Wings in the Dark (13 page)

I couldn't let him take me to the Kana Bar. “The Izumo Taishakyo Mission Shinto shrine.”

Conway's car was cluttered with scraps of paper. Buried somewhere in the clutter must be two-day-old meatloaf. I'd been in reporters' cars before and they all smelled the same.

He grabbed a pair of dark sunglasses from the dash and put them on. With a grin like he'd just won the quiniela with a fifty-cent bet, he drove from the hotel chatting about Fanny Chandler's arrest, adding little I hadn't read in the paper. He finally took a deep breath. “You don't have much to say.”

“I'm thinking anything I might say will show up in the newspaper tomorrow.”

Conway drove with one hand, barely glancing at the road. “We got off on the wrong foot yesterday, and it was all my fault.”

Apology accepted, but I still didn't like the guy.

“I might have misjudged you.”

“How's that?”

“When we first met I thought you were some fancy Dan who spent a couple of hours a day in front of a typewriter, living off a rich Hollywood dame. Anyone who had the guts to break into Hank Kalua's office in a seedy part of Honolulu…”

“How do you know about that?”

“I usually don't reveal a source, but I'll make an exception in this case. Three kids in the neighborhood described you, your wife, and a kid who sounded like George Putnam's personal secretary.”

He swerved around a car, eliciting a blast from a horn and an angry shake of a fist from the driver.

Conway waved at the man. “I learned early on, if you put in enough hours and aren't afraid to get your hands dirty, you'll get to the truth. That's what you were doing at Kalua's office, wasn't it? Anyone who'd do what you did and get away with it is okay in my book.”

“I'm flattered.”

He pointed to the glove compartment. “Hand me that paper bag, will you?”

I opened the compartment and grabbed the bag.

“Help yourself.”

I studied the contents. Some kind of white nuts I'd never seen. “What are they?”

“Macadamia nuts. Try one.”

I tried one. I could get used to these. I had another before handing over the sack.

Conway tossed a few into his mouth and chewed. “I don't always have time for a full meal. These come in handy.”

For the next few minutes we shared the nuts. When we finished, Conway crumpled the bag and tossed it into the backseat. “Look, Donovan, what do you say we be pals and work on this story together?”

It would take more than a bag of nuts to make us friends. “What makes you think there's more to the story?”

“There better be. I snagged the assignment because a buddy called in a tip, but if I don't come up with something, I'll be interviewing Shirley Temple tomorrow afternoon.”

“She's a sweetheart.”

“So I've heard, but I prefer working the crime desk.” We stopped at a red light, and he glanced in the rearview mirror.

“Where did your interest in covering crimes come from?”

Conway studied me a moment then ran a hand over his face. “I don't usually share this with a lot of people, but I had just turned fourteen when I came to Hawaii with my parents. We had a great time for the first two days. Then they went out to dinner while I stayed at the hotel. Around midnight, the cops found them shot in an alley behind a speakeasy.”

“I'm sorry.”

A car behind us honked after the light turned green.

Conway drove through the intersection. “Cops never found the killers. I didn't have any relatives back in the States, so I ended up in an orphanage. When I turned eighteen, I got a job cleaning at the
Honolulu Daily
. That happened ten years ago next month. My passion for covering crime stories, particularly unsolved ones, comes from my parents' still unsolved murder.”

For most people, talking about the death of your parents was about as easy as explaining to your sister why men never called after a first date. It didn't seem to bother Conway much. “Must've been rough.”

“I had a choice, give up or get tough. I wanted you to know the story, not so you'd feel sorry for me, but so you might realize we have something in common, an interest in solving criminal cases.”

“The difference is, I no longer want to investigate crimes.”

Conway chuckled. “Keep telling yourself that and maybe you'll actually believe it.”

He turned the corner and drove a little faster. “Like I said before, anything you say in this car stays in the car. You don't think Fanny Chandler killed Kalua, do you?”

“I have my doubts.”

“Why don't you share what you've got and I'll get my hands dirty while you join your wife for surfing lessons. I'm desperate to get back to the crime desk full time.”

“Why'd the paper really take you off the crime desk?”

We stopped at another traffic light near the center of the city. “A year ago, a source I trusted gave me some dirt on a scumbag businessman…”

Something about the way he said
scumbag
aroused my suspicion. “I'm guessing the scumbag was Hank Kalua.”

“He was the scumbag, but I got a few details wrong. He threatened to sue the
Daily
unless the editor printed a retraction. Kalua almost ruined my career. I hung on to my job, barely, but for the past year, I've covered fashion events, dog shows, and…”

“Celebrity interviews, yes, I know.”

He checked the rearview mirror.

“Something wrong?” I didn't like the sudden look of concern on the reporter's face.

“Someone following you?”

I fought the urge to glance over my shoulder. I checked the side mirror. “The black convertible?”

“They've been a couple of cars back since we left the hotel.” He gripped the wheel with both hands. “Want me to lose them?”

I shook my head and pointed to the bus station a block ahead. “Drop me off, and I'll lose them in the crowd.”

“Got it.” He pulled to the curb and let me out at the corner.

I climbed out and closed the door. I took my time making sure the bums in the convertible saw me. Who were these guys and why had they been following me?

Conway peered at me through the open window. “Donovan, if you're being followed, my hunch says there's definitely more to the Hank Kalua story.”

With my hat tugged low over my brow, I stood in a phone booth, my back to the crowded lobby of the bus depot. I had to make sure Hunter Conway hadn't hung around after dropping me off, and I wanted to see whether anyone suspicious came in. In less than a minute, a tall gentleman with a waxed handlebar mustache caught my eye. In his mid-forties, he had a granite jaw and appeared respectable enough, but his leather gloves and tweed suit looked out of place in a bus depot.

He purchased a paper from a newsboy. He barely glanced at it while scanning the terminal. After a few minutes, he tossed the newspaper on an empty chair and marched back through the front door.

The drone of the arriving and departing passengers hit me as I left the phone booth and hurried to the front window.

The mustachioed man climbed behind the wheel of the black convertible and spoke to a man beside him. I couldn't see the other man's face, as his back was to me.

I didn't stick around for a better look. I pushed through the crowd and slipped out the back door. I flagged a cabbie and we drove off. Satisfied no one had followed, I instructed the driver to take me to the Kana Bar.

“The Kana?” He glanced into the backseat like he hadn't heard me right. “That's not a place for tourists.”

“Just get me there without being followed.”

When we arrived, concern shone on the cabbie's face. “Want me to wait around?”

I shook my head and paid the fare. I wasn't sure how long I'd be. I stepped out and closed the door, trying to exude an air of confidence. Laura's gun inside my jacket helped.

In spite of the cabdriver's concern, he didn't waste any time taking off, kicking up dust and gravel. There was no turning back now.

The air had the briny stench of saltwater and dead fish. The parking lot contained five cars, four beat-up heaps and a nicely kept late model Chevrolet seagulls had used for dive-bombing practice.

The white stucco one-story building held up a sagging roof that looked like it might not collapse for another day or two. The sign above the faded and chipped red door was missing the R.

My gumshoe days taught me the best way to enter a seedy bar or neighborhood was to act like I belonged, but if this was truly a Royalist hangout, the task would be a tough one.

I opened the front door and stepped inside, where a cloud of cigarette smoke hung in the air. My presence quieted everyone's chatter.

When my eyes adjusted to the dimly lit bar, half a dozen sets of Hawaiian eyes were watching me. I felt about as welcome as a Sox fan at Yankee Stadium.

When it came to bars, I liked a clean place with a long mirror where I could see friendly faces, booze from distilleries I'd heard of, a freshly polished bar, and comfortable stools with classy dames that left you alone if you just wanted a drink. This place was nothing like that.

In front of the bar a dozen stools sat mostly empty. Behind the bartender hung a Hawaiian flag and a framed painting of Hawaii's last monarch, Queen Liliuokalani.

The sound of cue balls cracking came from an open door at the end of the bar. I ignored the stares and glares and headed to the bar like it was my regular joint. I sat beside a short fellow whose legs only hung halfway to the floor. Holding an empty shot glass, he stared at a smoldering cigarette in an ashtray.

Like the others, he was definitely Hawaiian: dark hair, almond-colored skin, middle-aged, with two bushy brows that resembled black caterpillars. He couldn't have been more than four feet tall.

The bartender wore a greasy shirt and acted like I wasn't there.

“What's a guy have to do to get a drink around here?”

The little man beside me sneered. “What are you staring at? You're thinkin' is he a dwarf or a midget, aren't you?”

“Maybe a little…no pun intended.” I intended the pun and he knew it. I held out my hand. “My name's Donovan. Jake Donovan.”

He ignored the offer and slid his empty shot glass toward the bartender. “Another.”

“Last one, Shorty, unless you have cash.”

When the bartender poured him a drink, I held up one hand. “I'll have one of those.”

“Okolehao coming up.” The bartender glared at me then gave me a shot glass with brown alcohol that definitely wasn't bourbon or scotch.

I sipped the booze and shuddered. Mickey once said there was no such thing as bad booze. He'd never tried okolehao.

I glanced around at the broken glass and stains on the counter and floor. I couldn't imagine one of Honolulu's most influential businessmen meeting his brother in a dive like this, but then I recalled the location of his office building.

I managed another sip and nodded to the man beside me. “You must have a better name than Shorty.”

“Listen, buddy, if you insist on chattin', you can call me Chester. Don't call me Chet, Peewee, or Shorty. Just Chester. Got it?” He finished his drink.

“Got it.” I pulled out a sawbuck and tossed the bill on the counter. “This is for my drink and my friend's tab.”

The bartender refilled Chester's glass.

“Thanks. I gotta use the can.” Chester hopped off the barstool and stumbled. He grabbed my wrist for support.

I'd learned that trick in Queens from Mickey. I grabbed his arm to keep him from taking off. “I'd like my watch back.”

With a sheepish grin, he opened his hand and set my watch in front of me. “You can't blame a guy for tryin'.”

Sure I could. As the short man climbed back on the stool, I gave him a hand. When he sipped his drink, I smiled. “You got the time?”

Chester looked at his bare wrist. “Hey, you lifted
my
watch.”

I set his watch beside his shot glass.

A smile spread across Chester's face. “You're pretty good, Donovan. Where'd you learn that?”

“Queens. Oh, and I have your wallet too.”

Chester patted his pockets then laughed. “I ain't got no wallet.”

The bartender smiled and refilled my glass. “Last call, Donovan. This is a private club.”

“Like the Rotary?”

Chester laughed until he snorted.

The bartender glared at Chester. “Shut up, clown!”

I had to come to the defense of my new and only friend in the joint. “Hey, that's kind of rough.”

“He didn't mean nothin' by it.” Chester reached into his pocket and pulled out a red ball. He slipped it on his nose. “I
am
a clown.”

“Circus? Carnival?”

“Ain't worked a circus in years. Now it's mostly birthday parties for rich brats with snotty noses.” He downed the rest of his drink, let out a belch, and stuck the nose back in his pocket.

“I suspect you're quite entertaining.”

“Watch this, wise guy.” He finished his drink then grabbed two more shot glasses from behind the bar.

The bartender shot him a narrow-eyed warning. “Careful. You broke one last time.”

Chester tossed a glass in the air. In seconds he was juggling three shot glasses. “Think I can do four, Donovan?”

“Sure.”

His eyes focused on the glasses, he juggled one-handed. With the glasses in the air, he reached for my drink. He swallowed in one gulp. After tossing it up, he kept the four shot glasses rotating. “Get ready for the finale.” He set one glass onto the bar then neatly stacked each one on top of the other.

I applauded. “I bet that goes over well at birthday parties, for those kids with shot glasses.”

Chester let out another long laugh. “What brings you to a dive like this, Donovan?”

“I came to pay my respects to Ihe Kalua for the loss of his brother. Is he here?”

The room fell silent. Chester nodded to a couple of empty tables by the door.

We sat at one of the empty tables, away from the others. Chester pulled out half a cigarette from his pocket. He lit the butt and dropped the match into an ashtray in the center of the table. “This isn't a place for American tourists.”

“That's what the cabbie said.”

He took a long puff. “You on vacation?”

“Honeymoon.”

“You come all this way from Queens?”

I shook my head. “We've lived in Hollywood the past year and a half.”

Chester's eyes brightened. “You an actor?”

“My wife's Laura Wilson. Maybe you've heard of her.”

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! She's a babe. What the hell are you doin' in this joint?” He crushed out the cigarette. “Word on the street is studios are fighting over the rights to The
Wizard of Oz. Whoever wins out
might be castin' for a couple of dozen little people.”

“You know any?”

Chester burst out laughing. “You're okay, Donovan.”

“I haven't heard anything about
The
Wizard of Oz
.”

“What about your wife? This could do wonders for my career. No more birthday parties.”

“I'll ask her.”

The door opened and a flashy redhead in a tight black dress came in.

Chester waved. “Mornin', Ginger. How 'bout a freebie?”

“I ain't no charity.” She approached our table and gave me the once-over. “Who's your friend, Shorty?”

“Jake Donovan. He's on his honeymoon.”

Ginger pulled out a chair between us, without being invited. When she sat, her boobs threatened to spill out of the top of her dress. “You don't have to stare, honey. I'd be happy to show them to you.”

“Sorry.”

Chester gestured toward the bar. “Beat it, dollface. We're talkin' business.”

Ginger ran red fingernails along the back of my hand. “Don't let me stop you. I have some business I'd like to discuss with your friend when you're through.”

Laura wouldn't like the look the woman was giving me. I held up my left hand and wiggled my fingers, flashing the gold on my ring finger.

“I got it, honey.” She pulled out a cigarette and Chester lit it for her. Ginger took a long drag. “Must be some honeymoon, handsome, if you leave the missus for the Kana. Like I said, I don't give freebies, but I give discounts to fellas on their honeymoon.”

“Jake here's payin' respects to Ihe, Ginger.”

She gave me a wink. “Well, if you change your mind, sailor, let me know.” She got up and made her way to the bar.

Chester grinned. “That's Ginger. Does she have a nice caboose, or what?”

A hulk of a man, the kind I'd expected to encounter when I opened the door, came out of the pool room, flipping a quarter in the air. He was six inches shorter than me and twice as wide. An angry scar started at his nose and ended at his ear.

He pocketed the coin then came to our table. He was the type who might've sliced his own face just to get some respect from his fellow thugs.

His lip curled into a snarl. “You came to the wrong place, mister.”

A smart guy would have excused himself and called it a day, but I was working for nothing. How smart was that?

I doubted whether my boxing skills would have much success against the block of granite, but I wasn't going to be intimidated. “I didn't see a sign.”

When Chester laughed, the man yanked him to his feet and tossed him into the corner.

While the big man set his hands on the table and stared at me, Chester struggled to his feet. He slipped the red ball on his nose and made funny faces behind the man's back.

I barely managed not to laugh. “You really should pick on someone your own size.”

The man sneered. “There is no one my size.”

He set a large leather boot on Chester's chair. “We don't like Americans, so scram.”

“I learned in school Hawaiians are American citizens.”

He hawked a load of spit beside my chair. “We consider ourselves subjects of the illegally removed crown.”

I might get thrown into the parking lot any second, but I kept up my bravado. What else could I do?

The front door opened and an old man stumbled inside. In a threadbare suit, with white hair peeking from beneath a straw hat, he collapsed on a chair on the other side of the door and tugged the hat over his eyes.

I gestured toward the old man. “What about him? He a member of your club too?”

“I'll give him the bum's rush after I take care of you.”

Chester slipped behind the big guy and got down on his hands and knees. If we were the Three Stooges, I could shove the guy and knock him over, but this man was so big, I doubted it would work.

“Listen, mister barroom brawler, there are plenty of places I'd rather be. I'd just like to pay my respects to Ihe then get the hell out of here.”

“Ihe ain't here.” The big man took a quick glance toward the pool room. “He's in mourning.”

“You might want to check. I think he'd like to speak with me.”

Chester climbed to his feet. He shook his head as if he'd done his best to help. He retreated to the bar and took his place on his stool.

The big man crossed his arms across his massive chest. “I don't give a tinker's damn.”

“I think we might've gotten off on the wrong foot. Why don't I buy you a drink?”

“You arrogant Americans. It's always about the dough.”

The white-haired man in the straw hat, who I'd thought had fallen asleep, held up one hand. “I'll take one, if you don't mind.”

His voice sounded familiar, definitely American, but I couldn't place him. Maybe it was just my imagination. I pulled a fin from my pocket.

The big man grabbed the five bucks. “You're out of here in two minutes.”

He carried the money to the bar and slapped it on the counter.

A man stepped from the shadows of the pool room. “I'm Ihe Kalua.”

Possessing hair the shade of pewter, and in need of a shave, he spoke with authority and intelligence.

When he approached the table, I shook Ihe Kalua's hand. “So sorry for your loss.”