CHAPTER 17

When I come to, Koa is standing over me, holding a dirty bar rag packed with ice.

“Here,” he says, trying to place it on my left eye.

I push his hand away, wave him off. “Put those cubes in a glassful of Glenlivet and bring it back stat.”

Koa backs off a bit and points to my midsection. “First you’re gonna have to put that away. This is a family place.”

I lower my chin to confirm I’m still hanging out of my fly, then tuck myself back in.

“What the hell happened?” I say.

“If I had to take one guess, I’d say someone kicked your haole ass.”

“Thanks,” I tell him as I extend my right arm so that he can help me up. The question is, why did someone kick my haole ass? As I steady myself on my own two feet, holding onto the sink, my alcohol-soaked mind searches for the answer.

I turn and stare into the smashed mirror above the sink, examining the telltale signs around my mouth. It’s as good an excuse as any. “I think maybe I ate that guy’s Buffalo wings.”

I’m standing in front of the sink washing off the blood and Buffalo sauce when Koa asks if I need help getting home. “I can call you a cab, Kev.”

I glance at my watch. “Maybe in a few hours,” I tell him. “For now, just snag me a seat at the bar.”

“No worries. Your Panama Jack is still on the barstool, saving your place.”

*   *   *

From my seat at Kanaloa’s, I gaze up at the Kupulupulu Beach Resort and flash on the night of the fire. Before that blaze, everything seemed to be going so well; I had not a worry in the world. A cougar, a kid, a client, and an ass-kicking later, and it seems as though my entire life is about to cave in. Jake’s all but ready to bail on our partnership, and I can’t say I blame him. I placed us in a precarious financial position, and I still can’t really explain why. And suddenly I have a young, arrogant prosecutor gunning for me. Might be best for everyone involved if Maddox wins his motion to have me relieved as Erin’s counsel. Problem is, I don’t like to lose. And I sure as shit don’t like to lie down in the middle of a fight.

Well, in a physical fight, sure. But in a legal battle? Not my style.

Suzie sets a mai tai in front of me but I don’t complain. The rum feels good going down, washing away the tangy blend of blood and Buffalo wings.

My left eye is sore; I feel it puffing up, so I ask Suzie for some ice. Fortunately, the sun is setting, the sky already a brilliant purple-red. Soon night will disguise my injuries and I’ll be a new man again.

As the sky fades to black, Koa lights the tiki torches and Kanaloa’s begins to overflow with tourists, most of them from the neighboring resort. A local band takes the small stage and soon we’re somewhere over the rainbow again.

While Koa mixes tropical cocktails, the two of us begin bullshitting, just as we did before the fire. He asks me about the kid, and I tell him the whole story, how I reluctantly made a new best friend.

“That’s a nice thing you’re doing,” Koa says, sliding a fresh mai tai in front of me. “This one’s on the house.”

I add, “I took in a stray cat last year, too, you know.”

But Koa’s attention has turned to the gate. Slinking through the entrance in a tight black dress is maybe the sexiest young woman I’ve ever seen, drunk or sober. She’s followed by a motley entourage, and it strikes me that she’s probably a celebrity.

“Who’s that?” I ask Koa.

“That, Kevin, is Miss Hawaii.”

I take a long, hard pull off my mai tai, then say, “I like her name.”

*   *   *

Forty-five minutes later, Miss Hawaii and I are seated at the far end of the bar away from the stage.

“So, Miss Hawaii…” I say.

“You don’t have to call me Miss Hawaii.” Her smile lights up the night. “Call me Kerry, I told you. C’mon, you can remember that. Otherwise, it’s Miss Naikelekele. Take your pick. But no more Miss Hawaii, all right?”

She’s half native Hawaiian, she tells me, her father a Caucasian film director from Los Angeles. Whatever the blend, it’s intoxicating, and tonight she’s dressed to the nines, her long straight jet-black hair shimmering, the fire from the tiki torches dancing in her wide Polynesian eyes.

“So what do you do?” she says between sips of her Blue Hawaiian.

Before I can answer, Koa cuts in. “Kevin here is a big-time lawyer,” he says, leaning over the bar. “Criminal defense.” As though it’s a mere afterthought, Koa picks up the remote and changes the channel on the flat screen behind the bar. KGMB News: Hawaii Now.

Luckily, with the band playing, the television is on mute, because sure enough, there it is, footage of me heading down the courthouse steps with my client on the day bail was set. Then I read the bright blue banner at the bottom of the screen: CORVELLI DEFENDS SUSPECTED KO OLINA FIRESTARTER.

Kerry gazes from the screen to the vast resort that’s still operating, its Liholiho Tower without a top. “The fire here?” she says. “You’re representing the woman accused of starting it?”

I bow my head once, waiting for Miss Hawaii’s reaction, a lump forming at the top of my throat.

“That’s so fucking cool,” she says finally.

I breathe a deep sigh of relief. “Koa,” I say, “one more round.”

Two minutes later Koa sets the drinks in front of us and recites my favorite phrase after not guilty: “On the house.”