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PAT’S BANGED-UP 1979 Honda Prelude was parked on the curb outside the dilapidated wooden storefront of the Pair-O-Dice Bar and Grill. The car used to be bronze, but the sun had bleached the horizontal surfaces to chalky white. Pat hadn’t bothered to remove the stickers applied by a previous owner: “FBI-From Big Island” on the driver’s side door; “Hawaiian Force” on the taillight; and a cursive “In Loving Memory of Aunty Rose Kahananui” across the tinted back window.
The hood of Pat’s car was barely warm, meaning Pat had probably been sitting inside the Pair-O-Dice for a while. I didn’t think I was that late. Maybe a half hour, tops. I hoped Emma was already there. Pat gets grumpy when he has to wait by himself.
I stepped from the bright sidewalk into the dim interior of the Pair-O-Dice and waited for my eyes to adjust. It felt a little cooler inside, thanks to a lone wobbling fan beating the humid air. I saw Pat seated at a wooden table in the corner with a half-finished basket of plastic-cheese nachos in front of him. He was perusing a copy of the County Courier and drinking a cup of what I guessed was the Pair-O-Dice’s dismal bar coffee. I went up to the bar, ordered a scotch and soda and fries, and joined Pat.
The bartender would have no trouble finding me when my order was ready. Pat and I were the only customers.
“You know,” I said as I sat down, “at some point you’re going to cross paths with someone who actually knew Aunty Rose Kahananui. What are you going to say to them?”
Pat barely glanced up from the newspaper, shrugged, and returned to his reading.
“Checking out your competition?”
“Uh huh.”
I looked around the desolate bar.
“How on earth does this place stay in business?” I tested the wobbly table.
“I dunno,” he said. “If they’re a front for a gambling operation, you’d think they’d pick a less obvious name than the Pair-O-Dice.”
“So how is your Kathy Banks story coming?”
Pat set down the newspaper and turned his attention to me.
“I’ll tell you how it’s going, Molly. Kathy Banks is a non-person. That 911 call I made? Recorded as a false alarm. No record of the ambulance, even though you and I both saw the paramedics put Kathy into it and drive away. The police don’t have anything on her at all because no one reported a missing person or a murder.”
“The hospital must have something,” I said. “There’s only one emergency room—”
“And patient records are private,” Pat interrupted. “They claim they can’t tell me anything, not even whether Kathy was admitted.”
“Well, that sounds frustrating.”
“And another thing. Kathy Banks is a perfect name to have if you don’t want people finding you online. Do you know how many people out there are named Kathy Banks?”
“You think it’s a fake name?” I asked. “Maybe she had to change her identity for some reason?”
“She seem like a Mafia wife to you?”
“No, you’re right,” I said. “She lacked the gentle refinement. Pat, maybe the reason you’re not finding anything is there’s nothing to find. Kathy Banks was an average person with a common name, and she died of natural causes.”
“So where’s her family?” Pat demanded. “Her friends?”
“Maybe she alienated them all. Hey, I did see your story about our going up in the rankings, though. Great news for us, huh? It almost seems too good to be true.”
“I know,” he said. “Our graduates’ employment rates and salaries are up? I almost can’t believe it. Alumni donations are up too.”
“I wonder who these graduates are who are doing so well in this economy. I mean, of course I’m happy to hear about it, but I sure haven’t met any of them myself. Remember Micah, my student? Got his degree and the only job he can find is working in the library?”
“Yeah, and no one will put me in touch with any of these supposed high paid alumni,” Pat said. “I saw the numbers, but it doesn’t add up with what I’ve seen. I’m still digging. Hey, did you see Bob Wilson’s letter to the editor?”
“Oh, Bob from the history department?” I said. “No, but I can imagine. In Island Confidential or the County Courier?”
“He sent it to both—”
The bartender, who looked too young to be serving alcohol, brought my drink and fries. When he had gone back behind the bar, I took a sip and started to sputter and cough. Pat reached across the table and pounded my back with his giant hand. That never helps, by the way.
“Molly, what’s wrong? Are you okay?” His concerned expression gave way to laughter. “That bad?”
I grabbed a napkin from the dispenser and patted my mouth. “I don’t know what this is. It isn’t what I ordered.” I took my drink and marched back up to the bar.
I returned to the table with my fresh drink.
“So what was the problem?” Pat asked.
“He made my scotch and soda with actual soda.”
“So? Why didn’t you drink it?”
“Because first of all, ew, and second, soda in this country is all made with high fructose corn syrup now. That stuff is murder on your liver.”
“So what did you get?”
“Bourbon straight. I didn't want him to get confused again. Anyway, Bob Wilson’s letter to the editor?”
“Oh yeah. You heard about the group of for-profit colleges that’s getting sued?”
“Oh. I might’ve heard about it. Something about how they did their recruiting?”
“Among other things. The recruiters were paid based on how many students they could sign up. Then after they had ‘em on the hook, they’d get ‘em to take out loans with a group of financial institutions that they had some kind of relationship with. The students didn’t understand what they’d signed, and after they flunked out, they didn’t realize they were obliged to pay back the loans.”
“How awful.” I felt a pang of sympathy. How many times had I checked I have read and agree to the terms of the agreement, without actually having read, much less agreed? I could’ve signed away my house for all I knew. “So what did Bob have to say?”
Pat picked up the County Courier and read:
“Are we any better? Our departments are funded based on how many students we can attract, retain, and graduate.”
“Well, he’s not wrong about that.”
Pat lowered the paper. “It gets better.” He picked up the County Courier and continued reading. “The university can’t attract enough qualified students to meet our headcount goals, so we lower our standards. We spin students’ lack of preparedness into a virtue by invoking Access, and we reframe failure to learn as Diverse Ways of Knowing. And all the while, we’re raking in their financial aid dollars.”
“Whoa. What possessed Bob to put all this in writing?”
“Bob’s in the history department,” Pat said. “He probably feels like he has nothing to lose. Oh, here’s Emma. And she brought company.”