“No. I was there when Mother Fortescue moved in.”
“How did she and Thalia get along?”
“They didn’t. She use to scold Mrs. Massie for not doing more housework, more cooking, for sleeping too much.”
“That’s why Mrs. Fortescue moved to her own bungalow?”
Beatrice nodded. “And the fights between Mr. and Mrs. Massie. They disturb Mother Fortescue. Here—pull in, here.”
We’d come maybe a mile and a half. A small lane led into a clearing, and I turned the nose of the Durant in; my headlights picked up the cement foundations of a torn-down building poking through weeds. Scattered rubbish, broken bottles, cigarette stubs, and the tracks of tires designated this as a makeout spot.
I cut the engine, and the lights. The moon was full enough to allow us to see each other plainly. The red of her lips and the flowers on her dress were muted in the moonlight. I was staring at her, part of me just admiring her, another part trying to figure her out; she looked away.
“What else do you know, Beatrice?” I asked. “What do you know that troubles you so much you sought me out?”
Her head swiveled on her neck and she turned her dark steady eyes on me. Without inflection, as matter of fact as a bored clerk behind a store counter, she said, “I know that Mrs. Massie was seeing other man.”
“What other man?”
“Some officer. When Mr. Massie was away, he would come. At first, once a week. Then in May last year, he come oftener. He stay all week, when Mr. Massie was away on submarine duty.”
I let some air out. Behind us, lurking behind the brush, the ocean was crashing on a reef. “This sounds pretty brazen, Beatrice.”
“They don’t kiss or touch in front of me. They sleep in separate rooms—at least, they start night and begin morning, in separate rooms.”
“Still pretty bold…”
“They would go swimming at Waikiki, go picnic at Kailua, Nanakuli Beach. Sometimes she would stay away, two, three days—take sheets, pillow slips, towels, and nightclothes.”
“Who was this officer?”
“Lt. Bradford.”
Jimmy Bradford. The guy stumbling around with his fly open; the guy Thalia made assurances to before she was taken to the emergency room….
“You never came forward,” I said.
Her brow tightened. “And I’m ashamed. I need this job. My mother is widow with five kids. I’m just one generation away from coolie labor, Nate. I couldn’t risk…”
I moved closer to her. Touched her face. “You got nothing to be ashamed of, honey.”
“You don’t know what it’s like. My father came from Hiroshima, too many people, too many poor people. Here in cane fields, on plantation, my father make nine dollars a month plus food. To him that was big step up. He made more at cannery, but eighteen-hour day for so many year, kill him.”
I stroked her hair. “Honey, I grew up on Maxwell Street. I’m a slum kid, myself. But every generation has it a little easier—your kids’ll go to college. Wait and see.”
“You’re a funny one.”
“How so?”
“Selfish but sweet.”
“Sweet, huh?” I ran my hand from her hair down onto the coolness of her bare arm. “Then why don’t we quit talking about all this depressing malarky and find something better to do….”
I kissed her. She put herself into it, and gave a very nice kiss, though it was pretty much standard issue; I mean, the secrets of the Orient didn’t open up to me, even if her mouth did and our tongues danced the hootchie-koo. Still, it was doing the trick, all right—I was getting my full growth again.
I was leaning in, for another kiss, when she said, “You know where we are, Nate?”
“Sure—lovers’ lane.”
“That’s right. Ala Moana.”
And I started to kiss her, then pulled away.
“Shit,” I said. “Pardon my French…. This is where it happened. This is where it happened!”
She nodded. “This is old Animal Quarantine Station.”
I drew away, looking out the windshield at the weeds and rubble and cement slabs. “Where Thalia says she was taken…and raped….”
She nodded again. “Wanna get out? Look around?”
I was torn between the two great needs of my life: the yearning between my legs, and the curiosity between my ears.
And the damn curiosity won.
“Yeah, let’s get out for a second.”
I got out on my side, and came around and opened the door for her.
“See those bushes over there?” she asked. “That’s where she say they drag her.”
And I turned and stared at the darkness of the thicket, as if it could tell me something; but the moonlight didn’t hit the thicket, and there was nothing to see.
But I could hear something.
Someone.
“There’s somebody else here,” I whispered, holding a protective arm in front of her. “Get in the car!”
More than one someone—I could hear them moving, crunching the weeds underfoot, and I hadn’t brought my damn gun! Who would have thought I’d need a goddamn nine-millimeter Browning to go on a goddamn date with a geisha girl housemaid?
Then one by one they emerged from the darkness—four faces, belonging to four men, sullen faces that looked white in the moonlight, but they weren’t white faces, oh no.
They were the faces of the four men, the surviving four, who had brought Thalia Massie to this place to rape and beat her.
And as they advanced toward me like an army of the Island undead, I reached for the handle of my car door, only to feel it slip from my grasp.
The car was pulling out of this lovers’ lane, without me.
From the window as she drove, hands with blood-red nails clutching the wheel, Beatrice called out, “I’ve done what you ask. Now leave me out!”
And somehow I didn’t think she was talking to me.
10
As I backed away, they encircled me, four skulking boys in denim slacks and untucked silk shirts; the shirts were of various dark colors, which had helped them blend into the darkness of the underbrush as they waited. But as I moved backward into the moonlit clearing, and they moved in lockstep with me, four Islanders dancing with the only white mainlander at the colored cotillion, blossoms emerged on the dark blue and dark green and deep purple shirts, flowers of yellow, of ivory, of red, strangely festive apparel for this brooding bunch of savages to have worn on this mission of entrapment.
I stopped, then wheeled within the circle, not liking having any of them behind me. From the pictures in the files I knew them: David Takai, lean as a knife blade, dark-complected, his flat features riding an elongated oval face, sharp bright eyes shining like polished black stones, black hair slicked back; Henry Chang, short, solidly built, eyes bright with resentment, curly hair sitting like an unruly cap atop a smooth, narrow face whose expression seemed on the verge of either tears or rage; Ben Ahakuelo, broad-shouldered boxer, light complected, matinee-idol handsome in part due to heavy eyebrows over dark sad eyes; and Horace Ida, who was a surprise to me, as the photo had shown only the round pudgy face with its slits for eyes and an unruly black shock of pompadour—I was not prepared for that fat-kid puss to sit atop a short, wiry, lean, powerful frame, nor for those eyes to burn with such intelligence, such alertness, such seriousness.
“What the hell do you want with me?” I asked. I did my best to sound indignant, as opposed to scared shitless.
For several moments, the only response came from the nearby surf crashing on the reef, and the rustle of leaves shaking in the wind. Like me. Ida looked over at Ahakuelo, as if seeking for a prompt; but the broad-shouldered mournful-eyed boxer said nothing.
Finally Ida said, “Just wanna talk.” He was facing me now, as I did my slow turn within their circle.
I planted my feet. “Are you the spokesman?”