Tommi, in a foul mood, nevertheless devoted this new day to community service, planning for her last stop to be the Red Tiki. Among the low-key good deeds that she accomplished for the Japanese-American community was her post-war contribution collection campaign. With the help of her employees, she smartly placed large mason jars with slits cut in the tin tops in major tourist restaurants and assorted stores to collect funds, the hand scrawled labels saying “Help Our Brave Wounded Soldiers, sponsored by: Hawai’i Hospital Benevolent Association,” though this charitable fundraising organization did not exist. As expected, the generous and sympathetic public gave as they could not fully realizing that their dollar bills and loose change went towards carrying for Japanese wounded veterans. In fairness to both sides, funds were distributed through the soldiers’ parents, the needy being either those returning in shame to their Japanese homeland or the Nisei, second generation Japanese-Americans who served bravely in Italy in the all-Nisei 442nd Regimental Combat Team of the U.S. Armed Forces.
For example, Tommi was helping the Inouye family, living in Honolulu, who were awaiting the return of their son Daniel who having lost an arm in the Italian war zone, was still hospitalized abroad. Funds were being set aside to help him return to the University, the goal to find a new vocation since the boy was no longer able to become a surgeon as he once dreamed of being.
In another instance, a few donor dollars mingling with her own went quietly to the Hiroshima and Nagasaki Relief Organizations, designated to be spent open-ended for new patients, who suddenly were appearing at hospitals with a strange medical diagnosis just now coming to the attention of the world: radiation sickness. She knew little of the affliction, but felt for the victims suffering from this horrible invisible malady.
In today’s collection she counted $27.52 out of the glass jar at the Red Tiki, where she found that Sheftel’s dark mood matched her own. “What’s up?” She questioned, knowing she’d sooner than later hear the whole story.
“Received a letter. This restaurant owner Donn Beach is heading this way. Wants to visit with me. I know what he wants. Wants to buy me out and convert the Red Tiki to one of his stamped out Don the Beachcomber plastic tacky places. I’m not going to sell. But, if I don’t, then he’ll open up a copycat place and drive me out of business.”
“It can’t be as dismal as that?”
“I could fight him, but how? And with what? With mygood luck totem sailing away to its doom, and like the statue I’m gonna be sunk.”
Tommi couldn’t give him comfort as the obvious seemed apparent, one large statue over the horizon gone for good.
“But business, by the on-sheet bookkeeping, looks great.” Tommi knew Lyle skimmed a little from the till for his rainyday fund. She could make the books balance and he praised her accounting work. Besides, being part of the scene at theRed Tiki was like being center point at the largest switchboard in the Pacifi c, the perfect listening post to all types of intelligence that she would sift and separate and turn to her advantage – as long as she kept her nemesis, Hunter Hopewell, in liquid ineffectiveness.
“Hi, guys, beautiful day.” Tiki Shark greeted them with a grin, his blue bird of happiness warbling.
“Who says so?” Sheftel barked.
“Sold my drawing, the one with the two giant monsters fighting.
$10 bucks.” Believing good fortune deserves feeding the mouth of the dragon, he dropped fifty cents into Tommi’s wounded soldier gifting jar. She thanked him on behalf of all wounded soldiers.
Sheftel wasn’t giving up trying to gather everyone nearby under his storm cloud.
“And who was crazy enough to buy it? You can’t put that dragon scrawling up in your living room.”
Tiki Shark could only see the world as his for the taking.
“Some soldier in the Signal Corps. Said he had a buddy in the Signal Corps who drew comic strips back in New York City. He’s going to send it to him.” Tiki Shark went rooting in his pants pocket for a torn piece of paper. ‘The artist in New York -name is Stanley Lee.’ The soldier who bought it told me I should send him some of my drawings, maybe the comic guy might buy more. Comics! Who would have thought?”
Sheftel’s opinions today came narrow and closed minded to his black mood. “Comics? They’re only good for a newspaper, and only on Sunday. No future in comics.”
“Good for you, Tiki,” said Tommi, who saw her bad karma fading. She could never stay mad; maybe to get even, but ingrained anger did not suit her temperament. “We all need something good to happen to us.”
“Well, it looks like ‘very good’ happened to him,” said the young artist, pointing at Hunter Hopewell, who was just then entering the bar.
Even Sheftel edged a smile to his face.
“Of all things I can spot, is a guy who got lucky.”
Tommi’s mood again went sour.
Hunter approached. Although there was no longer a bulge in his trousers, his gait was still strange and stiff . She tried to define his look of—what? Satisfaction by exhaustion, Tommi considered, but no, not with his creased frown?
To the three of them sitting there, Hunter Hopewell said without prologue, “I’m going after the Red Tiki.” He spoke in a voice strange to them, rumbling deep with purpose. Fixing his eyes on Tommi, all serious in expression, his back straighter than usual, he added, “And I am going to need your help.”