I do know is that he came home very late two nights ago. He must have been somewhere unusual, because his clothes smelled bad and were dirty.”

That would have been the evening before his death. Our first meeting had taken place earlier that day. It was also when I had pressed him to get more evidence.

“Have you washed them yet?” I asked, trying not to seem too eager.

“Why? Do you want to see them?” she asked, with a puzzled expression.

“Yes, as long as they’re still dirty.”

I remained standing outside the door as Auntie Ellen went to fetch them. She came back with a pair of jeans in her hands. Even from this distance they retained a strange odor. Whatever it was, the pants reeked to high hell. She held them toward me, and I realized that I still had three cans of Spam in my hands.

“Here. These are for you,” I said, and awkwardly exchanged them for the jeans.

“Thank you,” Auntie Ellen murmured, seeming to be pleased.

I took a whiff of the pants. A pungent aroma that was
oddly familiar raced up my nose. Either a cat had peed on his leg, or Sammy had been hanging around a New York City subway station in his off hours. His jeans held the distinctive stench of urine.

My hands proceeded to travel down along the pants and discovered the fabric was sticky and stiff. Something clicked, and I realized what I’d been smelling all along. The odor was that of ammonia. Even so, it didn’t help to explain the glutinous substance on the legs. Not only that, but I now saw that the bottom of his jeans were stained. I licked my fingers, rubbed them against the denim and examined my hand. A dull red matter came off, staining my fingertips. It was the same color as that of dried blood.

I looked up to find Auntie Ellen intently staring at me.

“Do you mind if I take these?” I asked, planning to turn them over to a lab.

She hesitated briefly, as if trying to make a decision.

“Did you really intend to help my Sammy boy?” she asked once again.

“Yes,” I responded. “I believed what he told me to be true.”

“And what about now? Do you still plan to help?” Auntie Ellen questioned.

“I will if I can,” I replied. “Only it will be more difficult now. Sammy took whatever information he had with him when he died.”

Auntie Ellen cocked her head for a moment, as if listening to something.

“Wait here,” she instructed and disappeared. When she returned, there was a hat box in her hands.

“My son is dead. Nothing can ever change that. But maybe Sammy boy will rest better if I give you this,” she said and handed the box to me.

My fingers trembled as I anxiously took it from her. I
didn’t bother to ask what was inside. I’d find out soon enough.

“I’ll do whatever I can,” I promised, and turned to leave.

“Do you know what
aloha
means?” she asked, firmly stopping me.

I turned back to face her, hoping I’d done nothing to insult the woman.

“Hello and good-bye?” I responded, feeling slightly awkward.

“Yes, that’s what all
haoles
tend to believe. But the word has a much deeper significance.
Alo
is space, and
ha
means breath. So when you say
aloha
, what’s really being said is, ‘Come share my space; come share my breath.’ We’ve been a generous people, but outsiders have bought and sold
aloha
until there’s no more left. Our people have been decimated by your diseases, missionaries have destroyed our culture, and our kingdom has been overthrown by American business interests. We’ve been betrayed and our trust has been continually broken over the years. You find out who killed my Sammy boy and then you’ll have helped to repay some of the
aloha
that’s owed us. That’s when you come back to see me again,” she said.

I stood in silence, unable to speak. What was there to say? Every word that Auntie Ellen had said was true. I felt like one more barbarian at Hawaii’s gate. I simply nodded and began to walk away, afraid of adding on yet another empty promise.

“Tread lightly wherever you go, and leave no permanent footsteps,” her voice snuck up behind me.

My heart ached, and I spun back to tell her so, intending to vow never to harm the land, only to find that no one was there. At the same time, the air grew so thick and still
that chicken skin broke out on my arms. It was almost as if a ghost had spoken those words to me.

I made my way to the Ford, climbing inside as the island held its breath, the mountains looming like foreboding sentinels behind me. Then I drove down the gravel road, knowing full well what I’d have to do if I ever hoped to be viewed as anything other than one more invader.

I
t was as if the box were a magnet and my fingers were made of steel. They kept gravitating toward the carton, itching to pull off the damn lid. Finally, the temptation grew to be too much, and I stopped at a roadside dive. What the heck. I figured I might as well grab something to eat while I was at it.

The choice of menu was simple. All that was offered was the usual down-and-dirty fare: the infamous Hawaiian plate lunch. It consisted of two scoops of sticky rice, one lump of macaroni salad—extra heavy on the mayo, please—and a thick slice of Spam. Yum, yum. If the food is full of heart-clogging starches, fats, and gravies, then you’d better believe that you’re eating local.

Having placed my order, I next turned my attention to the hat box. It was almost as if an electrical current shot through my fingers as I removed the lid.

Lying on top were copies of letters that Sammy had written his bosses at the National Marine Fisheries Service. I carefully read through each one. Together they amounted to no more than a bunch of nitpicking complaints.

The food and hygiene on the boats wasn’t up to snuff. The sleeping quarters weren’t comfortable. The crews
were unfriendly and hostile. Even the office work required between fishing trips was ridiculous and mundane.

My heart sank as I sifted through each sheet. I was beginning to worry that Norm Pryor might have been right, after all. Perhaps Sammy
had
been no more than a disgruntled employee. It certainly was beginning to look that way.

The waiter returned and set the lumps of rice, macaroni, and cold Spam before me. My stomach joined my heart, slowly sinking in a leaden swan dive. I pushed the plate aside and continued to dig through the box, determined to quench my curiosity. What I found next was nothing less than the beginnings of a scandalous paper trail.

There could be little doubt that the Service had wanted to fire Kalahiki. But Sammy had cleverly fought back by maintaining his own logbook of dirty laundry.

He’d somehow obtained evidence revealing government kickbacks and illegal inter-office deals. Pay-offs were routinely made to keep observers from going out on certain fishing boats. In addition, “pass-through” money was consistently siphoned from grants, so that only some of the funds were ever used for their actual purpose. While this was dynamite information to have, it did little to help my own particular concerns.

I took a bite of the macaroni lump. The gooey salad turned to glue in my mouth, and I quickly washed it down with a can of lukewarm Coke. The waiter kept glaring at me, and I wondered which he found to be more rude—the fact that I wasn’t eating my food, or that I wasn’t sharing the contents of the box with him. He’d have to deal with whatever it was, as I once again focused on my scavenger hunt.

Oy veh
. There seemed to be nothing but endless lists of Sammy’s constant gripes and complaints. This was shap
ing up to be one hell of a frustrating exercise in futility. That is, until my fingers touched what felt like a satiny smooth surface. My heart beat a little faster, hoping that I’d finally struck proverbial gold.

Eureka! I pulled out a photograph, and quietly thanked Auntie Ellen for having given me something other than a box full of junk. However, one quick glance at the photo instantly dashed any such hopes. All that could be seen was the silhouette of a longline fishing boat. At least, that’s what I assumed the image to be. It was difficult to tell, since the boat looked like nothing more than a large grainy black dot bobbing on the horizon.

So much for Sammy’s photographic skills. I imagined him standing on deck for up to twelve hours a day. He’d probably spent his time idly snapping away, hoping to relieve the boredom while spending grueling weeks on board as an observer. The guy should have learned how to better use a camera, if this was an example of his work. I tossed it on the table, and idly continued to poke through the papers.

My mind started to wander as I removed a few more photographs and quickly flipped through them. Yeah, yeah, yeah. They were all of the same damn boat, only taken from a closer distance this time. Great. I’d apparently put myself on the line, only to end up looking like a fool.

But wait. It was then that something strange caught my eye. My fingers froze as I focused more closely on the longliner’s mast. Was I imagining things? Or could it be that what I saw was real?

I’d learned early on to carry a small magnifying glass in my bag, never knowing when it would prove to be useful. I pulled it out now and began to study the photograph.

Holy shit! I suddenly realized why the boat looked so
dark. Hundreds of shark fins flew from the pole in place of sails. The membranes fluttered up and down the length of its mast like a cotillion of flags. I’d heard stories of how fins were hung from hooks this way—the reason being that it kept them from rotting, while allowing the fins to partially dry.

In the past, a boat like this would have carried giant bales of fins on board. The trawler would then have either brought them into Honolulu or, if they weren’t yet ready to return, offloaded the bales onto another ship that was headed toward shore.

I quickly flipped the snapshots over and checked the date stamped on back. January 24. They’d been processed by a photo lab only a few weeks ago. It appeared to be hard-core proof that illegal finning was still going on. If so, there was no question but that the fins were being offloaded, dried, and graded right here in Hawaii.

I was determined to find the name of the boat. However, the camera angle blocked it from view. All I could spy was what appeared to be the first letter of a word. I was fairly certain that what I saw was an
M
. No matter. My spirits soared as I now began to furiously dig deeper.

My persistence paid off as I next stumbled upon a bunch of handwritten papers stapled together. They seemed to be some kind of report. Each sheet was divided into five columns listing the species of shark, the date caught, the number of fins, their weight, and the amount that had been paid for them.

I was amazed to see that blue shark, white tips, thresher, Mako, and scalloped hammerheads were still being hunted. But it was the total amount of fins harvested that really blew me away. Eleven tons had been purchased in one sale alone.

I now knew that Sammy had been right all along. While
it was possible that some fins had slipped into Oahu unnoticed, no way could eleven tons have been discreetly offloaded. Not on the Honolulu docks, without at least a few state and federal agents knowing about it. Just the thought of what was going on set my teeth on edge.

“Is everything all right?” the waiter asked, sidling over to me.

He looked at the barely touched plate and must have wondered if my
haole
stomach had contracted food poisoning.

“Everything’s fine. Just the check, please,” I said, carefully covering the information with my hands.

He tried to eyeball it, but without any luck. Then he shot me a glance, as if wondering what I was up to. I could have told him the truth: that I didn’t have the foggiest notion, but was flying by the seat of my pants.

I waited until he walked away, and then studied the report once again.

Where had Sammy possibly gotten hold of such detailed information? The papers appeared to be the bookkeeping records of either a commercial marine dealer or a broker. Except neither would have willingly handed over such incriminating evidence.

I glanced at the date on the pages. February 13. Two days ago. That was the same night that Sammy arrived home late.

It now began to make sense as to why Kalahiki had taken precautions not to be seen with me. He’d been safeguarding my life as well as his own. That led me to wonder what else he had known. The question haunted me as I once again remembered Auntie Ellen’s words.

No way was his death an accident
.

I believed she was right. Something else bothered me, as well. I felt certain Sammy had brought evidence with him
the night we were to meet. Possibly information that was even more compelling than the papers inside this box. So what in the hell had happened to it?

I wasn’t quite through yet, having come upon a clear plastic bag tucked away near the bottom. I pulled it out and immediately recognized the scent. It bore the same slight aroma as that which had been on Sammy’s jeans. But it was the bag’s contents that made my heart begin to pound.

Inside were long white tendrils, nearly as thin as strands of fine hair. Reaching in, I twined my fingers around them. The fibers were a clump of processed shark fins that had been repeatedly soaked, dried, and bleached with peroxide, until they’d reached this final state.

So this was what all the fuss was about: a product that amounted to threads of treated cartilage. I could only wonder how many dead sharks I held in the palm of my hand. Was it possible that Sammy Kalahiki had been killed just because of this? I stared at the lifeless bundle of strings, and my stomach churned a little more. The lengths to which man’s greed would go never ceased to amaze me.

There was one last sheet of paper, and I felt a twinge of melancholy while extracting it, not yet ready for the journey to end. I’d come to know Sammy better in these past few minutes than might have otherwise been possible. It was as if he were speaking to me through the box, offering what clues he could. The rest would now be up to my own initiative.

I felt the weight of this responsibility more than ever before—partially because of Auntie Ellen’s request, possibly because federal agents could be involved, definitely because I feared that I might not live up to what was expected of me.

I unfolded the final piece of paper, curious to see what it revealed. The contents caught me by surprise, and I very nearly laughed out loud. It held the crude drawing of a shark with razor-sharp teeth. How strangely ironic. But there was something else, as well. Three names were written beneath the cartoon sketch.

Leung. Ting. Yakimov.

A jolt of recognition shot through me. Could it be that Stas Yakimov was somehow involved in the shark-fin trade? And if so, did that mean Vinnie Bertucci was entangled, as well?

I stared at the other two names. As for Leung and Ting, they could be anyone. Especially in a state whose population is mainly Asian.

I put everything back inside the box and closed it up. Perhaps it was time to pay an unannounced visit to Stas Yakimov. It would be easy enough, since I’d pass by his place on my way home.

I paid the bill and left a good tip, considering I’d been sitting there for so long. Then I took my box of goodies and split, driving back down along the coast.

My Ford once again passed through the same small dingy towns. There were rumors that cockfights went on in this area at night. An investigation into that would have to wait for another time. I turned onto Yakimov’s street and parked in front of his house.

I got out and walked up to the gate. Even though his dark blue van sat in the driveway, it appeared as if no one were home. The place was unusually quiet.

“Stas, are you here?” I called out, anxious to see if either he or his pack of crazed dogs responded.

But all remained oddly silent.

I opened the gate and entered the grounds, tiptoeing past the mounds of strewn plywood. Then I headed around and peeked into the backyard, feeling amazingly
brave. Why not? After all, I now knew the magic word with which to control his dogs. All I had to do was say
Spartacus.

I took a deep breath, prepared to yell out the command, only to find that the dogs were all locked in their pens. They broke into an unearthly howl upon catching sight of me.

Aaaoooooowww!

It wasn’t the ferocious barking that I’d formerly heard, but rather a mournful dirge. A flurry of eight-legged, creepy crawling shivers scurried up my spine, the sound penetrating deep inside me.

I didn’t tarry, but hurried toward Yakimov’s handmade mobile of pit-bull bones. It still struck me as a gruesome memorial to have constructed from the remains of his pets. How had he managed to lose so many of them, anyway? A little voice whispered that they hadn’t all died from natural causes.

I arrived at his back door, and proceeded to knock on it.

There was no answer. However, the door stood slightly ajar. I pushed it open and stepped inside.

“Hello? Stas? Anybody home?”

Every nerve ending in my body warned I should go no farther. Instead, I stood in the kitchen and intently listened as the door creaked closed behind me. There was almost no other sound. Even the crickets in their boxes were oddly muted. Or perhaps it was due to the roar of blood that was pumping in my ears.

My feet felt like two leaden weights as I slowly began to move forward, my body heavy as stone. By the time I reached the living room, I no longer needed my senses to know that something was terribly wrong.

Stas’s beloved pit bull, Sparky, had been knocked off the glass table and thrown on the floor. The taxidermied pooch lay covered in blood that matched the red of the
walls. Its carcass was surrounded by papers and books that were scattered about.

I didn’t have to think twice, but automatically pulled out my gun. Then I followed the fresh, wet trail of blood down the hall.

Red splatters leading to the bedroom door told of a struggle. All I could wonder was, Who had Yakimov killed? Rasta Boy? Vinnie? Or a dissatisfied customer? It wasn’t hard to imagine him snapping. Stas was downing steroids, Viagra, and who knew what the hell else? I just hoped that he wasn’t in the throws of ’roid rage, or I’d never stand a chance against him.

The macaroni salad I’d eaten at lunch now rose into my throat as I tried to sidestep all the blood. But I could almost feel it seeping through my shoes and into my skin. It thrummed through every vein and capillary, until the victim and I became one.

The hairs on the nape of my neck began to bristle and I whirled around, certain someone must be behind me. But it was only Sparky’s lifeless cadaver listlessly gazing from the floor. I turned my attention back to the bedroom, using my toe to push open the door.