CHAPTER 23

“Where are we going today?” Josh says. “Back to Tommy Lambada?”

“Tommy Bahama,” I tell him as I accelerate onto H-1 West. “But no, not today. Today I have something special planned.”

I’ve thought a lot about the kid these past few days and I’ve come to a decision. There’s no reason at all that Josh shouldn’t get to know his father, even if his father doesn’t fancy playing a parental role in the boy’s life. I don’t know how long the kid will be in the islands. Great-aunt Naomi’s prognosis, I’m told, is terminal. Eventually, another family member will have to step in or Josh will be placed in a foster home. Either way, I’d say that Josh is most likely headed back to the mainland in the months to come. Twenty or thirty years down the road, I suspect both Josh and his father will regret not having had the opportunity to spend some time together, to get to know each other, for however briefly, as father and son.

When I pull into King Kam Auto in Waipahu, Josh is asleep, so I nudge him. “We’re here, kid. Rise and shine.”

Josh groggily lifts his head, then makes a face reserved for broccoli as he scans the garage. “I thought we were going to Hawaiian Waters Adventure Park.”

“Not today.” I help the kid off with his seat belt. “I have to drop my Jeep off to be painted and pick up a rental car across the street. Let’s go.”

Justell is seated behind her desk browsing a copy of People when we enter the office. When I clear my throat, she looks up and offers a smile. Then she looks down at the kid and her dark eyes widen. “That Mongoose’s boy?”

I nod. Mongoose’s legal name is Sebastian Haslett, and from the few accounts Flan and I collected over the weekend, not at all a bad guy.

“That’s right,” I say. “Thought I’d bring Josh along when I brought in my Jeep, maybe get the two of them a bit reacquainted.”

Justell closes her magazine and makes googly eyes at the kid, but tells us Mongoose went out to lunch and isn’t expected back the rest of the day. I sigh. There goes my plan to park myself at the bar at Chili’s, while Josh and Sebastian enjoy a family reunion with some cheese fries and baby back ribs.

Justell picks up the phone and summons Sebastian’s second in command, a young guy named Dominic, who appears in the office before Justell even hangs up the receiver.

“Can I do for ya?” He spits his words out so fast even a New Yorker like myself is briefly taken aback.

As I tell him about the Jeep and Sebastian’s estimate, Dominic scratches his left ear and shoots a look at the kid, throwing him an uncomfortable smile. No question as to why this guy isn’t at lunch—he’s a hair over my six feet yet probably weighs a buck-twenty soaking wet. Food doesn’t seem to be high on his list of priorities. When Justell hands him the paperwork I filled out last week, his fingers tremble so badly the papers sound as though they’re being taken by the wind—although there is no wind, not so much as a breeze, I’m convinced, on the entire island of Oahu today. I’m dripping with sweat and cussing in my head Parker Canton, the ass-clown who calls himself a weatherman on one of the local stations. For some reason, Parker Canton thinks this killer heat is funny.

“We can do that, we can do that,” Dominic says, before launching into the process that Sebastian’s already explained.

Without hearing him speak a word, I could’ve told you Skinny Dom’s problem. Before I took on Erin’s case, I saw at least one of these guys in my office every week. I like small-time crystal meth cases, because the money’s quick and easy and I generally don’t have to worry about my client doing time. Just a stint in rehab. Stay clean for a year and he or she is fine. Sure, that’s exactly what we have here: dilated pupils, stretching across one blue iris and one brown; grinding teeth; impaired speech; jerky movements. No question, Skinny Dom likes his ice. Judging from his complexion and sunken cheeks, I’d say he’s been on the quartz for quite some time.

A momentary pause to catch his breath, then Dom’s on the dog track again, chasing the rabbit. “So, just leave the Jeep keys with Justell and make sure you grab any and all personal possessions, since we’re not responsible for those, then head over to our friends across the street, fill out a little more paperwork, and they’ll give you the keys to a nice, new rental, whatever you like, for example another Wrangler or they’ve got Mustang convertibles, nicey nice, Hummers and other SUVs—who doesn’t like a Hummer, right?—or you can go with something a little less conventional like a Mini Cooper or a Miata—then again, you’re not a chick, right?—or maybe something that might be fun to drive around the island, like say a dune buggy or a Harley or a hovercraft, am I right?”

As I hand the keys to the Jeep to Justell, Skinny Dom’s still behind me talking in my ear. He keeps going even as I thank him, as I give him the shaka so not to shake hands, even as I escort the kid by his nose-picking paw across the parking lot in the direction of the rental car agency.

Skinny Dom finally stops at the edge of King Kam Auto’s property, as though there were an invisible barrier he can’t cross. I’ll have to remember that.

“What’s wrong with that guy?” Josh says once we’re out of the icehead’s earshot.

I glance at the kid and shrug. “Too many yellow jellybeans, I guess.”