For a Song Read online

  RODNEY MORALES

  Copyright

  © 2016 University of Hawai‘i Press

  All rights reserved

  Print and digital editions available:

  Paperback ISBN 9780824858827

  PDF ISBN 9780824858858

  EPUB ISBN 9780824858834

  Kindle ISBN 9780824858841

  21 20 19 18 17 16 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Morales, Rodney, author.

  Title: For a song / Rodney Morales.

  Description: Honolulu : University of Hawai‘i Press, [2016]

  Identifiers: LCCN 2016006836 | ISBN 9780824858827 (pbk. : alk. paper)

  Subjects: LCSH: Private investigators—Hawaii—Fiction. | Hawaii—Fiction. | Missing persons—Fiction. | LCGFT: Detective and mystery fiction

  Classification: LCC PS3563.O7594 F67 2016 | DDC 813/.54—dc23

  LC record available at http://lccn.loc.gov/2016006836

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Prologue

  Part One: The Glint of Diamonds

  1

  2. Dangerous Curves

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7. North Shore Willie’s

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14. Two Cases and a Guitar Too

  15

  16

  17. A Lone Knight’s Journey

  18. From Amber to Indigo

  19. The Third Act

  20

  21

  22. Enter The Senator

  23

  24

  Part Two: Follow Me, Follow You

  25

  26

  27

  28. Saint Agnes

  29. Memorial Day

  30

  31

  32. Follow You, Follow Me

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37. Interview with a Whistle-Blower

  38

  39

  40. Fricken Doldrums

  41

  42. Enter the Police

  43

  44

  Part Three: Maelstrom

  45. Donnybrook

  46

  47

  48

  49

  50

  51

  52

  53. Tête-à-Tête

  54. The Play’s the Thing Redux

  55. Midnight Raid

  56. All In

  57

  58

  59. Guadalajara

  60. Five-0

  Epilogue: Grave Concerns

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  PROLOGUE

  Where it began …

  I want you to find my daughter …

  She came out of the vapor, her over-the-shoulder bag swinging slow and deliberate. I took one last drag from my unfiltered Pall Mall, mashed it into the rail. As she closed in, pausing every few beats, like she was unsure of her destination, she appeared more hallucination than real. She was a blonde. She aged as she got closer, fantasy giving way to reality.

  I stood and waited, just to see if she was going where I thought she was going. She was headed toward my boat….

  My boat—a 32-foot powerboat with twin 350-horsepower outboards…. That’s how it was described to me, and I took the previous owner at his word. I didn’t know boats. I didn’t know women. As I stood aboard the Suze, anchored in its slip in the crud-ridden Ala Wai Harbor, I relived the scenario that brought me to this off-land dwelling—brought me a chunk of change, too. It was a card game, an all or nothing bet….

  • • •

  Having survived a bitter divorce—well, I was bitter, not to mention broke—I was ripe for a change of scenery. Other wise why risk the seven hundred and eighty, all that remained from the thousand-dollar check I had found in a plain envelope, one that almost got lost amidst the clutter of credit card and life insurance enticements, utility bills, nagging requests from charities, and the rest of the shit I didn’t even bother to open? The check was a fortuitous late arrival from a long-ago-completed job. I knew that if I lost it all on gambling, I’d soon be standing in line at the IHS shelter in Iwilei, along with the other riffraff that impolite society crinkles its nose at, working the devil’s rope line for that free meal.

  This all-night poker game didn’t happen in some decrepit, behind-the-shop dive in Chinatown or along the rat-infested waterfront, but rather in a luxurious five-bedroom, four-and-a-half-bath casa grande in Portlock. This unexpected upgrade featured pool, Jacuzzi and hot tub, a music system for the ages, indoor and outdoor showers, and a guesthouse that would suit the Duchess of Windsor and was several times larger than the apartment I was going to be evicted from if I didn’t come up with two months’ rent. You had to be shit-ass rich to reside in this crib, and very few get to this level doing anything good.

  After going up and down all night, playing like I never played before only because I had so little left to lose, I was about seventeen hundred ahead. Andy, a trial lawyer and the owner/occupant of this ostentatious dwelling, was up at least three grand—the big winner thus far. Talk about betting against the house. While I was used to playing poker in some modest dwelling with my former reporter colleagues (and an assortment of acquaintances that included a janitor who took home rescue dogs, a Jaguar salesman, a green-thumbed handyman who grew his own pot when he wasn’t repairing window screens or door locks or leaky faucets, and an artist/musician/self-described literary genius), this group was different: clearly more white collar than blue, more attached to their attachés, more willing to throw down the big ones. I had run into Andy every now and then at the courts. He kept inviting me to his Casino Night extravaganzas and I kept turning him down. This time I said yes.

  Andy’s wife just happened to be on a tour of Italy, jetting from Venice to Florence to Rome, sampling the finest cabs and zinfandels. Taking this as opportunity, Andy transformed his digs into a gambler’s paradise, and, in terms of atmosphere, outdid many of those high-stakes rooms in upscale Vegas casinos. By now, in the wee small hours, more than half of the players had given up and gone home. The remaining quartet—made up of Andy, an interchangeable duo who went by Larry and Ed, and me—grabbed the cards for what was supposedly our last game.

  We had earlier agreed on a six a.m. cutoff time, and it was 5:55. The pot, represented by red, blue, green, orange, and black serrated-edge chips that Andy had provided—real classy stuff—had grown exponentially as each of the surviving four made his last desperate move. Each move, bluff or not, was called. At some point Larry and Ed decided to fold, smartly cutting their losses. When I had met them nearly twelve hours earlier, Andy said one of them was an accountant and the other a civil engineer who worked for the state. I immediately forgot which guy was which. They both shared that clerical, IRS agent look, which also happened to be the perfect poker face.

  By now the pot was well over five grand. I was out of my league and over my head. But I couldn’t stop. I would’ve counted cards, if I could only remember my last hand. I was going on instinct.

  I shook my cards, then took a peek: a handsome pair of tens, a club and a spade; the ace of diamonds; and the four and eight of hearts. No chance for a straight from any angle. I dropped the four and eight and picked up two new cards, hanging onto the ace more out of respect than strategy. Andy—it was his turn to deal—delivered me two replacement cards, a seven of hearts and the ace of clubs. I now sat with two pairs. I looked at the chip pile and broke into a sweat. Usually I could gaze expressionless and not betray my hand, but I had been up all nig
ht and the endless cups of gin and coffee were speaking too. My guess was that Andy was bluffing; but you never could tell with Andy. He kept raising the stakes and I’d sweat even more.

  A cigarette dangled precariously from my lips. I kept forgetting to ash it, and every now and then Andy would look at me disdainfully as he pushed an ashtray toward me. It was not your typical ashtray. This one looked like something museums put out on display, behind tamper-proof glass. Looked like it had been pinched from Louie the 14th’s Versailles flat. Slowly, painstakingly, I called and raised Andy at each turn. Larry and Ed, sated perhaps with all the drinks and heavy pupu, had broken sweat too in the cool island dawn, their fatigued faces glistening. I looked Andy in the eye as I inched all but one of my chips forward. I held on to one, a green-edged serrated chip that I twirled through the fingers of my left hand. Andy was no longer talking shit to distract me. The cigarette in my mouth was now a nub, threatening to burn my lips.

  One sweat drop fell in slo-mo from my nose and onto the back of my left hand. I resisted the urge to wipe it, resisted making the slightest extraneous move. I stopped my twirling and threw the last chip in.

  “I—,” I cleared my throat and tried again, “I … call you.” My shirt was soaked.

  There must have been eight thousand in the pile by now. It included most of Andy’s chips and all of mine. Andy flipped over his cards. A pair of kings. And one queen. The three face cards unnerved me more than the thought of having blown the seven hundred plus I had walked in with, but no matter how much royalty on the table, they only added up to one pair.

  I threw down my tens and aces. Andy exhaled, shut his eyes. I proceeded to rake in the chips. “Time to call it a night.” The rim of Diamond Head Crater lit up through the large plate-glass window—the first glimmerings of sunrise.

  “Double or nothing.” It came out like a whisper.

  I made like I didn’t hear it.

  “Double or nothing,” Andy said again, this time with more zest.

  “You’re nuts.” Damn, he looked serious.

  “C’mon, Dave.” He glanced at his digital watch. “It’s five-fifty-nine; we got time for one more play.” It was true; his watch showed 5:59, while mine showed 6:00:56. I watched as the digit turned over.

  “Mine says six-o-one.” Those words came out softly, like a half-hearted bluff, though I wasn’t bluffing. “I’m exhausted, Andy.”

  “We’ll just draw a card.”

  “Sorry. I’m done.” I stood up. My legs were stiff, and my bladder, which had held up well during the crucial moments, was bursting now. I really needed to take a piss. I shook the numbness out of my right leg.

  “Chicken?”

  Now let me tell you. It wasn’t the gin, or the three a.m. servings of wasabi-laced sashimi and tasty crackers with some extraordinary sun-dried tomatoes and aioli dip that made me react the way I did. It wasn’t the subtle sounds of Brazilian music still ebbing from the walls. (Where was that fucking speaker system? Hours and hours of samba, bossa nova, and cha-cha rhythms that gave way to muted trumpets and frenzied saxophones, lulling, then energizing—I mean, come on.) And it wasn’t because I imagined that the two IRS types weren’t really accountants or engineers, but rather mercenaries, working for Andy, and they wouldn’t allow me to leave without drawing that card.

  It wasn’t fatigue either. And it wasn’t the divorce. I had already hit bottom; bottom was getting to be familiar territory. I looked askance at Andy. I couldn’t believe he had uttered the word chicken. Did he really think that that was the measure of a man? Did he really have the audacity to think that I would venture into a reckless, odds-stacked-against-me ruse of this nature because of a fucking word?

  But I had to relish the irony of it. And before I could follow my string of thoughts any further, perhaps down some clearer road, I said, “OK. You’re on.” I only had everything to lose.

  If he draws an ace, I thought, I will have to kill him.

  “You draw first,” I told him. I took a quick glance at Larry and Ed. They were happy to be observers.

  “Sure.”

  I stayed on my feet.

  He grabbed a new deck, had me cut it. Placed it down.

  “You first,” I uttered.

  He drew an ace. It was like air out of a balloon. I was crushed. Angry at myself for letting it come to this, I quickly pulled a card. It too was an ace. God, what is this, a pack of aces? Is he fucking with me? I thanked the invisible angels, but just wanted to get out of there.

  “Again,” he said.

  I threw my hands up. “Yeah, sure. Why not?”

  He drew a ten of spades. He seemed satisfied, the odds still in his favor.

  I pulled without looking, ready to head for the head no matter what. I just threw whatever it was on the table. In the time it took for me to take in a deep breath and exhale, I realized the jack of clubs was winking at me.

  I could barely contain myself. “I won,” I said flatly and walked away. Bladder really bursting now, I ambled as steadily as I could toward the nearest bathroom, kicked up the sparkling toilet lid, and let out a startling stream of gleaming yellow.

  Looking out the bathroom window during this prolonged encounter with porcelain, I checked out the million-dollar view. Andy’s house overlooked Maunalua Bay, and toward the west you could see, now totally lit by the rising sun, not the postcard Diamond Head, but its less familiar side. Andy was loaded; I had no problem taking a night’s worth of earnings away from him. And the others had cut their losses by not bringing all that much to the table. I flushed, then wiped my hands on one of the fresh towels laid out and headed back to the table to reap my reward.

  When I returned, the interchangeable Ed and Larry were heading out the front door. They waved listlessly. I gazed at the pile on the table; it sure looked pretty.

  Andy put his left hand on my tight right shoulder. I looked at him warily, wondering what would come out of this shrewd lawyer’s mouth. He said, “Let’s have a toast.”

  He led me to an immaculate koa wood bar and poured two glasses of what he claimed to be his best cognac.

  “You know that cognac is simply what they call the brandy that comes from the region of Cognac? My wife visited there on the way to Santiago de Compostella.”

  “You’re talking about the Galicia region?”

  “Outer reaches of Spain. You been there?”

  “Heard about it, that’s all. Not knowing Spanish, it sounds kind of like some dung heap. I’m sure it’s anything but.”

  “Does sound like shitsville when you think about it. It’s a cathedral town. St. James’s bones are supposed to be buried there. There’s a whole story behind it—you know how that goes.”

  “There’s always a story behind it. Your wife a Catholic?”

  “When it serves her interest.”

  We drank. It hit the spot. Tasted like victory, which I savored as I swallowed, eyes closed, tired, but a good tired.

  “You know…,” Andy began.

  “Here we go.” I braced myself.

  “… I got a boat that’s worth a helluva lot more than that pile of chips. Thing is, I never use it, ever since—” He didn’t finish. Just gave me this crazed look. “So?”

  “So what?”

  “So whadaya think?”

  “Wha’ do I think? I’m thinking there was about eight grand in the pot and you made it double or nothing. I’m thinking cold, hard cash. What the fuck do I know about owning a fucking boat?”

  “What’s to know? It floats.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “You don’t think it floats?”

  “I don’t think I’m interested.”

  “You should at least see it. What could you lose? If you don’t like it I’ll give you all your money right then and there. Cash, check, however you want it. You busy tomorrow morning?”

  “It’s already tomorrow morning.”

  “Well, shit.” He put his glass down. “Let’s go now.”

  H
e was relentless. I fumbled for excuses. “C’mon, Andy. I’m really fucking tired. Just wanna get some coffee and head home.” The fatigue I had held at bay for the last few hours made its way toward each nerve end, catalyzed by brandy from obscure regions.

  “Coffee alone won’t do you any good. Let’s go get breakfast,” he said, surprisingly upbeat. “I know the best place.”

  Until I saw the boat I’d never thought of it as a place to live. But there it was. If I took it now, my ex couldn’t touch it, since we’d resolved all the ownership issues and she had already taken everything. I slid my hand along the polished mahogany rails, thinking, if I could make a home and office out of this I could be back in business.

  “What’s the rent here? Docking fees, or whatever you call it.”

  “Six, seven dollars per square foot if you just dock it. Eleven if you live on it, which comes out to three bills a month.”

  Hmm. About a third of my current rent. “How would they know if you live on the boat or not?”

  “Oh, they know. Believe me.”

  “Can you operate a business?”

  “Not if you make it obvious.”

  “So you can’t.”

  “I didn’t say that. Just don’t hang signs all over the place.”

  “Hmm.” I thought for a minute, then said, “The boat and five grand.”

  “You crazy? Are you fucking nuts?”

  “Then write me a check for—”

  “Make it two and a half grand. I tell you, that’s a steal.”

  “Pffff. Not if you’d rather have the cash…. Five grand.”

  “Some negotiator….” He eyed me. I stared at him flatly, patiently. The macadamia nut pancakes with scrambled eggs, corn beef hash, and coffee had restored me. I wasn’t giving him an inch. “All right,” he said. “Deal.”

  “We just did that,” I said as we shook on it. “That’s how I won your fucking boat.”

  Seemingly tireless, Andy showed me around my newly acquired possession—its high-end components, well-integrated compartments, and high-powered engine. He explained some things about general maintenance, showed me the hookup for electricity, the cable line, explained the amenities. Then he pointed to a ginormous manual on boat care.