T
he four giants parted as we walked up the steps, and closed ranks behind us. I'd been in some dingy little bars before, but this one might have been a contender for the top spot. Gray linoleum, sticky from beer and whatever else, partially covered a termite-infested plank subfloor that deflected under our weight. Roaches ran marathons back and forth across the floor. The back bar was an ancient, hand-carved mahogany affair that didn't belong with the tin roof and the dirty stucco walls. A lone high window painted over with aluminum paint, inexpert brush strokes creating a mad pattern, provided the only light except for the harsh glare of a low fluorescent hanging over a tattered green pool table. The joint didn't even have a beer sign. A five-bladed fan turned lazily overhead, barely disturbing the heat inside. Flies buzzed above our heads, dodging the fan blades for sport.
I didn't turn around, knowing that it would cause one of our escorts to say something. I did not want to give anyone an excuse to start a fight. If Kimo started one, it was his option and his business. I was here to watch his back. Watching the look of hatred on the face of the four giants surrounding us, I wished my back was in better shape. If this was a warrior society, there could be more than just a little trouble.
“Lieutenant Kahanamoku,” said the bartender, his courtesy exaggerated. “What may I do for you this afternoon?” The man
smiled when he addressed Kimo, amusement crinkling around his eyes. At least one of us in the bar thought this was going to be fun.
“Where's James?”
“James?”
“My son.”
“Oh, you must mean Keola.”
Kimo nodded, as if he could not speak.
“I don't know, Lieutenant. I didn't think it was my day to watch him.”
“Kimo,” I said sotto voce, when I saw his hands flex. Then I regretted saying anything.
“Yeah,
Kimo,”
said the bartender, speaking in the carefully syncopated patois of a wised-up, but oppressed, minority. “Your
haole
friend here is talking to you. All your
haole
friends call you by your missionary name? You ever call your son by his missionary name?”
“Where's James?”
“I don't really know. Haven't seen Keola for a couple of weeks. Not since the pigs busted him for DUI. Of course
you
got involved. Once the pua'a realized who his daddy was they would have called you, huh? So he didn't exactly get arrested and lose his license or anything like anyone else's kid, huh? You protected him, didn't you?”
Kimo stared stonily at the bartender, his hands flexing and unflexing. I was beginning to lose the hope that we might get out of here without getting banged around.
“I am looking for my son,” he said, his voice even and controlled. “I am not looking for trouble. Iâ”
“Trouble? In here? We have a respectable place, Lieutenant. We don't mean to cause you or your haole friend any trouble.”
“âI'm just looking for my son.”
“Then I suggest you file a missing person's report.”
Kimo nodded, and I knew that violence was close.
“Did you know Howard Hayes?” said Kimo.
“That professor who got himself killed? That guy? I heard
about it, but I didn't know him. He never came in here, anyway, and I never been to college. Why? You think I did it?”
“Could be, Bumpy.”
“That why you're here? Or you looking for your little boy? Which is it? I'm confused.”
“You ever heard of a group called Silversword?”
“Yeah. I heard of it.”
“I heard you're the leader.”
“Me?” The bartender raised his eyebrows in mock surprise. “I'm just a bartender. I don't lead nobody, except the occasional drunk to the shitter.”
“I'd like a beer,” I said, interrupting the ebb and flow of the conversation, trying to keep it from moving toward the inevitable.
The bartender just looked at me.
“What kind do you have?”
“You mean it?”
“I'm thirsty. This is a bar. I'd like a beer.” I knew I was pushing the envelope, but there was nothing to lose at this point. If I didn't do something, Kimo was going to get into his third fight of the day. And lose this one.
“Sorry,” said Bumpy, shaking his head. “Fresh out.”
The four giants behind me laughed. Two of them leaned against the bar, one on either side of me. I felt an elbow in the ribs.
“Excuse me,” said the guy on my right.
“Sure,” I said, grinning. “You sure you don't have any beer? These guys have beer.”
“They got the last ones.”
I felt Kimo move quietly, not really seeing it, but sensing his position changing.
Violence floated in the air like an albatross.
“Hey, what's that?” I pointed to the fly-blown refrigerator in the back bar.
“Reefer.”
“Open it.”
He gave a slight shake of his head, then grinned and opened
the chipped white door. Beer filled the interior from top to bottom.
“Well, what do you know?” he said. “Forgot about these.”
“I'll take one of those,” I said.
“Sure. Sure.” The bartender pulled a long-necked bottle from the refrigerator, popped the cap and set it on the stained mahogany top in front of me. “To your health.”
“Thanks,” I said, reaching for the bottle. Before I could grab it, the bottle was snatched from its place in front of me. I turned and watched the man on my right drink half the bottle in a long, single gulp. He watched me as he drank my beer, looking for a reaction.
He got nothing.
He finished and set the bottle back down in front of me, never taking his eyes off mine. He wore a small, satisfied smile after he put the bottle down. Then he belched a long rumbling growl.
I stood my ground, giving no sign that I was annoyed, or happy, or unhappy, or that I cared where I was or what I was doing. I gave no sign that I even knew the potential in the air. You could almost smell the musk.
“I just drank your beer, haole,” he said. “What're you gonna do about it?”
I looked at him. I looked at the man who suddenly appeared behind him, who was bigger than him. A third giant stood behind him, bigger and meaner-looking than a grizzly bear.
Kimo stood behind that man; he looked ready for anything, fight or flight.
“Any man,” I said, careful to enunciate each of my words properly, not wanting to allow a misinterpretation of anything I said, “who's man enough to drink my beer while he's looking me right in the eye ⦠I have to buy that man a drink of his own.”
Tension fled the room like a warm breeze.
“You not going to fight me?”
“Why should I?”
He shook his head, having no answer.
“Bartender, bring this man a beer. Another beer. He likes ⦔
I examined the label of the bottle in front of me. “Since he drank half of it I'm guessing he likes Bud.”
The big fellow grinned at me. “Yeah. Dat's true.”
“I could tell by the way you chugged it down. You think I was going to snatch it out of your hand and you wouldn't have a chance to finish it?”
He laughed. “Yeah, man. I thought you was gonna hit me.”
“Just because you drank my beer?”
“Sure!”
“You must have a low opinion of us haoles,” I said.
He laughed again, joined by his friends. “Yeah, man. I do.” He slapped me on the back, just above the kidney. I rolled with the blow, winced inside, but kept smiling.
The door opened. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Ricky Lee enter the bar. He didn't see Kimo and me until his eyes adjusted to the dim light inside the bar. By the time he recognized us it was too late to back out gracefully. Kimo leaned against the bar, watching the small man, his face utterly devoid of expression.
“Hey there, Ricky,” Kimo said. “We keep running into each other.”
To his credit, Ricky stood his ground. He'd already tangled once with the big cop and it didn't look like he wanted to repeat the experience. His eyes shifted from Kimo to me, then back to Kimo. It must have confused him to see us getting along there so well.
“Call your office, Lieutenant,” said Ricky. “Your boss wants to talk to you. He don't like you beating on people.”
“I'll do that,” said Kimo, smiling. “Maybe tomorrow.”
“I think you should call him now.”
“I'm busy. Want a drink?”
“You buying?”
“Can't afford it. Caine here's buying.”
“Pour Mr. Lee a beer,” I said to the bartender.
“Mr. Lee doesn't drink,” said Bumpy, a little stiffly, a little fearful. “He says it is bad for the temple that he calls his body.”
Where had I heard those words before? Then I remembered that Felix had said almost the same thing to me not long ago. Well, they were of a kind, if I thought about it. Two sides of the same coin. They shared the same generation, the same cultural background; they had the same interests. Hell, they even held the same attitudes. The two young men might have been friends had circumstances allowed it.
“I don't think I will drink with you,” said Ricky Lee, turning to leave the bar.
“Hey, come on, I only hit you a little bit.”
“Yeah, I know,” said Lee. “My mother used to hit me harder than you did. All the same, I'll skip it. Gotta go.”
“What's your rush?” Kimo moved toward the smaller man, but cautiously, the way a lion would approach a cobra.
Ricky backed away from the large cop, keeping the door within easy distance.
Kimo advanced, moving to cut off the entry as a means of escape. “You really should have a drink with me,” he said. “Let bygones be bygones. I'm not your enemy. I'm your friend.”
“Yeah, you're my friend. Don't come any closer!” Ricky reached under his shirt and pulled a pair of long black sai from his waistband.
Kimo stopped, watching the foot-long Chinese fighting irons, deadly in the hands of an expert. The two weapons would more than make up for Ricky's smaller size. The only way Kimo could take him would be to shoot him.
“Whoa,” said Kimo, putting his hands up.
“Leave me alone,” said Lee, his voice low and steady. “Leave me alone and I will not have to protect myself. You've got a gun. I don't carry. It's not illegal to protect myself. Even from a cop.”
Kimo nodded, unwilling to debate a pair of sai. He stepped back a few steps. “You just bought yourself some real trouble, Ricky.”
“Like I didn't have it already. Why're you following me?”
“Wasn't. Caine and I were following a trail. You showed up here after us. You hunting, too?”
“Let me go.”
“There's the door,” Kimo pointed.
Ricky did not take his eyes off Kimo, the tension between them holding them together, yet apart, like the simultaneously opposing and attracting poles of two magnets, wanting to separate, yet unable to do so.
Another shadow eased into the bar, aware of the tension, yet unaware of the participants.
“Felix.” I said the word aloud.
Ricky turned.
Kimo lunged.
Ricky turned back but it was too late. Kimo had pinned him to the grimy linoleum. Felix saw me and tip-toed around the combatants. “You need help, Kemosabe?”
“Kimo might,” I said, but was wrong. Kimo had already disarmed the smaller man and turned him onto his face, cuffing his hands behind his back. He moved automatically, with precision and grace, not a motion out of place.
He hauled the little man to his feet, the twin black sai in his left fist looking like toys.
Felix turned to face the others in the bar. They stood quietly, but alert, watching Kimo and Ricky, showing no appetite to become involved. “Looks like I got here just in time,” he said.
“How did you find me?”
“LoJack.”
“Come again?”
“LoJack. Kimo's Cherokee has the tracking system. I asked Tala to make the call and they gave her the location. Saw the bar and knew you had to be in here.”
“Having grapefruit juice.”
He nodded. “Sure you are.”
“Am I under arrest?” asked Ricky.