“Damn. That was my only good lead on this possible second gang….”
Chang sighed, lowered his gaze. “Not so. There is other lead.”
“What?”
He was shaking his head slowly. “I feel shame for withholding information from brother officer.”
“Come on, Chang—spill, already. That hooker in Mosquito Flats told you something! What was it?”
He sighed again. “Please understand, Nate. Rape of white woman in Hawaii, exception not rule. No matter what mainland papers say, no matter what Admiral Stirling says, rare thing in Hawaii.”
“What’s your point?”
“Point is, only other rape of white woman by colored man in recent memory is this prisoner Jardine been seeking.”
“Yeah, the jailbird who was let out New Year’s Eve to get oke and never came back.”
Chang was nodding. “White woman he raped, he grab her at lovers’ lane…off Ala Moana.”
I sat up. “Not at the old Animal Quarantine Station?”
“No. But very nearby. Modus operandi all too familiar.”
“Are you saying this guy might be a viable suspect in the Ala Moana case?” I shifted in my wicker chair, smirked. “Well, hell—surely you guys checked this out long ago! Where in God’s name was the bastard the night Thalia was attacked?”
“We did check,” Chang said, “and he was in prison. Serving murder sentence.”
“Oh. Well, that’s a pretty good alibi….”
“Bad alibi like fish,” Chang said distastefully. “Not stand test of time.” He leaned forward, lifted a gently lecturing forefinger, squinted until his eyes completely disappeared. “If murdering rapist can walk out of jail on New Year’s Eve, why not do same on twelfth of September?”
“Shit,” I said. “Is Oahu Prison really as casual as all that?”
He was nodding again. “Yes. Warden Lane—recently replaced—sent convicts out working on municipal projects ’round Honolulu. Is said any prisoner who not return from work assignments by six P.M. get locked out of jail, and lose dinner privilege.”
“That’s some strict warden.”
Again he lowered his eyes. “Such laxity at prison well known by Honolulu police. I am ashamed for shoddy police work by my department, not following so obvious a lead. Of course, jailers at Oahu Prison, when questioned, lied to cover their own misdeeds.”
“But they turned around and let the bastard out again on New Year’s Eve! If they knew he most likely raped Thalia, why would they—”
Chang’s eyes were knife-point sharp. “To allow him to really escape, and take his guilt with him. Remember—prisoners usually returned when given temporary release. But Lyman did not.”
“Lyman,” I said. “That’s what that hooker at Mosquito Flats said to you!”
He nodded gravely. “Please accept apology. Harlot’s words hit this old man hard as brick.”
“It’s okay,” I shrugged. “You think I haven’t seen some pretty lousy things going on, in the Chicago PD? Lousy enough to make me ashamed to be part of it?”
In fact, I’d done a few.
So quietly it was barely audible over the rustle of fronds, he said, “Rumor say Lyman still in Islands.”
“How do you know he hasn’t gone to the mainland, like Sammy?”
Chang shook his head, no. “Is somewhere in these Islands, still. People help him hide, they protect him, because they fear him. He is one big mean bastard and they don’t cross him.”
“Where do we start? It’s like looking for a needle in a haystack.”
“Needle in haystack give away hiding place when fat man sit down.” He dug in his pocket. “Meet Daniel Lyman.”
Chang handed me a mug shot of Lyman—blank-eyed, pockmarked, bulbous-nosed, shovel-jawed, a face designed for wanted circulars.
My laugh had no humor in it. “Well, we need to sit on the son of a bitch as soon as possible—and how likely is that, when Jardine and Major Ross and the entire goddamn Hawaiian National Guard haven’t got the job done, in how long? Four months?”
The skull-faced little man smiled. “But you forget one thing, Nate—the main reason they not find him yet.”
“What’s that?”
“Chang Apana hasn’t looked for him.”
The Ala Wai Inn was its usual smoky self, and the music its usual syrupy mixture of steel guitar and tight harmonies. The George Ku Trio was finishing its engagement tonight, according to a poster tacked next to the door, outside. Inside, my doorman friend Joe Frietas said he was sorry, he hadn’t seen Sammy yet.
“I know,” I told him.
Chang Apana was at my side; he hadn’t taken off his Panama or said a word since we’d entered the club. But for such a small man, Chang’s presence seemed to loom large with Joe, who clearly recognized him, and was obviously nervous.
Now Chang spoke: “Sammy on mainland.”
Joe grinned, nodded, and delivered a belated greeting: “You honor Ala Wai with presence. Detective Apana.”
“Pleasure mine,” Chang said, nodding back.
“Joe,” I said, “you seen any of Joe Crawford’s other music boys lately?”
He frowned at me, worried. “You’re not gonna bust up another dinin’ room, are ya, Mr. Heller?”
“I paid for the damage, didn’t I?” I slipped a five-spot out of my pocket, held it up casually. “Have you seen anybody?”
He cocked his head. “Other night, you talkin’ more than a fin, boss….”
“Sammy was worth a sawbuck,” I said. “This is what I figure a friend of Sammy’s is worth.”
Chang stepped forward and snatched the five-dollar bill from my hand; it startled me, and Joe, too. The frown on Chang’s scarred-skull puss wasn’t pretty. He shoved his face up into the doorman’s. “No money. Just talk.”
Joe backed away from the little Chinaman, holding his hands up, palms out, as if surrendering. Comical, seeing a burly guy who was at least in part the bouncer of the joint backing off from this lightweight bundle of bones.
“H-h-h-ey, boss, I’m happy to help out. There’s a guy, friend of Sammy’s, he’s here right now…”
Chang and I exchanged glances.
“…you should talk to him, half-French, half-Tahitian—I’ll point ya there. I like helpin’ police.”
“Thank you,” Chang said, handing the five-spot back to me. “Name?”
The guy’s name, or anyway what they called him, was Tahiti. Frail, rail-thin, in a blue aloha shirt (yellow and white blossoms) and tan trousers his toothpick legs swam in, he was up next to the bandstand, by himself, swaying to the music, singing along, smiling, a glass in one hand, cigarette dangling from sensual, feminine lips. I made him twenty, twenty-two. His dark narrow face with its prominent cheekbones was almost pretty, his eyes dark, large, half-lidded, his eyebrows heavy and dark, his eyelashes long and dark and curling. When I approached he smiled at me, as if expecting me to ask him to dance.
“They call you Tahiti?”
“That’s me,” he said, sucked on the cigarette, and blew smoke to one side. “And what’s your name, handsome?”
That’s when he saw Chang. The lids of his eyes rolled up like windowshades, and he swallowed audibly.
“I didn’t do anything,” he said, backing away.
“Out on terrace,” Chang said.
Tahiti swallowed again and nodded.
The dance floor opened directly onto grass that led to the rocky shore of the fetid canal. On really busy nights at the Ala Wai, couples spilled out onto this terrace. Tonight wasn’t that busy, and only a few couples were out here holding hands, looking at the slice of moon reflecting on the shimmering surface of the smelly craphole of a canal.
The George Ku Trio went on break just as we were wandering out, so there was no music to talk over. Chang took Tahiti by the arm and led him to a wood-slat table near the thatched fence that separated the club from its residential neighbor. We were tucked beside a small palm and near where the grass stopped and the rocks began their fast slope to the lapping water.