3

            From there, the Kiawe looked absolutely empty.  After about ten minutes, I was antsy.  I could walk the strip and show Andy’s picture around like the Whitcomb’s had done.  I knew people and the results would be different.  People had to recognize him after living in Kihei a year.  I could check the airport, if he left the island and didn’t return unexpectedly, his car might still be there.  Or impounded.  I could check the phone company.  I might ask Gus to see if he could get any long distance records. Of course, for a PI, that’s strictly illegal.  You need to know somebody to get that kind of information.  But the phone company is so big, you don’t need to know somebody big.  Just somebody with access.  I could have done all this, but I knew what I would find.  So, I sat back a few minutes more.

            The nervous janitor came around the back and saw me about the same time I saw him.  He moved in odd, quick short spurts.  His head would jerk, he hitched his shoulder, did something with his elbow sticking out.  The kid did a quick 180 and disappeared behind the building.  I immediately got up and crossed the street.  By the time I had turned the corner of the Kiawe, the kid was walking down a backyard trail toward alleys that ran from Kanoe to South Kihei.  I would have had to run to catch up, and I didn’t feel like the drama, so I stopped.  I knew I’d catch him sooner or later.  My next stop was the strip.

            Kihei is a wonderful town that runs nine miles from the first condos near the Kealia Beach junction between the airport road and the road to Ma‘alaea.  In the old days, it was just a dusty two lane road leading along beaches lined with kiawe at a time when locals thought kiawe was a bad tree that dropped inch long thorns into the sand waiting to ambush barefooted children.  Upper Kihei or north Kihei was thought to be hot and windy during the afternoons and nice only because the beaches were deserted and great for kids.  The water wasn’t even clear.  And few people had the four wheel drives or nerve needed to get further back to the crystal waters of Wailea or Makena.  Those beaches, which today are gems called Ulua and Polo and others, were urban legends whispered about in Kahului and Wailuku those many years ago.  I remember catching a five pound papio at Wailea in the 60’s, when the Maui Lu, was being built a few miles away along the top of South Kihei Road.  It was one of the highlights of my then young life.

            South Kihei, where I live, at the border to Wailea, is called by some of the old-timers the spoiled part of Kihei.  I don’t think so.  The boulevard is laced, like a lei, with strip malls strung, some people say ticky tacky, between condos with names like Shores of Maui, Kama‘ole Beach Royale, and Kihei Kai Nani.  I prefer to think of this as quaint.  Also convenient. I get the wonderful south Kihei beach, crystal water, next to ABC and Golden Dragon Chop Suey and Lucy’s Bar, all very nice I think.  Everything I want.

            I tried Bobo in the ABC Store at Rainbow Mall first.  Bobo is my idea of eccentric and local color all wrapped up in one.  They say she was a hippie back in the days when Makena was inaccessible to most.  Nowadays, she was just a happy early 50’s long straight hair, blonde graying white, who knew a lot of local lore and kept her eyes open.  It was funny that she liked working in the ABC, which to me is the epitome of a boring job, you don’t even get to chat with most customers, but Bobo called it a low demand line job and compared it favorably to heat stricken, back breaking plantation or mind-numbing cannery work.  She looked at the picture and twisted it and cocked her head trying to jog some lost memory loose.

            “Of course, I’ve seen him,” she said.

            I nodded patiently.  ABC Stores have mastered retail marketing, end capping their shelves with perennial discount leaders of mac nuts and suntan lotion at the front of the store.  The manager at this store must have had a creative streak in him because he typically experimented with a few inches of front shelf space on untested items.  This day he had condoms in tropical fruit flavoring in his try-this space.  If I wasn’t working I would have taken some time to examine that more carefully.

            “I just can’t remember what I know about him.”

            “I’m told he was a nice kid, probably a little on the quiet side. You probably had to draw him out after you had seen him a few times.”

             “Hmmm, that rings a bell.”

            I like standing in ABC’s because they are generous with their air conditioning, which is effective in a very sunny resort area.

            “Actually, he didn’t come in often, but I know I’ve talked to him. Let me think about it.”

            Bobo looked down and up and flashed her big blue eyes at me.

            “Why don’t you come back after awhile.  I’ll remember something.”

            A dozen times, more or less, probably less, the Whitcombs walked the strip and they couldn’t find out a thing about their son.  The first stop and I already connect.  Tells you something about Paul Evans Whitcomb.

            I didn’t expect Charlyn at the Little Shanghai Boutique and Gift to have anything on Andy.  I didn’t expect that a guy would have much reason to often visit a tourist gift store, but I liked to flirt with Charlyn and I didn’t need much reason to visit her.  Besides, in a good investigation, the inquirer should leave no stone unturned.  One should never disregard something because it looks like it obviously will not pay out.  You never know what you will find if you keep asking the same question over and over.  Inside the shop were Chinese cheong-sams, those embroidered, tight, high collared dresses that Suzie Wong wore, lots of trinkets and several Buddhas, some in plastic, a couple of them stone, all smaller than the head on Andy’s table.

            Charlyn looked at the picture and just shook her head.

            “How much do those sell for?” I indicated the Buddha statues.

            “Why? Are you interested in one?”

            I frowned.

            “Sixteen fifty on up.”

             “To?”

            Now Charlyn frowned. She walked around the counter to the Buddhas and picked up the largest one, about a foot high, sitting in stone, with a serene smile.

            “Three hundred.”

            “Do any come as a head alone?”

            “Sure.”

            “But like a foot high?”  I held my hands to indicate an approximate height.  She shook her head no.  I should’ve figured, but it surprised me.

            “Does anyone make them like that?”
            “Just the head alone, big like that?”  She paused to think.  “No, I don’t think so.  I’ve never seen one.  Something that big, I think it would have to be real.”

            “You know anyplace that sells real antiques on Maui?”

            “No. You might see something in Honolulu, in the art academy. But not in Maui.”

            She stood there, smiling, flirting wordlessly with her lips and hips.  I dangled the picture back at her.  Sometimes, you have to go off subject then back on to get an interview to work.

            “Nice looking kid,” she said.

            “It’s coming back to you.”

            “I’ve seen him around.  Lucy’s.  The coffee shop.  Nice.  Polite.  Quiet.”

            She paused.  I urged her on.

            “The kind, I think, who has a hard time saying no.”

            Interesting, but no address, no girl friend name.  Another dead end.

            Really, Bobo was a dead end too.  Except for her big flirting smile, I didn’t expect Bobo to come up with anything interesting.  I know I said to leave no stone unturned but that doesn’t mean I can’t have an opinion or just for fun, try to figure the odds.

            “Well, is he the kind of guy who might turn you on?” I asked Charlyn.

            “John!”

            I just wanted to know if she liked the younger guys.

            “You know as soon as I ditch my present boyfriend… I’m going to call you.”

            “Look at the picture again.”

            “He’s cute,” she said.

            She lingered with the picture.  Charlyn was a tiny Chinese girl with not much of a figure except that she had this tiny waist and a cute little tush and dimples when she smiled.

            “No… nothing. If I think of anything, I’ll tell you at Lucy’s.”

            Lucy’s after sundown was a pretty common thing for a bunch of us in South Kihei.  I was never part of the in crowd, but somehow a little group was forming around Lucy’s.  

            Who doesn’t like ice cream?  That’s as good a reason to visit an ice cream shop as it was to visit Mardy at Arnold’s Ice Cream on the ground floor of Kama‘ole Shopping Center.  Arnold’s, of course, was named after the Happy Days television show hangout but the owner figured that Arnold’s was not a copyrightable name, unlike Cheeseburger in Paradise in Lahaina which ran into problems with New York lawyers.  Arnold’s has an autographed picture of the Fonz just behind the cash register.

            Mardy is native Hawaiian and should be on my short list of women I should do more with than just flirt.  She is about five seven, a hundred fifty, typical wide Hawaiian nose, huge dark eyes, slightly kinky, long curly hair, no distinguishing marks, a scar on her knee actually, mid 30’s, dark complexion.  She dances hula in Lahaina but lives and works in Kihei.  A lot of Maui people make that 60 miles commute.  It would drive me crazy.  I liked to do it on a Friday afternoon every once in awhile, but not regularly.

Mardy looked at the picture and made about five faces in 15 seconds.  I’ve always thought of her as pleasingly plump.  Actually, she’s more muscular than plump.

            “Well, I’ve seen him. I don’t know if I’ve ever talked to him. Why do you want to get information about him? Did he do something bad”

            I looked at her like she was insane.

            “Mardy. You know I only deal with good guys.  Never the bad guys.”

            “Well, you are a PI.  What do PI’s do?  They catch bad guys.  So, don’t you have to ask questions about bad guys?”

            “Hmmm.”

            “So, good guy or bad guy?”

            “Good question.”

            I took the picture back.  Good question.  For the first time, it occurred to me that if the Buddha head were real, Andy might be a bad guy.  And that might mean not a runaway but missing.  Missing, or as we say in the business, murdered.  Sometimes, it’s nearly the same.  But I dismissed it.  Bad guys aren’t named Andy.

            Tim saw me coming out of Arnold’s and whistled to get my attention.  I was going there anyway.  Tim is one of the sharpest guys on the strip.  He is studying for his Realtor’s license which would let him sell time shares instead of shill for them.  Perhaps, hawk is a better word.  Some say time share is a noble profession.  If you’re the licensed Realtor selling it, it’s a lot of money.  But Tim might have ADD, Attention Deficit Disorder or something, that makes book learning and therefore a license difficult.  He’s been on the strip for about five years, and he still doesn’t have the license.  He’s sharp.  He makes $100 for every person that he gets to go to a time share presentation.  His weapons are freebies, discounts, island knowledge, and the famous Halverly smile.  The smile is everything, Tim likes to say.  He flashed one of them at me.  I have often wondered what it might be like to be in love with say, Julia Roberts.  How would you know if she was faking it or acting?  Tim’s smile was the same way.  But I felt that for me, it was real.

            “Man, so how’s the girl?!” Tim said.

            I was befuddled for a moment.

            “Gus’ girl for you?” Tim said.

             “Gus has a girl for me?”

            “Yeah.” Tim frowned. “Didn’t he tell you?”

            Ahhh, the girl.  The one I traded away my piece of mind for.  The girl in exchange for taking the Whitcomb caper.

            “Uhh, yeah, I forgot.”

            “A looker, but nice you know.  A looker but no fancy pants, no make up, the kind you see in a movie and think ‘where do they find women like that?’  Matches perfectly, you know.  You’re going to be happy.”

            “If she’s so good, why don’t you try for her yourself?”

            “Well,” Tim said.  He looked away conspiratorially.  “Gus said he had a deal with you.”

            “When did you see her?”

            “Three days ago.”

            Bastard Gus.  Excuse me.  I couldn’t help it.

            “So you knew all this time, why didn’t you tell me earlier? You just saw me yesterday.”

            “I’ve been waiting, man.  Just wanting to see your reaction.”

            This is what bonds men together.  Seeing how we do in The Relationship.  Actually, though I’ve been married before, I guess I have to admit I don’t do well in The Relationship.  I won’t stand for a lot that seem to be common human traits, and being wishy washy, up and down or obtuse are common womanly traits that I find difficult.  But it all starts with pretty.

            “Well, I haven’t met her yet.”

             “Bug him man. You’ll be glad you did,” Tim said, as he flashed one of his professional smiles at two girls walking by.  He leaned down against his little counter in his booth that offered $30 helicopter rides, $10 lū‘aus, free weather and lots of aloha.

            “Ladies…”

            There was an air of expectancy he projected.

            They smiled and continued walking on by.

            “Wait…”

            One turned and smiled, and the other kept on walking.

            “Excuse me!” Tim said in a half begging, half joking voice.

            The second woman stopped.

            “There must be something here I can help you with,” Tim said, pointing to his sign.

            They laughed.

            I had seen him do it a hundred times. I was still impressed.  He said the company had a policy, a rule of thumb.  Don’t settle for less than eight rejections.  If the customer says, “No, absolutely not interested,” you’re supposed to say, “No, it couldn’t be.”  You drag out the “no” and try to approximate a plaintive, disbelieving tone of voice.  They say, “No, no, no,” you’re supposed to say, “Yes, yes, yes…”  You copy the same rhythm and vocal pattern.  The same pitch, if you can manage it.  They say, “I’m going to call the cops.”  You say, “Cops?  Cops?  So… what would the cops do where you’re from.  Say, where are you from?”  That’s three rejections.  If you can do it, it’s great acting.  You have five more to go before you can let go.  The company shops the OPC’s, the outside personal contact sales force, to make sure they’re living up to the rule of thumb.  But it was the $100 and the fun of it that motivated Tim.

            I had three hours on the job, $150, and I had learned so far that Andy was pretty inconsequential, no one remembered him clearly, not even Tim, his boss didn’t have much to say about him, well nothing consequential, no one knew if he had a girl friend, and he didn’t suddenly vanish off the face of the earth in the middle of a cigarette.  In fact, he probably didn’t smoke.

            I called it a day. Went home, had lunch, a salad and a tuna sandwich, took my nap, read a bit, stood sunset watch at Kama‘ole and went to Lucy’s.

            “Do you remember the kid,” I told Gus.

            I was having the first of my two beers.  I find if you drink less, you can appreciate the effects more.  I liked that little tingling, that slight relaxation that comes with the first beer.  The second beer makes it better but the third you’re chasing, and it’s never that good as the first one, except you’re laughing more.

            “Naw, I usually don’t pay attention to young guys. Now girls, I do, but the guys blur in my short term memory,” Gus said.

            I told him about my day, about the Buddha head, Desdemoine, my canvassing the strip. He was immediately interested in the head.

            “You really should look into that, maybe call the Bishop Museum.”

            “They do Hawaiiana, not Asian antiquities.”

            “The Academy of Arts?”

            “So, you think it might be important?”

            “If it’s real.”

            Fat chance, I thought.

             “So, about this girl you owe me,” I said.

            Gus held up his hand.

            “I told you.  I promised you.  But she doesn’t come easy.”

            What the hell does that mean?

            “I got to set something up.”

            After the little thing with Tim, I was a little impatient.

            “Maybe,” Gus said, “we look at her over a distance, then she comes up and I talk to her and she gets a look at you, and later if you both still like we could have lunch.”

            “I thought you said it was all set up.”

            “I never said such a thing.”

            “Well, you implied it.”

            “John, that’s the problem with you.  You think everything’s implied.  You read too much between the lines.  You gotta learn to just read the black print.”

            He set me back.  I went into my thinker pose, left elbow on right hand, chin on the back of left palm heel, lips mashed against my fingers.

            “Yeah, well all the secrets are between the lines,” I said.  “Just tell me about her.”

Gus smiled almost as convincingly as Tim.

            “You gotta see this girl. Plain, but classy, you know what I mean.  Dresses simply, but it’s understandable, she works with dirt.  Has an air about her, you know, warmth and yet worldliness.  Not afraid.  Not distant.  Not loud.  Probably five pounds above her high school weight.”

            We had a running joke about high school weight.  My premise is that women gain a pound a year after a high school.  Men do too unless they swill beer.  Then it could go a lot higher.  For women, it’s sugar not beer.  I saw an article recently that said that if you’re thirty pounds over your high school weight, you’re significantly at risk for a heart attack.  I was just below that mark.

            “What’s with the dirt?” I said.

            “You’re going to love this.  She makes her living baby sitting plants.”

            Gus opened his hands.  Ta dah.  There.  I told you.  Huh?  Huh?

            “She what?”

            “She’s got a way with plants.  And with rich people.  They like her.  They trust her.  I think she has some blueblood credentials that she don’t let on to us regular folks.   Works by reference only.  Started, I hear, in Wailea about four years ago.  One thing led to another.  You know that scenario.”

            I knew.  I wanted that scenario for myself.  Just one job a month.  The best.  Cherry picking PI.

            “So what does she do,” I said.

            “She goes in when you’re on vacation and she waters and prunes and whatever to their plants.  You know, for some richies, plants are like dogs to us.  Plus, she’s got a line now of homes that the owners only reside maybe a month a year.  She’s there the rest of the time.”

            “What about gardeners. Don’t these rich people have gardeners?”

            “Gardeners are for outside.  She does inside.  Plus, she oversees the gardeners.  I guess indoor plants are harder.”

             “You gotta be kidding.”

            “Drives a pickup.  Lives up country. You rarely see her ‘cause she’s usually at work.”

            Well, that part I didn’t like.  I liked self sufficient.  I liked different and interesting.  I liked the ability to enjoy and fit in the rich scene.  I liked the dichotomy of the pick up truck and the mansion.  I liked Tim’s taste in pretty, and Tim said she was pretty.  I could have been in love already.  But I didn’t like too busy.

            “OK, so set something up.”

            “I will, I will.”

            “Tomorrow.”

            Lucy’s is an extravaganza of a bar.  It was built by the imagination of, you’d think, a real eccentric.  But instead, it was two guys who are becoming very rich on Maui developing land.  They are really problem solvers.  The problem with Kihei is that all the beach front has been saved with parks.  So, you can only get commercial property across the street from the beach.  So, eureka, these two guys build a very tall, two-story building.  I think the top of Lucy’s is 40 feet high, at least.  And the view is above the kiawe trees, above the ratty back door to Puna’s Bar in front of us and over the azure of Ma‘alaea Bay toward the sunset over Lanai.  There is an elevator or a grand staircase and a polished brass fire pole for quick departures, but the bartender has to certify that you are sober enough to use the firepole, and regulars constantly gossip that the owner is going to close the flagpole.  Frankly, I think he should.

             “But first, business,” Gus said.  “Mr. Whitcomb is very nervous. I know you can appreciate this.”

            OK, here we go, the Paul Evans thing.  I told Gus about my morning.  Dead ends.  I told him I thought the kid ran away from home.  I really should be interviewing the parents again to see if anything had happened family wise that caused the kid’s disappearance.  Like, what was this family business thing?  Maybe they were pressuring the kid to come home and take over the business and he fled.

            “Whitcomb is into warehouses and strip malls,” Gus said.  “He’s a commercial slum lord. Started in his backyard in the country and found a niche for his personality.”

            Made sense to me.

            “Old man thinks there’s foul play because no one will talk to him. Thinks it’s a conspiracy.”

            I could explain that.  I gave Gus a clearly disgusted look.

            “I don’t think he’ll buy running away from home.”

            “OK,” I said.  I was thinking on my feet.  I knew Gus was angling to do some research.  “But it’ll cost. I won’t take it out of my…”

            And just then, Mrs. Whitcomb entered Lucy’s standing against the black of night at the entrance. Lucy’s is basically open air and has a huge open entrance on the leeward side of the building. She was wearing something gauzy that was translucent with the floodlights behind her.

            “How’d…”

            Gus held up his hand.

            “She’s the client. She has a right.”

            I thought I said no interference.

            “Mr. Makā… kiu.”

            “Very good,” I said, despite myself.  I do a lot of things despite myself.  She was smiling and pretty and innocent.  I really didn’t know what to say.  Want a drink?  What can I do for you?  Why are you here?  Is this going to be my nightmare?

            “I’m so glad we have this chance to talk.”

            I looked around.  Charlyn walked in the door.  Haole guys dig Asian chicks like local guys love blondes.  A lot of heads turned as she walked in.  She frowned when she saw me with Mrs. Whitcomb but I gestured for her to come over.  I could see she was a little reluctant.  Gus hugged her.

            “Charlyn, my sweet, this is my client Mrs. Angela Whitcomb.”

            I wanted to get in that client early so Charlyn would have no doubts.  Her face changed instantly.

            “Why how nice to meet you,” Charlyn said.

            Mrs. Whitcomb smiled demurely.

            I leaned over and whispered to Charlyn that we were talking business and that I would join her in five minutes, max.  But she leaned over and whispered that she remembered something about Andy.  I held up my finger against my mouth so she wouldn’t blurt it out.  I’m like an auto mechanic.  I should put on a sign on my forehead “No customers allowed beyond this point.” I excused us.

            “I remember now,” Charlyn said.  “I saw him once. He works at the Kiawe, you know.  I saw him once with the owner, Peter.”

            Oh?

            “Yeah, they were arguing.  He even pushed the kid around.  He actually hit him.  I almost thought of calling the police, but it didn’t last long and the kid walked away.  Mostly, I remember it confirmed everything I’ve thought about that Frenchman.”

            “Rough around the edges, huh?”

            “More than rough.”

            “What would you say?”

            “I would say vicious.”

            Interesting.  First, I’m thinking easy job, 800 smackaroos, runaway from overbearing parents, obvious.  Now, there’s vicious and a disturbing Buddha head.  I asked Charlyn to wait on the other side of the bar.  And when I went back, I told Angela that my business with Charlyn was personal.

            “She wants my body,” I said.

            Mrs. Whitcomb laughed.  I should have taken offense, but I had said it as a joke and it had come across that way.  But why wouldn’t someone like Charlyn like my 56 year old body?

            “Did you walk the strip today?” she asked.

            “I did.”

            “What did you find out?”

            “Actually, nothing.”

            She was surprised.

            “Look, I told you you’d get a report.”

            I know it sounded hard but it didn’t seem to faze her.  I suppose living with Paul Evans for twenty or more years would do that to a sweetie pie.

             “I know, but I thought maybe if you understood Paul a bit you’d have better luck.”

            “No offense, but I think I have a good picture.”

            “You know he means well. People mistake him.”

            Sure.

            “Several times I saw people glance at the photo twice,” she said.  “I know they’d seen Andrew.”

            I nodded. How do you mime “sure.”

            “I think his boss was lying,” Mrs. Whitcomb said.

            Ah, what was she thinking about this… this vicious man?

            “I thought it seemed he might have hated Andrew.  Maybe enough to harm him.”

            “That’s going far for just meeting a man.”

            “Well, a woman has feelings about this sort of thing.”

            I know.  At least, they think so.

            “I think we should check him out more.”

            This was the clincher.  I knew sooner or later I would have to do it.  Why not sooner.  If Charlyn hadn’t walked in right then, I might have held out longer.  I turned toward Gus, and he leaned in closer.

            “Like I said, I have nothing now, but there are… suspicions.”

            She looked surprised.  I smiled.  She leaned in closer.

            “It’s a long shot.”

            She touched my arm.

            “It will cost to get more facts.”

            I hate to sound like a con man constantly milking the mark.  In fact, I rarely get into this cost thing, I prefer clients giving me carte blanche.  My standard rate is $1,000 down, non-refundable, plus all expenses, no questions asked, and $50 a hour after that.  But, truthfully, I was nervous from the git go about facing Paul Evans regarding money.  And I didn’t want to lose anymore money to this case.  Already, Gus was making 20 percent, twice his usual.  I wanted anything else we did with Desdemoine on top of the minimum.

            “I may need outside help,” I said.  I looked at Gus.  “This would be expenses on top of the retainer. Probably, oh…”

            “Oh, maybe a couple hundred,” Gus said.

            Mrs. Whitcomb looked at Gus.  There was not a trace of suspicion in her eyes.

            “Of course.  You mustn’t doubt our resolve,” she said.

            “Of course, we would keep it to a minimum,” Gus said.  Bless his heart.  He was right on it.

            Of course, I didn’t doubt her resolve.  But money is another thing.  The only way to get quick information, and Gus knew it, was illegally.  And illegal costs.  This was always frustrating as an officer of the law.  We needed to wait for court orders, for captains and majors to get back from seminars, for attorneys to finish polishing their shoes, while criminals disposed of precious evidence.  If I had been Nixon, there never would have been tapes.  Zero.  Nada.  I would have denied everything.  So what if Deep Throat said there were tapes.  It’s one man’s word against another.  No tapes, no final case.  How many people could have known about the tapes?  Why erase some tapes and not the whole thing.  Absolutely stupid.  There was part of me that loved to go in and fish out illegal evidence.  And another part was torn.

            Mrs. Whitcomb touched my sleeve.  “I have every faith in you she said.  In Kentucky, we have a saying.  We say, ‘The country boys can tell.’  We mean the girls too. I can feel it from this mountain, all along this beach. I can feel it in you.  Country can tell.”