“Is that what she got, Jimmy?”
He began to weep.
“Suppose ol’ Joe Kahahawai got what he deserved, Jimmy?” I grunted a laugh. “You know what I think? Sooner or later we all do.”
“Don’t…don’t…don’t tell anybody.”
“Do my best,” I said, putting the nine-millimeter back in its holster, almost feeling sorry for the bastard. Almost.
That’s where and how I left him—sitting on the floor, crying into his hands, sniffling, swallowing snot.
Getting back out into the smoky air of the noisy, boozy club felt damn near cleansing.
18
The aftermath of the trial, in Honolulu, was surprisingly uneventful. The chief of police doubled the foot patrol and armed his squad cars with machine guns and tear gas, in case of unrest; who the chief expected to riot was never exactly clear, as the kanaka population was fairly content with the manslaughter verdict, and the haoles weren’t likely to rise up against themselves. Admiral Stirling made noises about “henceforth viewing Hawaii as foreign soil,” and a group of Navy wives announced a boycott of firms employing members of the jury. That was about it.
But back home, a tropical hurricane was pummeling the Capitol dome. Letters, wires, petitions, and long-distance calls bombarded Congress and President Hoover with outrage over the verdict, stirred by the Hearst papers running day-after-day front-page boxed editorials demanding that the Massie defendants be brought home and “given the protection American citizens should be properly entitled to.”
“We have it on good authority,” Leisure told me, “that Governor Judd received a bipartisan petition from both houses of Congress, pleading for the freeing of the defendants. One hundred thirty-some signatures.”
We were seated at a small round table amid the indoor palms of the Coconut Grove Bar at the Royal Hawaiian; it was midafternoon and not very busy, more red-jacketed Oriental waiters than guests.
“If Capitol Hill wants a pardon for our clients,” I said, sipping a Coke I’d spiked from my flask of rum, “why don’t they get Hoover to do it?”
Leisure, casual in a blue open-neck silk shirt, sipped his iced tea and smiled lazily; either this case, or the balmy climate, seemed to have sapped his endless energy. “The President doesn’t have the legal authority, Nate, to issue pardons in territories.”
“So it’s up to the governor.”
Leisure nodded. “Meanwhile, back in the hallowed halls, senators and representatives are stumbling over each other in a rush to introduce bills proposing pardons…not to mention a revival of interest in the effort to place Hawaii under military rule.”
“C.D.’s got the governor in a tight spot.”
“Judd’s not easily pushed around,” Leisure said, raising an eyebrow. “In our first meeting, he spoke of not being blackmailed by the irresponsible, sensationalistic mainland newspapers.”
“Hearst? Sensationalistic? Irresponsible? Perish the thought.” I sipped my rum and Coke. “You said ‘first’ meeting.”
“We meet again tomorrow evening. Darrow’s hoping you’ll have something for him on the Ala Moana case before then.”
I hadn’t told Darrow or Leisure about Bradford’s story; I was still hoping to lay hands on Sammy, first.
“Tell C.D. I’ll meet him for lunch tomorrow at the Young. I’ll see what I can come up with.”
I caught a glimpse of blond hair out of the corner of my eye, and glanced toward the entryway where Isabel, in a summery white dress with a navy belt and navy cloche cap, stood looking around for somebody. It must have been me, because when her eyes traveled my way, they stopped and her pretty face blossomed into a smile that made her prettier still, and she came quickly over.
“I thought you two weren’t an item anymore,” Leisure whispered.
“Me too,” I admitted.
“I was just leaving,” Leisure said, with a half-grin, standing, giving Isabel a courtly nod. “Miss Bell. You’re looking alluring, as always.”
“I hope I’m not chasing you off,” she said.
“No, no. I have to meet Mr. Darrow in just a few minutes.”
Her expression turned serious. “You’re going to keep Tommie and Mrs. Fortescue out of jail, aren’t you?”
“The effort’s under way,” he said. “We’re even including the sailor boys in the bargain.”
She clasped her hands in concern. “I meant them, too, of course.”
“Of course,” he said, nodded again, and was off.
I got up and pulled a chair out for her; her lovely heart-shaped face, perfectly framed by the short blond curls, beamed up at me. Her Chanel Number Five drifted up like an Island breeze and tickled my nostrils. The image of her face, eyes closed, mouth open, caught up in ecstasy on the beach, flashed through my mind.
We still hadn’t spoken since that night.
“You’ve been avoiding me,” she said, as I sat back down.
“No, I’ve been working.”
“I wanted you to know something.”
“Oh, really? What’s that?”
Her smile was girlish, almost gleeful; she leaned in, touched my hand, whispered: “My friend is visiting.”
“What friend?”
“You know—my friend. The one that comes every month.”
“Oh. That friend.”
So she wasn’t pregnant by the Jewboy after all.
“I’m sure you’re relieved,” she said.
“I’m sure you are.”
Her smile disappeared; her eyes drifted down. “I…I said some cruel things.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“Awfully cruel things.”
“Yeah, well so did I.”
She looked into my eyes and hers were tearful. “I forgive you. Do you forgive me?”
She was a stupid silly girl, and a bigot, to boot. But she was very pretty and under that summery white dress were two of the most perfect female breasts it had been my privilege in my imperfect male life to encounter.
“Of course you’re forgiven,” I said.
“Are you busy?”
“Not this minute.”
“We could go upstairs to your room, or my room…”
“Won’t that be awkward, with your ‘friend’ still visiting?”
She allowed her Kewpie lips to part a little wider than necessary for speaking purposes, then she licked them with the pinkest damn tongue and said, “There are all kinds of ways for a boy and girl to have fun.”
“Yowsah,” I said.
An Oriental waiter was drifting our way.
“You want something to drink, or eat, before we go up?” I asked her.
She shook her head, no, giving me a lovely lascivious look. “If we want something, there’s always room service.”
The waiter stopped next to me and I said, “Just the check, please.”
“Uh, Mr. Heller…Chinese gentleman waiting to see you in lobby.”
It was Chang Apana, standing with Panama in hand, looking mournful and very tiny next to a towering potted palm. I sent Isabel on up to her room, figuring this wouldn’t take long.
“Have news,” he said, bowing. “Shall we seek privacy?”
We found a table on the Coconut Grove lanai, which faced the manicured hotel grounds, flung with palms, bursting with blossoms; but most of the guests preferred the ocean view of the Surf Porch. Chang and I were alone but for a table of women playing bridge, well down from us.
“Detective Jardine asked me to report,” Chang said, “that Joe Crawford’s band on Maui no longer counts Sammy among its members.”
I frowned. “What became of Sammy?”
“Maui police did us courtesy of making inquiry. Sammy, who seems to lack last name, is no longer in the Islands.”
“Where is he?”
“Thought to be in California. Los Angeles. We have just contacted Los Angeles police. Too early for results.”