Pleasing the Dead (11 page)

Chapter Nineteen

“I'll take the helm,” Lara said.

Ken adjusted his sunglasses against the glare. “My turn in the cage?”

She nodded.

“You still spooked from the encounter with the reef shark?”

“No.” She grabbed the wheel of the thirty-six foot Newton. “I went last time, remember?”

Ken gave her a nudge. “That was a five-minute test run.”

She cut the throttle on the twin inboard diesels to cruise. He waited for an answer, but she didn't speak.

“Suit yourself,” he said, and turned from the helm.

“Did you drop some bait yesterday?”

Ken glanced over his shoulder at the five people waiting in the stern seating area. No one was listening to them; the engine noise would make it difficult even if someone was trying to. One reporter and four travel agents peered over the side of the boat with a mixture of excitement and nerves. One of the travel agents cradled his face, which had taken on a greenish-gray cast, in his arms.

“They know the sound of the engines,” Ken said. “Four showed up before I even dropped the fish over the side. But keep your voice low—we're inside the intercoastal limit.”

“One mile, three miles, you see anybody measuring?” Lara shrugged. “We're out far enough.”

Ken glanced toward the coast. The big new house on a bluff over the bay looked like an expensive toy. He wouldn't want to swim, but he didn't think they were three miles from shore, either. “Then this is the place. What's the depth finder say?”

“Three hundred feet.”

“Perfect.” He peered into the sapphire blue of deep water. “I'm ready if you are.”

“This is a good place, I think.” Lara put the engines into neutral.

Ken climbed down from the helm and gave the seasick man a pat on the shoulder. “You'll feel better when you get in the water.” He handed out snorkels and masks. “Put on a lot of sunscreen, because you're going to be so enthralled you won't realize when you're medium rare.”

The passengers tittered nervously. “You sure a shark can't bite through that?” One of the travel agents gestured to the big cage hanging off the boat's stern.

“Absolutely.”

“Can one jump into it?” someone else asked.

“No way,” Ken answered. “There will be about two feet of Plexiglas and steel above the surface of the water. That baby is custom-made and professionally tested.”

Lara turned off the motor. Birds and water slapping the hull were the only sounds. The boat rocked with the swells, and the sick man slumped in his seat, swallowing repeatedly.

Ken gently lowered the big aluminum and Plexiglas cage into the water and tied it securely to a set of aft cleats. Once the passengers were inside, Lara would push the cage away from stern and keep it in place with flexible poles. Tubular floats kept the top edge out of the water.

Ken put on a mask and snorkel and demonstrated how to get in and out of the cage. Soon he and the five passengers were in place, with their faces in the water. Every now and then, one of them would raise his or her head and point with excitement as the powerful sharks began to arrive.

Lara allowed a smile of relief to cross her face. As her fishermen friends had told her, the sharks had been conditioned by the sound of the boat's engine to expect food. Several weeks' work was paying off. The travel agents loved it, except for the poor seasick guy, but that wasn't her fault. He should have taken his Dramamine; Ken had warned everyone before they left the harbor. The reporter, to her delight, looked enthralled.

A half dozen sandbar sharks already circled the cage. They were usually the first to arrive and ranged from four to six feet. Impressive, and about the same size as the three Whitetip reef sharks, which were easy to identify from the white tips on their first and second dorsal fins. Whitetips were fairly common; her scary encounter on Thursday had been with a Whitetip. They were far from that particular shark's territory, so he (or she) wouldn't be part of this group.

Lara sat up a little straighter, and a thrill went through her. Two Galapagos sharks had appeared. These guys would seal the deal. How could people resist this kind of experience? Eight to ten feet long and three or four hundred pounds, the dusky brown-grey bodies of solid muscle slid through the water as pure and easy as sex.

Fifteen or twenty minutes passed, and Lara relaxed enough to look toward land and gently reposition the boat. It took a shrill whistle from Ken to get her attention. “Bring the cage in. Steve is tired.”

Oh yeah. Steve was the sick guy. Lara pulled the cage to the stern and reached out to him. He splashed frantically toward her.

“Easy, I'll get you,” she said. “Any one else want to take a break?”

“Hell, no,” yelled the reporter, who raised his face just long enough to utter two words. None of the other guests wanted to leave, either.

“Hold on,” Lara said to Steve, whose clammy grip had slipped from her hand. “Keep your mask on,” she added, but he'd already taken it off and was waving it around. Sure enough, it slipped from his grasp and plopped into a gap between the boat's transom and the cage.

“Leave it,” Lara said, but he plunged both arms in to try and catch it before it sank. She grabbed at his upper arm. “Let it go,” she shouted. “It's okay.”

Idiot, Lara thought. She watched the mask sink, while Steve fished around with the effectiveness of a tea strainer in an ocean. He looked helplessly up at her, his face a pasty white.

“Sorry.”

But Lara was no longer looking at him. A dark shadow had passed under them. Huge. It looked as long as the boat. Water magnified objects, but it was twenty feet, at least. A Tiger or Great White. Jesus.

She lunged at Steve, whose hand still dangled in the water. Surprised at her strength, he slid out of the cage and plopped onto the deck of the dive boat like a hooked
mahi
.

“Thanks,” he said, and crawled off to a bench.

The other five heads were staring at her, the whites of their eyes like stampeding horses. “What the fuck was that?” one of the travel agents said.

“I'm ready to come in,” said the reporter.

“You sure?” shouted Ken. He would have jumped up and down if he could. “This is the sighting of a lifetime.”

“Thanks, but I'll watch from deck,” yelled another travel agent, and lunged for the side of the cage facing the boat. She'd removed her mask and waved it in one hand, while the other hand gripped the cage so hard it looked like a claw.

“No problem,” Lara said, and tied the cage securely to the aft cleats. “Though you're quite safe.”

She kept her voice calm and level. But inside, she rejoiced. The
manō
, her
‘aumakua
, was on her side.

Chapter Twenty

Neither Ryan nor his father spoke on the way back to the elder Tagama's residence. When Ryan pulled into the port chochère of his father's luxurious Wailea condominium, he stopped the car.

“We have to talk.”

Tagama grunted.

“Now.” Ryan steeled himself. He couldn't ignore Obake's comments about his father and the hooker. In fact, whether or not his dad communicated would predict their relationship. The uncertain gelato business was better than lies and manipulation.

“Dad, if we are going to work together, we need to tell each other about past mistakes.”

Tagama met his son's eyes. “My past isn't good.”

“I need to know about it.”

Tagama nodded. “Fair enough.”

The concurrence surprised Ryan enough that his foot slipped off the brake pedal. The car drifted about a foot before he fumbled to a stop.

Tagama didn't smile, but Ryan felt a lightening in his father's mood. “Let's park,” the old man said.

Ryan drove to guest parking and the men rode the elevator in silence to the fifteenth floor. Now that he'd asked for truth, Ryan wasn't sure he wanted to hear it. He wondered how his father felt.

It had been a couple of years since Ryan had been to his father's home. Lara and he had invited his old man to their place for dinner twice, and Tagama had taken the two of them to nice restaurants on occasion. Ryan remembered his father's apartment as having a great view to the ocean, but no soul. No family pictures, no magazines, papers, notes on the refrigerator door. Spotless glass, leather, and cold marble.

There were only two apartments on the fifteenth floor, both opulent and large. Ryan was surprised to see two pairs of his father's shoes outside the door. The other apartment had a pile of shoes, small ones among them. Taking off shoes before entering the home was an island custom, but Tagama not only wouldn't leave personal belongings in public view, he wouldn't abide the untidiness.

And there sat his somewhat muddy, custom-made golf shoes. One lay on its side, next to some rubber slippers. Ryan had never even seen his dad in flip-flops. Or a swim suit, for that matter.

Tagama opened the door without explanation, and kicked off the shoes he was wearing. Ryan shed his also, too surprised to say anything about his father's change of habit.

Inside, glorious light reflected from the beach and brilliant turquoise of the ocean, filled the apartment. The room, however, looked different to Ryan. Same glass and marble coffee table, but it was strewn with the morning's
Honolulu Star Bulletin,
New York Times,
and the
Hawaii Hochi
, a Japanese language paper. Two teacups and a plate, empty except for a scattering of crumbs, sat next to the paper. A couple of magazines were stacked at one end of the sofa—not the rigid black leather and stainless sling that Ryan remembered, but a cushy saddle-colored one. With throw pillows. He stared. The scene momentarily eclipsed Obake's nasty accusations.

Tagama misinterpreted Ryan's surprise. “Er, the maid is running late.”

“No, it looks good. I like the new couch.” Ryan couldn't say any more, though, because he'd caught sight of something else he'd never expect to see in his father's living room. He could only point. “That's a—”

“My
obutsudan
?”

“Yeah.” Ryan blinked. “A Buddhist shrine?”

“I'm trying to change some things.” Tagama cleared his throat.

“Right.”

“Excuse me a minute.” Tagama picked up the cups and plate from the coffee table and took them to the kitchen. Some food items—a loaf of bread, a hand of bananas, an open package of English muffins, and a crumb-strewn toaster—were still on the countertop.

“Dad, are you seeing someone?” Only a woman could make this much of a difference.

Tagama didn't answer, and a moment later, Ryan heard the refrigerator door close. His dad came out of the kitchen with a pitcher of orange juice, a bottle of Grey Goose, and two glasses. “You want vodka with this? We have a lot of talking to do.”

Without waiting for an answer, he pushed the newspapers aside and set the bottle, glasses, and juice on the coffee table. He poured juice without liquor, then walked across the room to the shrine.

Ryan had still not taken a seat, and he stared after his father as the older man placed the glass of juice and sections of a peeled orange on a small offering stand.

Tagama sensed his son's scrutiny and looked over his shoulder. “An extra offering to Guan-Gong. He gives protection. Before he became the god of martial arts and war in the afterlife, he was a general in the Chinese Army.”

“Chinese?” Ryan sputtered.

“Chinese, Japanese, I figure we're all the same in the afterlife.”

“Where did you learn this?” Ryan gestured toward the neat, lacquered red box, which smelled faintly of incense. A glowering statue with flowing beard and warrior's armor presided over the orange pieces. If his father had told him the figure was samurai, Ryan would have believed him. But Chinese? Tagama had always struck him as a Japanese nationalist, patriotic to the point of xenophobia.

“We'll talk about that later. We have enough to discuss.” Tagama came back to the sofa, sat down, and poured two glasses of orange juice.

Ryan took a grateful gulp. It was fresh and delicious. His father didn't squeeze oranges, either.

His throat not quite as tight and dry, Ryan forced out the question that had tormented him since leaving Obake's club. “What rape was he talking about?”

“When you were young, I did some things I'm not proud of.”

Ryan sat back on the couch. He'd still been hoping his father would tell him Obake had lied.

“It was a big mistake,” Tagama said.

Ryan's stomach rolled. Obake had told the truth? His father was a rapist? Ryan swallowed his nausea with effort. He felt poisoned.

“I managed a club.”

Ryan didn't respond, and Tagama went on. “We had a tour business, mostly Japanese businessmen. Very expensive, very exclusive. A week's vacation on Maui at a fine hotel. I won't tell you the name of the hotel. We sold it ten years ago. Evenings at the club—”

Ryan interrupted. “We?”

“You know this part. Obake was a partner in those days.”

“Is this the money we're investing now?” Ryan's words were bitter rinds of loathing. “The money I'm taking home to Lara? The money I'm saving for my own son one day?”

Tagama held up a hand. “Please, let me finish.” His tone was so calm and sad that Ryan sucked back his acid tirade.

“I hadn't learned that money doesn't civilize a person, or give him humanity. I didn't know how people use money to hide their atrocities.”

He fumbled with his juice glass. “Not only did my ego and ambition blind me, I was a coward.” He mumbled the last words, and Ryan saw him glance at the vodka bottle.

“But I must regard my failures with clear eyes. It is a way of life I am late in adopting.”

“What about the rape?”

“It was during a party with a group of
sokaiya.
”

“Just tell me in English,” Ryan snapped.

“Yakuza posing as a company's shareholders. They own a few shares, but they mostly get dirt on the company's officers and threaten to reveal it at a shareholder's meeting.” He looked at his son.

“Extortion,” Ryan said.

“Yes, though I thought they were regular businessmen, just one of our vacation packages. As always, we'd set up a few nights with girls, who were well paid.”

Ryan interrupted. “Who was the pimp?”

Tagama sighed. “I don't know. I closed my eyes to that part of the preparations.”

Ryan's stomach still clenched, but the nausea had passed. He listened with the same sick voyeurism he felt when he saw a bad traffic accident. “What happened?”

“Obake was host of this group.”

“What business was targeted?”

“Just a small local group. Nothing big, some people who wanted to buy a local restaurant. But you asked about the women.”

Tagama looked at his son, and Ryan sat up a little straighter. He watched his father's hands, which were curled around his untouched orange juice glass. The skin over Tagama's heavy knuckles was shiny with tension.

“Go on.”

“We had a suite at the hotel. I was with about twenty men, drinking at the bar in the big sitting room. There was a kitchen, too, and a couple of bedrooms. Obake told me to go first, with a pretty blonde. She was young, and I think a little scared, but she whispered in my ear when I went to embrace her in front of the other men. She told me I had to make it look rough.”

He shook his head at the memory. “I drew back.” He glanced at Ryan, who couldn't meet his eyes. “This is true, son. It took me a minute to realize she'd been paid extra to act out a role.” Tagama sighed. “But she was afraid, and when she acted like she was sucking on my ear, she whispered that if we didn't play the part, it would be bad for both of us.”

Ryan felt as if he'd swallowed a golf ball. Tagama went on.

“I gave her a shove, which made her stumble. She caught herself, though, and I made like I was pushing her down the hallway. She was a good actress, too, she even lost a shoe on the way. The men laughed.”

“Where was Obake?”

Tagama looked at the floor. “He had another girl. He and some other guys went in the kitchen. They were doing one-armed push-ups, showing off their muscles before they—”

“
Guys
? How old were these girls?”

“Fifteen, sixteen.” Tagama didn't look up.

“That was statutory rape.” Ryan's voice rasped in his dry throat.

“No, Hawai‘i has the lowest age of consent in the United States. A child fourteen or older can have consensual sex.”

“That's awful.”

“Yes, it is.” Those three words sounded as if they'd been dragged from Tagama's soul.

“It makes it easier for the Yakuza to force little girls into prostitution.”

Tagama just nodded.

“So Obake was with other men, and in the kitchen with the other lucky girl. Where were you?”

“A bedroom.”

“And you fucked?” Ryan's words were lifeless.

“I gave her a large tip.”

“Great.” Ryan fell back into the sofa and stared at the ceiling.

Tagama didn't talk for several minutes. Ryan felt as if his father had opened his jugular and filled him with lead.

“I didn't rape her.” Tagama brought his glass to his lips, and Ryan noticed that his father's hand trembled.

“But that shove, it gave a couple of the other guys ideas.” Tagama sighed deeply. “She came out a few minutes after I did, and one of the men grabbed at her. She pulled away, and he hit her in the face. Broke her nose and knocked a couple of her front teeth out. She spit them at him.”

Ryan stared, numb.

“Everyone laughed. Obake was busy with the other girl, so I grabbed her arm and got her out the front door and to a doctor.”

Both men sat in silence for a while. Years ago in California, Ryan had been at a fraternity party with hookers. He hadn't had enough money to share in the fun, but he'd been curious. He didn't know what he'd have done if someone had told him to go first, that it had been paid for. He might have gone for it. Now he wondered how the girls felt. He'd never considered it.

Tagama might have misinterpreted his silence, for he spoke in a voice so low Ryan only caught a few words. “…can ask her.”

“Huh?” Ryan said, and stared at his father. Ryan was reeling from his father's story and his own memories of the fraternity party. How different was he than his father?

The elder Tagama's words sank in. Ask her?

This woman would be ten to fifteen years younger than his own father and mother. Tagama had said she was blonde, and someone had punched her in the face and knocked out a couple of her teeth.

He tore at his hair and moaned. “Oh, Dad.”

Her teeth had been repaired. A smile with a glint of gold came to him. He knew who she was.