Halloween, 1946
A perfect night, a blood red full moon scraped by finger nail silvery clouds, an apt celestial tapestry for the dedication of a grotesque looking, unworldly creature.
J. Chen Shippers and Forwarders delivered the crate and installed the statue, secured with a bath of cement on a surrounding new pedestal which had been anchored into the ground. Only an atomic bomb could move the thing, said Red Tiki Lounge and Bar owner, Lyle Sheftel, which brought awkward laughter from his friends, and they were good friends, since they had gone after the statue and returned with a bigger and uglier one.
Whether it would bring the Red Tiki Lounge good luck only time would tell, or rather this night, since Lyle was going to go high card wins all against Donn Beach, who was in town. The bet, if Lyle won, meant the West Coast restaurant owner would postpone opening one of his Don The Beachcomber restaurants in Honolulu for two years. To his bookkeeper’s ears only did Lyle reveal he had learned, going back as far as his Chicago grade school days, how to fast-shuffl e and cut cards. All fair in love and pupus.
Still, Lyle told Tommi, “Not that I am giving anyone notice.
There’s time. If I win, it will be at least two years before I have to decide to fight the new kid on the block or close up shop and take my banked profits”—he winked at her—“and try something new. I’ve got old friends who are talking about opening a class joint, maybe with a few slot machines. I hear it’s near the California border, in Nevada, where they’ve had open gambling for ten years. Dusty village called Las Vegas. My friends have named their hang-out the Flamingo Inn and Casino. Funny name: a water bird in the middle of the desert. Might look into a future there. Maybe open a tiki motel with a restaurant and bar. Maybe a show lounge. Maybe burlesque. Let’s talk about a possibility like that over the next year.” Tommi agreed to run some number scenarios.
On All Hallows’ Eve, The Red Tiki Lounge had a rip-roaringcrowd gallivanting, most patrons in costumes. The theme,creatures from old monster movies, suggested by Tiki Shark, the ever entrepreneur, who just happened to have set up a palm thatched booth outside the Red Tiki where he would be seated, ready for quick ink portraitures of Lounge party-goers, inserting their faces into stand-up pre-printed monster movie lobby cards.
Tiki was giddy. He had received a short letter from Ishiro
Honda of Toho Studios, in blocky English, about wanting to see his drawings; could he sketch a manga drawing of a Gojira in skyscraper size, tromping through downtown Honolulu, or
better yet, for his planned audience, Tokyo? Ish would consider any other ideas that Tiki might create from his fertile imagination. Reliving adventures in his mind, he thought to reconstruct an invulnerable man who became hard as a rock whenever he got angry. He had sent off one sketch to that comic book contact in New York City but had heard nothing back. No matter. Things were looking positive. Maybe new adventures would bring new art ideas, so he planned to stick close to Hunter Hopewell and his girlfriend, Tommi. Yes, thought Tiki, I will volunteer, but not at the front lines, to serve in any battle group Hunter forms. Did they decide on a name yet? The Five or Six Samurai, yes, could be a catchy name. But not the one Hunter liked—‘United Nations Fighters’. Drabsville.
While waiting for his next client to receive a Tiki Shark face, he stared at a blank sketching page, hoping for a muse of inspiration to land, smoking some good pakalolo stuff , allowing his mind to float, waving off a large moth attracted by the spotlights centered on the fabric covered tiki, soon to be unveiled, the cover cloth provided by J. Chen Fabrics.
Near his side, his tethered goat, ‘Bikini’, nibbled on Maui sativa hay.
Tiki Shark started sketching the fluttering moth, exaggerating its size, drawing it flying above a city…Doing what?...perhaps off to fight Gojira.
Tommi, filled with mixed feelings, didn’t feel ready to sort them out. One she would be facing soon: though she did not consider herself a ‘girlfriend,’ she knew she was in love, and experienced any long absence from Hunter’s side to be heartache. She was proud of him, his self-confidence strong since his detective income out of Hopewell Investigations had risen into profitable black ink. No wealthy clients, but enough walk-ins. He handled bad account collections Tommi passed onto him, and did the odd process service from Sheriff Duke K’s office. A reputation had gone out that Hunter was good at solving domestic abuse cases in favor of any battered wife; his intolerance of aggressive husbands, convinced them to tone down the violence, beg forgiveness. Well, and letting a little of his anger drip, and puff up his arms and chest, resulting in a broken jaw or a fist through a door were powerful persuaders.
Tommi wondered, Does that vocation of wanting to protect women indirectly suggest Hunter’s concern for my welfare? Am I being too self-centered, seeing him as a protective knight, my knight? Of course, to her concern was the fear of what lay ahead, for Tiki had sketched Hunter as some sort of paniolo-samurai warrior, an island cowboy with a sword.
She had been in the Red Tiki earlier in the day, finding it a better field office than her bookkeeping storefront as a place to hold meetings. She saw a friend, a client.
“How did your California surfing trip go?”
“I think the West Coast is going to explode with enthusiasts,” said Duke K, showing her a packet of color photos several fans had taken. “Wish I was twenty years younger. You know some are using smaller boards, sharper for turning. Tried my skill at under wave runs they call ‘a pipeline’.”
“How did the water suit fare?”
“Strong possibilities. Make me a new one. I left mine with two brothers back in California, Manhattan Beach. They may send you an order. They have some ideas for improvements.”
“My pleasure. With J. Chen Fabrics, business is booming.”
Duke K. had always liked Tommi’s hutzpah, her sharpness and was pleased to notice her somber sharp-pencil all-business persona had abated, or at least been toned down. Was it caused by this relationship with the owner of Hopewell Investigations? He could work with both of them, but being in law enforcement, sometimes his mind drifted to unfounded suspicions.
“You know, I heard you took over the business of Baran Furniture. Did he sell out?”
“No, more like a fi re-sale. You knew the courts had to step in when he disappeared?” Her face remained neutral, a cool demeanor, as if merely responding to a general conversation.
“You know where he went off to?”
“No idea. I just stepped in, covered past due employee salaries, and got a great deal on assets, pennies on the dollar. Couldn’t pass it up.”
“What are you going to do with it?”
“Well, after some late-night brainstorming here at the Red
Tiki, I decided there seems to be a big interest in everything ‘Polynesian’, from all the servicemen returning home. The market for Asian swords has fallen off precipitously. Baran-Jingu Furniture is starting to crank out what I’m calling the tiki den look. Rattan furniture, palm thatch rumpus room bars, that sort of stuff .”
She turned to Lyle, who was in the process of jamming the bar with extra bottles of liquor for the Halloween festivities.
“Hey, Lyle, show him your new tiki barware.”
Lyle, dressed as Bela Lugosi, even with fake plastic teeth, proudly displayed glazed mugs with tiki faces.
“Maitais will be half off tonight!” Lyle half-choked on his own generosity. “And a new drink: The Island Clipper.”*
“Tiki Shark did the mug designs,” Tommi beamed proud about her new consulting client, “He gets a royalty on every dozen sold. The way I think they’ll go out of the stores when shipped mainland, you could have one rich hepster on the Honolulu streets very soon.”
“Civilization,” mused Duke K., as he rose to take leave, “must take heedful warning of Tiki Sharks.” To Tommi he bid a farewell with, “See you tonight. And may the island gods bring you and yours peace.”
“Tonight yes, see you then; gods and peace I don’t know about.” She was thinking of the early evening meeting she and Hunter were to have with Pele, whom they had not seen since the Brawl on Mauna Kea.
She went upstairs to the plain rooms of the Hopewell
Investigations agency, to freshen up for the party and dedication tonight…and shut down the office early. She took in the destitute looking setting. One of these days, I must start the subtle hints at finding… joint housing. Am I dreaming to wish for a bungalow on the beach…for both of us?
“We’re doing what?” asked Hunter, exasperated, looking up from office paperwork that he always sought to postpone, but bills had to be paid. He bet Sam Spade never had to deal with accounts owing.
“You need relaxation methods to keep your anger down.”
“You already have me running the beach every day, lifting weights, and doing that, what again---?”
“Daitō-ryū aiki-jūjitsu.”
“And now, I’m training in this new style--?”
“Taekwon-Do.”
“Those leg kicking exercises are stretching my legs past their breaking point. Probably someday I’ll be able to wrap my feet behind my head.”
“Yes, you might, but before we go meet up with your ex-girlfriend, let me show you how I can do my own feet-head gymnastics.” And she locked the office door.
Even in the midst of party prep in the Red Tiki Lounge, only to the initiated, Lyle Sheftel particularly, could one define the rhythmic bumping noises upstairs. Smiling, he began to mix:
*The Island Clipper
2 ounces Calvados or other apple brandy (applejack)
1/2 ounce fresh lime juice
3 dashes of absinthe
1/2 ounce pomegranate grenadine
Shake with cracked ice. Strain into cocktail glass.
Thin strip of lime zest for garnish.