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Editor's note: A few sample chapter's of the editor's new novel is presented below. If you wish to be emailed the entire book, a file less than 1 megabite, please send a check for $15 to Alvin Koo, 1741 Ala Moana #67, Honolulu, HI 96815 and note for Kihei Past Perfect with your email address. Or send me a comment. I'd love to hear from you: papaalhawaii@hotmail.com

KIHEI PAST PERFECT, A Hawaii Mystery

By Alvin Koo, 8.1.07

Life had been almost perfect before I met Andrew's father. You know almost perfect; it’s finding that spot on the beach in the early morning, that light breeze against your skin, laying out your towel just right, putting the sun shade over your eyes and having someone plop down beside you with hip hop blaring from a boom box.

I knew almost perfect the minute Gus began talking. Making me take this case was a con. It went against my thinking half. Gus was a con by nature. He loved it. He couldn’t help it. I met him when I arrested him for selling the lost burial cave of Kamehameha seven times in three weeks. He always looked to press the love button on people. It was the challenge for him. Most people bought the cave to help the poor, poor native Hawaiians. Some cons, most actually, work with the greed button. Any idiot can press the greed button, Gus said. I guess Gus has this very believable look.

“I know you won’t want to do this,” he said. “I know you’ll say it’s the last thing in the world you want. You’ll take one look at this guy and want to wring my neck. I know.”

Gus was referring, of course, to Andrew’s father.

“But for me, for me, John, do it for me. Just listen to the guy. It’s a good cause. An easy case. Open and shut. And I’ll throw in a surprise bonus.”

Gus got that from watching too many game shows.

And whenever he says, “Do it for me, John,” I know it’s the last thing I want to do. He always plays the deep friendship, loyalty card way up front. That way he can stomp on that button more than once. All great scams work the goodness in your heart button, the eleemosynary side of you. It has happened to me before, I knew it would happen to me again. “John,” Gus says, “You know I have your best interests at heart.”

What Gus means is that he knows he shouldn’t let his selfish ways over-ride his common sense interest in keeping me as a friend instead of an enemy.

“Gus,” I said, “what is so wrong with this guy that I get the surprise bonus thrown in up front.”

Gus looked at me with that simple smile he has. I suppose it has melted many a middle-aged woman’s heart.

“You’ll know when you meet him,” Gus said.

By that, he meant Andy’s father.

My name is John Makākiu. I live in Kihei, Maui. I’m trying to be as private an eye as a private detective can be. My number is unlisted. I don’t have anything in the yellow pages. My only advertising is a sign outside Tadaki’s Kihei Barbershop, which says in simple block letters, Private Investigations, Inquire Within. Gus Baniaga is my number one man, an ex-con I helped straighten out when I was a lieutenant of detectives on the HPD. Gus is by nature a happy-go-lucky kind of guy, almost basically honest, but he can’t stomach working eight hours a day. He tried running numbers, breaking and entering, which is exciting until you get caught, and bunco. He drives tours on the side.

Almost perfect also means Kihei, Maui. Twelve miles from the airport. On the side of a huge mountain called Haleakala. I like it because it’s blue collar. It’s filled with low to medium priced condominiums, low end hotels, and a string of strip malls that house ticky tacky tee shirt shops, trinkets, Denny’s, and some local services like a bank, post office and a small police sub-station. This keeps the uppity snobs away. But the beaches are the same fine sand, clear water and gentle waves as those next door in Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous Wailea, where you can find the Four Seasons, Fairmont, Tony Bahama’s and Longhi’s. On an average day, it’s 85 degrees with a light breeze. And I feel like I hit the jackpot whenever I watch the sunset over the ocean from Kamaole II, my favorite beach.

Andrew’s father was the kind of guy I feared most as a career public servant. He didn’t give a damn how you felt. There was only one feeling that counted. His. Gus told me the old man was a bully. It was all I needed to know. Gus is a good reader of people. “Don’t make any decisions when you first meet him.” Why would anyone say such a thing unless it was a con.

I told Gus to meet me at Kamaole II hoping the inherent beauty of the place would help keep everyone cool. I knew it was a bad idea when I saw Whitcomb approaching. He towered above his wife and was talking down at her, pumping his hand, finger pointed, as he plodded, like a wounded water buffalo, down the small slope to the beach. He was wearing safari shorts, full calf socks, black leather dress shoes and a deep blue and bright red aloha shirt. Right there, I knew, I wasn’t going to let this guy push me around.

“John,” Gus said, “I would like to introduce Angela Whitcomb.”

Gus was smiling. He knew my weakness for pretty women. She was petite, a few pounds above her high school weight, wore a floppy straw hat, and had on a what looked like lace for a bodice. I am a sucker for lace. It is amazing to me how much I have suffered and how far I have gone to please a woman dressed in lace.

Whitcomb had a big belly, red face, narrow eyes and a frown. He leaned forward as if about to say something, his mouth twisted. I could hear him breathing hard. I was surprised he didn’t say anything. I’ve been cussed at by the best. I’m a retired Honolulu cop. I could feel my temper shortening. Just a grand a month, I keep telling Gus. Easy cases. Just for some going out cash. I didn’t bother to offer Paul Evans a hand.

“Mr. Ma… Makā…,” Mrs. Whitcomb said.

“Makākiu,” Gus offered.

“Ma…,” she tried again. “And I practiced so much to get it right.”

She held out her hand. Perfectly charming. Like a ray of sun bursting through the clouds.

“And this is Paul Evans Whitcomb.”

Whitcomb looked away.

“The Whitcombs are from Fountain Run,” Gus said.

“Kentucky,” Mrs. Whitcomb said. She smiled often and naturally. She seemed to be a happy person, which was odd, considering her husband.

“They’re really nice people,” Gus said.

Mrs. Whitcomb smiled and nodded.

“John can do anything,” Gus said.

Gus wants me to take jobs to augment his income. He would love to get enough time with me to apply for a private eye’s license. I don’t know if he has the moral aptitude.

“Where is Fountain Run,” I said. I wanted to get a perspective on what she thought a big city was.

“Why,” she said. I could catch the slight Southern drawl then. “It’s over toward Bowling Green.”

I nodded like I knew where that was. I glanced at the quickly darkening ocean. Gus unrolled one of the those $.98 straw mats from ABC.

The man took a step away. His mouth moved. He turned toward the sea, giving me a sideview. His lower jaw jutted out. I joined Mrs. Whitcomb on the mat. If it weren’t for him, the beach would have been perfect. There was a light 15 knot breeze coming off the sea, the sun was just going down behind Lanai, burnt orange, the waves were one to three, the beach was nearly deserted, the color of water was a deep blue and the sky was purple and azure, low across the horizon, a deep rich color higher up. A golden plover skittered across the sand fifty feet away. I could hear the sound of surf, and the cars were dim in the distance. Paul Evans cleared his throat.

“Tell me about it,” I said, against my own wishes.

“Andy is missing,” Gus said.

“Andrew,” Mrs. Whitcomb said.

“Andrew is missing,” Gus said.

She said he had graduated college and moved to Maui for a year. He had always called every week. Every week. He was just beginning to find himself. Coming out of his chronic shyness. They were expecting that he would come home soon to start taking over the family business. When they hadn’t heard, they came over themselves. I could just see this skinny kid being browbeaten by his father and spoiled by this Kentucky belle, sentenced to a lifetime of being under their thumb.

“The Whitcombs suspect foul play,” Gus said.

“We want you to find him, bring him back,” Mrs. Whitcomb said. She touched her eye with the corner of a tissue. Paul Evans sucked in air as if he was going to growl, but he didn’t.

I couldn’t help myself.

“And what do you say, Mr. Whitcomb.”

He whirled toward me, his hand coming up, his finger pointed at my heart. I know I shifted my weight. I broke a man’s finger once who pointed his finger at me the way Whitcomb was about to do. It’s the one thing I couldn’t stand as a public servant. Having to smile and take it, take anything, smile, when people pushed you around, because you wanted that retirement. Well, I took it for 30 years. I smiled and I laughed and I got the retirement and I wouldn’t stand for it any longer. I could feel myself subconsciously flexing. Mrs. Whitcomb slipped her arm in his, and he half-carried her up coming at me. I drew back and was a half second from throwing a punch when Gus held up his hand and Whitcomb stopped. Gus shook his finger. I was amazed.

“You don’t want to do that,” Gus said to Whitcomb.

You could almost see steam coming off Whitcomb. I thought he was going to have a heart attack.

Missing?

I would say Andy had run away.

Gus and I walked a bit down the sand. It was dark. A few stars were out in the patches between the clouds. I could hear the cars over the surf as the tourists drove the beach toward Wailea. I took a deep breath of cool salt air and stuck my hands deep in my pockets. As soon as we were about 50 feet away, I looked back, and the Whitcombs were watching me. A few more steps and I heard him, his voice, piercing and broken by the breeze, “I told you…” Then the voice drifted away. It was curt, mean, and grating. It drifted back again, “Idiot,” Whitcomb said. I looked at Gus and my eyes said the same thing as the voice, how could you? What were you thinking?

“Ease off,” Gus said. “Be cool.” He held up his hands, palms toward me.

“Did you hear that?” I whispered. “Did you see?”

Gus strode out ahead of me and paused another 25 yards down the beach.

“You should have heard him when I first met him,” Gus said.

I shook my head. No, thanks.

“So, you figure I can handle him better than other people?” I said.

Gus got conspiratorially close to me. “No.”

“No?”

What kind of logic is that? So, why are we standing here. Let’s get to Lucy’s and have a beer. I looked at him, dumbfounded. Gus was dressed in long pants, a Polo shirt and Sperry’s. He danced up the beach to avoid getting his shoes wet. Gus is taller than the average Filipino.

“I figured I would handle him,” Gus said.

Oh.

“You notice he never said a thing to you? I arranged that. I figured you give me another 10 percent, and I’ll tell him he has to go through me to talk to you. That’s the deal. He doesn’t bother me. I’ve seen worse. Way worse. He doesn’t hit. He doesn’t spit. And if you tell him, hold up, back off, he does. No problem.”

I couldn’t believe it. It must be the con in him. He had the ability to ignore any part of you that he wanted. Like he was ignoring my reticence right then.

“What about Angela?”

“Angela’s a doll. You can handle Angela.”

“You know we’re not going to find this kid.”

Gus nodded.

“This kid is long gone. If it were me, I’d be. Man, you’d never find me.”

“But then this kid is not you.”

“Well, I doubt if we could find him.”

“I know.”

I’m an honest guy. I had told Gus enough times, missing persons are a problem. The world is a big place. If he’s an adult, which Andy obviously was, he had a right to be missing. No one can force you to stay home with mama. But given time, most runaways go home. Paying money to find most missing people is really throwing it away. The best I could do is check if anyone was looking for the kid. Or chasing him. Or whether he had a good reason to run away. Of course, I already knew that.

“I could write a report now.”

“So do it. It’s $800 to you, the minimum, just what you always say you want. Easy.”

It stopped me. He was right. But I could just feel the downside. I could see Paul Evans in my face every day for a week. I didn’t think for a minute Gus could keep him away. Was that worth $800?

“I’ll make it worth your while,” Gus said.

I looked at him closely. He was frowning, not smiling. A good sign.

“I’ll introduce you to a girl I just met.”

“Gus, Gus. That’s no deal. You always introduce me anyway.”

“This girl… this woman, you won’t believe her. She’s too good to be true. A true lady in red. Works in Wailea but an ice cream, Kihei kind of gal. Down to earth. Drives a pick-up.”

Frankly, already, he was getting me interested.

“And pretty too?”

“It goes without saying. Would I lie to you?”

“You lie at the drop of a hat.”

“I’ll won’t introduce you if you don’t do it. I swear.”

“What’s it to you?”

“I like them.”

I thought it was absurd. I know it showed. Some say I should have been in the silent movies. I have that kind of face. Expressive.

“They’re like the odd couple,” he said.

Not enough.

“I need the cash.”

“I’ll loan you the money.”

“I want to do it. I have a hunch about this. This is going to be a good case. Interesting. A lot of money.”

In a few of my cases, Gus has made more money than I. It’s because I give away a lot of my services, I’ve done a bit of work for local folk, pro bono, but he comes under the category of expenses. I can’t give away his time. Now he had me feeling guilty.

“Just go back, take the money, shake her hand.”

I shook my head.

“What about the boy? He could be lying in a hole somewhere needing your help. You would be the only guy to find him. The cops would put it in their to-do list.”

What can I say. Gus reads me like a book.

He smiled. “Go,” he said.

I did. Finally.

I went to Mrs. Whitcomb and I smiled. Grudgingly. I love Gus.

I got up at six, drank a power fruit smoothie with passion orange, apples, papaya, banana and soy protein that Evalina, the stairmaster fiend, my last significant other, no, she was my squeeze, but I never said so, had turned me on to, put on a pair of shorts, and went running. I took the car, it’s yellow, to Keawakapu Park because that’s where the fu fu side of the beach starts. From there, you can run on sand or paved walkways about two miles as the cockroach goes in and out past the big swank hotels all the way to the Kea Lani. I do this run as much for the beauty as for the exercise. I’ll tell you about it someday. What’s more, you can bet the bikinis at 6:30 in the morning are the healthy ones who weren’t in the bar till two. When I came back, I showered, shaved, sat on my lanai, plucked out a few tunes and got ready for work. I like to think of these few PI jobs that I take as work, and I try to approach them in the same disciplined manner I used when I was a cop.

All Gus had for me was the kid’s home address and his place of employment. I knew the bar. It was off the main drag in one of the last old wooden buildings with dark green plantation paint and white trim on Kanani Road called Kiawe Grill. The name fit the owner, one Peter Desdemoine, who was as rough as they came in Kihei. I had never figured out how he stayed in business, he was so gruff and unsociable. Mainly, he served the cheapest good, not the best, Hawaiian salt, blackened prime rib on Maui and catered to the local crowd, locking up the doors at 2 a.m. and letting only the approved inner group stay on. The tables were ratty, the chairs collected from better joints, as Pete liked to say, that had closed up before him, and he made only 60 pieces of prime rib a night at $16.95 a plate, first come first served. That’s a grand a day plus the booze. His sign was his only claim to fame. Located on a back road, his was the kind of down-home joint you’d feel good about finding in a neon, ticky tack kind of tourist trap town, it said: “Prime Rib $16.95 Only in Kihei, Only at Kiawe, Limited Supply.” Sometimes a line started at 6 p.m. Pete served at 7 p.m. sharp until it ran out. If you were seated and drinking at seven, you were considered in line. He could have made more, he could have served lunch or breakfast, but he said it was too much work.

I didn’t want to have Pete insult me so early in the morning, so I noted the time and tried the landlord first. Andy Whitcomb had lived in the older, hotter side of Kihei near the low-rise, classic Maui Lu, the first condo on the strip, in a small cottage in the back of an old house on Kenolio Road. It’s actually quite picturesque back there, but to locals it would be considered just plain and poor and a bit dirty. There was no yard. It was just all dry weeds and a gravel driveway with sparse shade under the thorny kiawe. I remembered what Mrs. Whitcomb had said and expected a big Hawaiian or a skinny, old Chinese man but instead it was a neat, white haired Portuguese gentleman that answered at the front house.

“Excuse me, my name is John Makākiu, and I’m a private investigator looking for Andrew Whitcomb. I wonder if you could help me.”

I’ve found even as a cop, that people liked being treated with courtesy and respect. Generally, I’ve known quite a number of very successful detectives who used charm to solve cases more than smarts or hardness.

“A private investigator?”

“Yes.”

I didn’t make a move to show any identification. It’s not like flashing a badge. All I have is laminated card. I carried a light green Steno’s notebook. I used to carry a reporter’s notebook that fit in the back of your pocket but people kept thinking I was a reporter. I find the Steno’s notebook disarming.

“Really?”

I waved the Steno notebook and gave him a big smile.

“And what would your name be?” I asked.

Most people have never met a private investigator before. This guy looked impressed. This was going to be easy, I thought. I gestured toward the inside of the house, and Mr. Souza, waved me in. We sat on old rattan furniture neatly covered with a pale lavender and pastel orange taro leaf pattern cushions that were quite modern looking. The outside of the house had been unpainted brown, weathered wood with traces of dark green on the steps. The inside was clean and painted a warm yellow with white trim. There was a koa case with pictures, keepsakes and what looked like a few Hawaiiana pieces, a stone pounder, a shark’s tooth mounted on a wooden plaque, a shell lei. Mrs. Souza, wearing an apron, stepped up to the doorway of the kitchen behind the living room. A hall, two bedrooms and a connecting bath were off to the side. I had seen this style of house many times. The floor was hardwood covered by a lauhala mat. I sat.

“Was Andrew Whitcomb a tenant here?”

“His father send you?”

Let’s get right to the point.

“Mr. Whitcomb?” I said. “Yes, I’m afraid. But his son was nice, yes?”

“Lot’s of pilikia this man.”

I knew we were dealing with a real local family probably with many generations in the islands. I considered dropping into pidgin myself, but no one ever mistakes me for anyone except a local. I just smiled instead.

“Mrs. Whitcomb tells me they owe you Andy’s rent?”

“Yes, I could have been nice, but he starts yelling right away. Frankly, it pissed me off. I told him, pay the rent. He says, tell me about Andy, I said pay rent. Mama chased him out with a broom.”

I looked over at mama and held up my hands like the cowboys do. I reached into my pocket and pulled out some money.

“I don’t have all his rent on me, but I’ll give you some as good faith.”

The landlord shook his head. He showed me out to the cottage. It was odd. There was a single stone statue sitting on the kitchen table. A head of a Buddha, actually, that looked real. This couldn’t be a clue? A real Buddha head like this, if it was real, was, I’m sure, worth a fortune. I walked around it. What would it be doing in a cottage on a backstreet in Kihei? There were clothes and empty hangars in the closet. The single room was neat. The bed was made. There was no ashtray with old cigarettes. The toilet was clean. There were a few pieces of clothing in a hamper. There were no pieces of paper, scraps, stubs that said where he had gone. I picked up the phone. It still had a dial tone. I looked at the head again. I shrugged. It was just sitting there. Aside from that, there were no clues as to Andy’s disappearance. I looked at Mr. Souza. He shrugged.

“Did Andy always have that here?”

He shook his head no. Actually, I realized he looked slightly chagrined.

“Is it real?”

“I have no idea,” he said.

I walked up to it and touched it. The stone was grayish and cold. It seemed to smirk.

“When did you first see it? Was it here when Andy was here?”

“No, actually, it was never here that I saw. But, you know, I never came into the house uninvited. I always called out first. And I would knock. Last week, I was just checking on Andy. He wouldn’t answer the door. It was here. It was the first time I saw it.”

Hmmm. I knew I should get it analyzed. Take pictures. But I wanted to write it off. What would a geeky kid be doing with an ancient Buddha head that belonged in a museum? No way. Any idiot can buy a fake Buddha head, I thought. They probably sell them in every curio shop on the strip. That would be easy to check out.

“When are you going to rent it out again.”

Mr. Souza shrugged.

“How far back is he?”

Souza held up one finger. A month.

“Where’s his car?”

Souza shrugged. It was late March. Andy would soon owe again for April. They didn’t know anything else. Andy had never brought a girl to the room with him. He never had parties. He paid on time. Early, in fact. He said, “Good morning, nice to see you, thank you.” He had been with them just over a year. They knew he worked at the Kiawe. They had eaten there when Andy was working. He got them an extra big serving. But they said his usual job was in the morning and afternoon doing all the prep and some of the paperwork. I left, I knew all I needed to know. Souza had been nice. If I were a fisherman, I would have promised him squid or something to say thank you. Since I’m the only Kihei PI, I left him my telephone number written on an ABC Store receipt and told to call me if I could ever do him a favor. Outside, I saw a big black Mercedes pull away. It looked out of place. I could feel my ears burn, one of those sixth sense things. But I looked around. There was nothing. Cool morning air. Blue skies. A smile from Mrs. Souza. It was hard to keep your street smarts sharp in Kihei.

So, just for kicks, because I am by nature responsible and straight shooting, I went to the Kiawe Grill.

“Peter,” I said, chipper like. He winced.

The Kiawe is about three miles from where Andrew lived. Desdemoine looked worse than his usual self. It was early in the day and he looked hung over. He was wearing a sweat stained knit undershirt, the kind that clings to your body, which in his case showed the massive girth of his belly. He had probably been a handsome man at one time, but years, pounds and abuse had given him I guess what some artists might call character. He was dark skinned and unshaven.

“Makākiu,” Peter answered, barely looking up.

I slid into the seat opposite him and gave him time to get used to my presence. He took his time.

“’s’too early for rib,” he said.

“Official business.”

He looked at me and a smirk slowly crept across his face.

“The old man hire you, huh?”

“You stonewalled him.”

“Bastard has no manners.”

“No reason not to be civil.”

“This guy can really get to you.”

“Just a few simple questions.”

“Look, I don’t have to explain myself to you.”

Desdemoine waved me away. I shifted the chair so it squeaked. It hurt him.

“Someday, we could be friends,” I said.

I could read his face. Not likely, it said.

The Kiawe was dark in the morning. It sat about thirty people and had a twenty foot oak bar with a brass foot rest. Desdemoine had decorated it with plastic fishing floats. High class restaurants spent some money and buy dark green, antique glass balls. Desdemoine had tried for the funky look and succeeded. He had an old redwood surfboard, a wooden Maine lobster trap, a fisherman’s anchor made from reinforcing rod, yellowed pictures of paniolos, a picture of a 12 foot tiger shark hoisted up by its tail. The floor was peeling linoleum of indeterminate color. The yellowed oak bar looked like a sparkling ruby lying in an ashtray full of butts. At night, you didn’t notice the bar so much, and the brightest thing in the room was Mapuana, his 40ish, slightly heavy but still sensual waitress. I guess that’s what kept him in business, Mapuana and the prime rib.

“Andy ever steal from you?”

It took Desdemoine by surprise. I took the lack of response to be no.

“He call in before he left?”

Desdemoine looked like he was trying to remember back. He didn’t seem unusually pissed off at the question, so I took that to mean maybe he was forewarned.

“You miss him?”

At this Desdemoine laughed.

“You know Makākiu, maybe someday you and me can be friends.” He laughed again. I could see why Paul Evans Whitcomb had trouble interviewing Desdemoine.

“He have a girl friend?”

“A what?”

“Girl. You know, wahine, squeeze, significant other.”

Desdemoine spit. On his own floor. That was too much for me. My daughter still did that. She was twenty five. It was one of the things I felt guilty for, teaching her that habit. I stopped when she was about ten, but she picked it up as soon as she hit her teens and has never let it go. I winced. I would guess that spitting means something like very strongly no, or perhaps just swear-word you. That response was not clear. I would normally have loved a name, another lead, to continue the investigation, but in some ways, this case already bored me. And frankly, it scared me too, because I did not think Gus could keep his word and keep Paul Evans out of my face. I still thought it would be an unhappy $800 to earn.

“What about a Buddha head,” I said. I know I said it doesn’t mean a thing, but I’m a good cop. I check out all the leads.

Desdemoine gave me one of those looks that punks give to cops.

“Look, Pete, give me a name. You’re my best contact on this thing. So far, you’ve seen him the most, know him the best of all the people I know. C’mon.”

I looked around. There was a tall, skinny, nervous kid in the back cleaning up. I looked at him hard, and he scurried away. The Budd sign was off but the lava lamp undulated a bright metallic orange.

“Look Makākiu that little rich kid never did me no favors. He did what he was told, I paid him. I didn’t do nothing to him. Didn’t hate him or nothing. No reason for me to do to him anything, you know, for you to suddenly ask about. So, don’t ask me no more questions. I don’t know nothing. He was nothing to me. I’d help you if I could. I know what they say about you. But I got nothing.”

Did you hear that? That sounded pretty simple. I got the first message. But it was interesting that he had brought out on his own that hate thing and the possibility of bodily harm. Did I hear that right? And what was that about people saying stuff about me. What do they say about me? I wished I could ask him to repeat that, but I think even in his sad state he might have tried to throw me out if I did. So, I left.

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.”