Restless Waters (21 page)

The girls trawled the wharves, flirtatiously going from boat to boat, where they serviced each man who was willing, flush, and able. Their high heels
click, click, clicked
on the wooden boards, the sharp staccato beat like that of a traveling troupe of flamenco dancers. One girl walked over to a car that idled nearby. The next moment, she disappeared inside, only to reappear again a few minutes later.

Bright lights lined the piers, giving the docks a party atmosphere, as fishermen gathered together to drink, buy drugs, and get jacked up on ice. I now realized that Caucasians resided on one side of the wharves, carousing and playing cards, while Vietnamese and Filipinos kept their boats docked on the other. It was an entire subculture where Asians chattered among themselves as they cut up fish and threw the pieces into cooking pots. Meanwhile, the boat owners resided in Diamond Head, living high on the hog.

Underlying all this was a low, steady groan that worked its way through my bones. It was the moan of boats pulling against their ropes, accompanied by the
putt, putt, putt
of bilge pumps spitting out water. The slap of the ocean lapped against their hulls in a mesmerizing fashion that seduced me. Perhaps it was to lure my attention from the fact there was no law enforcement on the docks at night. Neither the state wildlife division nor the National Marine Fisheries Service had an officer anywhere in sight. It made this the perfect time in which to smuggle illicit cargo.

I continued to cruise the docks, curious as to what I would find. It wasn’t long before I managed to trip across something. Four Asian crew members had begun to haul large, black garbage bags off a longliner. Ten, fifteen, twenty sacks were tossed into the back of a pickup truck that sat parked next to their boat. I decided to mosey on over, being that I had the perfect cover—yet another
haole
tourist that had stumbled upon the docks while out for a joyride.

“Wow! You guys must have had a good trip. It looks as if you caught a lot of fish,” I remarked, slowing my Explorer to a crawl.

The men glanced at me and smiled, but said nothing.

“What did you catch? Maybe I’d like to buy something,” I chattered on, remaining intrepidly cheerful.

That brought a rapid response to their lips.

“No fish. No fish for sale,” one of them irritably replied and waved me aside, as if my presence was cramping their style.

“Then what have you got in there?” I stubbornly persisted.

“Only our laundry,” another responded, after which they all turned their backs to me.

Uh-huh. As if they weren’t standing on a dingy longliner but sipping drinks on a luxurious cruise ship. That would have been the only explanation for hauling such an extensive wardrobe out to sea. Either that, or the men liked to change their clothes at least three times a day.

I watched as they drove away. The pickup didn’t go very far, but stopped at a locked gate near the other end of the pier. One of the men jumped out, opened it, and guided their vehicle through. Then the enclosure was once again fastened behind them.

I waited a few minutes before following, carefully parking so that my Explorer was just out of view. Then, grabbing a flashlight, I snuck up to the gate and peered through. A warehouse area lay spread like a grimy city behind it. I quickly checked that no one was around, and pulled myself over the chain-link fence.

M
y feet thudded on asphalt, the sound dully echoing in the night. It mixed with the low rumble of boat generators as I scurried toward a building that had its lights on. It was there that the pickup sat parked, like a vehicular amputee, its rear end partially consumed by the building’s garage entrance.

I hastened my pace, eager to learn what was taking place, only to hear a splash and realize that my feet were sloshing through liquid. The flashlight’s beam revealed a series of wastewater puddles laced with dark swirls of blood, which led me to wonder if they came from an animal or human. At the same time, an acrid aroma hit me full force, as if I’d been slapped across the face. It was the smell of ammonia; the very same odor that had clung to Kalahiki’s pants.

There was no longer any question as to what was inside those black plastic garbage bags, or where Sammy had gone that night in search of more evidence. But I had little time to speculate further, having reached my destination.

No one was in the pickup, and I leaned in to examine the front seat. Damn. There wasn’t a thing other than a crumpled pack of cigarettes and a couple of empty beer
cans. Equally frustrating was that the truck’s back end blocked any view into the warehouse. I could hear voices inside, but there were no windows through which to peek. At least, not in this section of the building. Perhaps there’d be some along the rear. I began to head there now, fully determined to check it out.

I was so focused on my mission that my heart nearly burst through my chest as a hand grabbed hold of my arm. I whirled around to find a man in his mid-forties, with a face as smooth and unlined as an eggshell. He stared at me with unblinking eyes that betrayed not the least hint of emotion. Rather, they were as vapidly cool as those of the lizard that had been on my bedroom wall.

“This is private property you’re on. Would you mind telling me what it is that you’re doing here?” he asked, in a tone as neutral as his expression.

It was the intensity of his grip that gave him away. That, and the fact that I caught a glimpse of something deadly in his eyes.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize,” I replied. “I’m looking for a Mr. Hong of Pacific Catch Products. Perhaps you can direct me to the proper building.”

I didn’t wait to be released, but jerked my arm from his grip. The man continued to study me in what quickly became a staring contest. I could deal with that. My sister and I used to play the same game years ago. Best of all, I usually won.

“Pacific Catch is out of business, and Charlie Hong’s not here anymore,” he finally said, ending the match. “How did you get in, anyway? The warehouse area is closed to traffic after five o’clock.”

“Oh, really? That’s odd. I just came in through the gate,” I responded, hoping he wouldn’t bother to check.

But my opponent wasn’t buying my explanation.

“That’s impossible,” he said, his tone taking on a sinis
ter edge. “The gate is always kept locked. I check it myself. Especially since there was a robbery here the other night.”

My mind raced, wondering if the burglar had been Sammy. And, if so, what had he discovered? The only way I’d ever know now was to find out for myself.

“That’s too bad. Someone must have accidentally left it open, the same as they did tonight. People will just have to learn to be more careful,” I said, and turned to leave.

But my assailant stopped me by grabbing onto my arm again. Only this time, his fingers clamped down directly over my wound.

“I suppose so. After all, accidents do happen. In fact, quite a few have taken place just recently on Oahu.”

It felt as if jellyfish tentacles were burning through my skin, the pain so palpable that even my teeth began to ache. I tried to pull away, but the man refused to loosen his grip. Instead he smiled, as if aware of exactly what he was doing.

“Let go of my arm,” I demanded, flinching as the pain traveled up inside my head.

“We don’t appreciate trespassers around here,” he warned, his voice taut and terse as a garrote.

I began to worry that the stitches in my arm would burst if he continued at this rate.

“I’m not a trespasser. I’m a federal agent, and you’re about to land in deep trouble if you don’t immediately release me,” I hissed.

“Oh, really? I suppose that depends on exactly what type of agent you are,” he countered. “For all I know, you’re the kind that likes to play illegal spy games.”

“I’m with the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service,” I furiously revealed. “And this is your last warning. Let go of my arm.”

He hesitated one tenth of a second too long, and I ground my heel into his foot while slamming my palm hard against his chin.

The man’s head flew back, clicking his teeth together. He grunted in surprise and relaxed his grip. I pulled myself free, as he spit on the ground and angrily glared at me.

“Now see what you’ve done? I bit my tongue.” His fingers gingerly probed its tip. “Look at that. You’ve made it bleed.”

“What a shame. Then I guess we’ll both have bruises from this evening,” I responded, and checked my arm.

Unbelievable. The stitches were still all in place.

“You’re going to regret this,” he vowed. “It’s common knowledge that Fish and Wildlife has no jurisdiction over the docks. National Marine Fisheries Service won’t be very happy to learn that you’ve been snooping around their territory.”

“I have a suggestion. Why don’t you give me your name, along with that of your company, and I’ll be sure to report this to them,” I caustically responded. If he thought that kind of threat was going to scare me, he could join the crowd at the back of the line.

He smiled and his face glowed like a pale moon in the night.

“My company is Capital City Fish Products,” he obligingly revealed.

An inner alarm warned me that the answer had come way too easily.

“But I have a better idea,” he continued. “Since you seem to be so interested, why don’t I take you on a personal tour right now? You know, I have the strangest feeling that not a soul knows where you are this evening.”

My suspicions were confirmed as the man suddenly lunged for me. I reached for my gun, knowing I’d be in
trouble if he again grabbed hold of my arm. But we both stopped cold as a figure abruptly lurched from out of the dark. He bumped into my assailant, knocking him off balance, and then swayed from side to side and back and forth like a punch-drunk fighter as he stood between us.

“Hey, Mikey! So you finally got yourself a hot date, huh? Whatsa matter? Doesn’t she like your moves?”

My hero hiccuped and burped, exuding a wave of booze that came rolling toward me like a tsunami.

“Be a pal. How ’bout cuttin’ me in on the action? What can I tell ya? It’s been a while since I’ve had a woman,” he slurred, and leered suggestively at me.

He stood close enough so that I saw what I’d thought was a sweater was actually his hairy chest. His pot belly flopped over shorts slung dangerously low around his hips, and a pair of yellow rubber boots reached up to his wrinkled knees.

My knight in denim cut-offs had a complexion to match his hoary breath. Broken capillaries snaked across his nose and cheeks like crooked routes on a road map, attesting to the fact that he’d been drinking for too many years. A pair of droopy lids hung heavy over bloodshot eyes that were positioned above a nose the shape and size of a rutabaga. Even his hair looked as if it was on a bender, sticking out on all sides. As for his voice, it sounded as though he’d gargled with broken glass, most of which still remained in his throat.

Mikey’s gaze coldly flitted between the two of us.

“Sure, Dave. She’s all yours. Have yourself a blast,” he replied, clipping off the end of each word as if it had frostbite.

He pulled a wad of cash from his pocket and peeled off a ten-dollar bill. “Here. Buy another bottle of booze while you’re at it, and have yourselves a really good time.”

“Aw hell, Mikey. That’s awful nice of ya,” my booze hound said, choking up and getting all teary-eyed.

He moved in to give Mikey a hug, but Mr. Capital City shoved him aside.

“Get off me, you lousy drunk,” Mikey contemptuously responded, and began to brush off his clothes.

I took the opportunity to leave while the going was good.

“I’ll be seeing you,” I called from over my shoulder, while heading for the gate.

“You can count on that, Agent Porter,” Mr. Capital City replied.

A flurry of goosebumps instantly broke out on my skin. I’d never told him my name.

I whirled around to confront the man, but he’d already disappeared inside. Only the drunk remained, staring at me with an odd expression.

A sickening feeling took hold as I realized that everyone seemed to know more about what was going on than I did. I hurried forward, increasingly aware that I was living on the edge of a sword—one on which I didn’t have a very good grip.

I’d just about reached the gate when the
squish, squish, squish
of rubber soles, pounding on pavement, swiftly came from behind, and a hand landed on my shoulder. I took no chances this time, but spun around, grabbed onto it, and twisted the offending arm behind its owner’s back.

“Hey, wait a minute! We gotta talk,” a raspy voice protested.

I didn’t have to see a thing to know who I had in my grip. His breath provided all the clue that was needed. It was my ninety-proof, alcohol-embalmed friend Dave, with the bloodshot eyes.

“I think you’d better sleep it off,” I suggested, not in the mood to deal with him.

I released the drunk and started to walk away.

“Like hell, I will. I’m trying to help you here. This is serious business. Or are you too dense to understand that?” he challenged.

I slowed my pace, having become aware there was something about him. For one thing, he no longer slurred his words.

“You’re the Fish and Wildlife agent, aren’t you?” he continued to address my back. “In which case, you damn well better be interested in what I have to say.”

I came to a halt, turned, and looked at the man.

“I thought you were wasted back there.”

He tapped his temple with his index finger and shrewdly smiled. “Nah. That was just an act to help save your ass. You can trust Sharkfin Dave. I never get more than a little wasted. It don’t matter how much I drink.”

“Sharkfin Dave?” I repeated.

The name rolled off my tongue, conjuring up an image as vivid as Davy Crockett or Daniel Boone. Only this was a shirtless drunk that stood before me.

“Why are you called that?” I questioned, my adrenaline kicking into action.

“Because I’m so
goooood
at catchin’ sharks,” he responded, with a greedy gleam in his eye. “You know what I like to call ’em?”

“No. What?” I asked, my stomach beginning to hatch butterflies.

“Wolves of the sea,” he said, licking his lips as though he could taste the words.

“What made you give them that name?” I continued, half repulsed, and half mesmerized.

“Because if you listen real close, you can practically hear them howl when they’re caught.”

He burst into a raucous laugh, and a sour taste filled my mouth.

“So then, you still catch them?” I followed up, determined not to let the man off my hook.

He silently nodded. “At least, I did until about a week ago. But I’m not the one you want. I can help you land the real son of a bitch that’s running this business.”

“And why would you do that?” I promptly inquired, afraid this might only be a dream, and I’d suddenly wake up.

“Because that bastard you were playing
mano-a-mano
with a minute ago is the dirtbag that killed my boss,” Sharkfin Dave disclosed.

My pulse joined my heart in a whirlwind sprint.

“And who would your boss have been?” I queried although certain I already knew.

“Charlie Hong, owner of Pacific Catch Products,” Sharkfin replied. “I was his right-hand man. I just about ran this place in the good old days, when finning was legal. That’s how much fin we used to bring in. Once it became banned, I turned into his cargo man, going out to sea to rendezvous with tankers. We’d pick up bags of fins off the ships and smuggle ’em back in. The money wasn’t as good, but it was still a living. ’Course, even that’s over, now that Charlie’s dead.”

He hacked up a lugie and spat on the ground.

“I’m telling you, that bastard took my livelihood away. So he threw me a tenner tonight. Big friggin’ deal. It won’t pay my rent, or keep me in food and booze.” Sharkfin wiped the back of his hand across his lips in distaste.

“If you’re not still involved in finning, then why are you hanging around the docks?” I asked, not yet ready to trust him.

“This is where I live these days. In a shack that used to be my office. Hell, I can’t afford anything else. Besides, you oughta be damn grateful that I was here tonight, keeping a watch on things. Mikey would have killed you
the same as he did Hong, and thought nothing of it,” Sharkfin attested. “Come on. We can’t talk out in the open. Let’s go to my place.”

My hand strayed to the butt of my gun as I followed, assuring that I’d be safe.

Sharkfin Dave led the way past shuttered buildings, slumbering forklifts, and sheds of corrugated steel, as my feet slogged through water and slippery strands of fish guts. His yellow boots reflected in pools of scum like twin golden suns as we stealthily traveled across the warehouse lot.

He walked with a limp, and I realized that his one leg was as deeply scarred as a cat’s scratching post, its girth much thinner than the other. I wondered what had happened, and if Mikey had something to do with it.

We arrived at a small gray shack with a plywood door and a white plastic bucket in front. Sharkfin kicked the pail aside and booted in the entrance.

To describe the place as a crash pad would have been to give it too much credence. The hut was an absolute dive. Girly calendars were plastered on the walls, and the furnishings consisted of rusty filing cabinets, a three-legged table, and a broken down chair. A mattress as old and thin as Methuselah lay like a corpse on the floor. Sharkfin flopped down on it and motioned for me to take the chair. I gingerly balanced myself on the wobbly seat.