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Ben made his way back up to Ho’s Palace under a dark, threatening sky. When he reached the front door, he found it unlocked and caught by the rising wind, banging back and forth in its frame. Ben entered the gloomy reception and forced it shut behind him, squeezing out the whistling, protesting gusts. The hall light snapped on to reveal Mr. Ho staring sternly at him over the top of his reading glasses. Ben noticed a tumbler of whiskey in Ho’s hand and the man’s glassy eyes, and quickly realised he was drunk.
“It’s getting pretty nasty out there again,” said Ben.
“Welcome to our world,” said Ho. He rattled the ice in his empty glass. “Tempt you to a drink?”
“Thanks, but it’s a bit early.”
“Just a quick one.”
Ho moved closer and gave him a conspiratorial wink.
“It’d be just as well to let her cool off for a bit.”
“Sorry?”
“I know that expression,” said Ho. “You’ve got woman troubles. Come on.”
Ben looked up the empty staircase, and then back at Ho, wondering if Jo had already returned to the hotel ahead of him, perhaps cursing or crying, or maybe both. He felt his face redden with embarrassment and nodded to Ho. He followed the older man back to the lounge behind the reception area, where Ho poured out two very generous measures of whiskey. Ben moved to sit on the couch, but Ho shook his head and motioned for him to follow again. Ho picked up the bottle and they walked through a large, clean, but dated yellow and white kitchen, and then along another chintzy passageway, half-lit by a row of small, ornate wall lamps.
“Every man should have a den,” said Ho. “Especially when he’s in the doghouse.”
Ho pushed open a door at the end of the passage to reveal a roomy old study. This dark, serious chamber was a sharp contrast to the rest of the hotel, with rows and rows of mahogany shelving crammed with aging books, and paintings and framed photos hung on the walls. Hawaiian artifacts and stacks of files cluttered every surface, even the floor, giving the impression of either compulsive hoarding, or a major scholarly work in progress. Ho navigated around a desk and several tall stacks of floor-bound paperwork to find a high-backed leather chair. Ben followed him and took a second, less impressive chair across the desk from him.
“You a writer?” asked Ben.
“A scholar,” said Ho.
Ben made sure he nodded, even if he didn’t quite understand what that meant in Ho’s case.
“You and Jo,” said Ho. “Is it the real thing?”
“Come again.”
“Is she the one?”
Ben hesitated for a minute, taken back by the question.
“Angie and I might look like a strange match,” said Ho. “But I knew it was going to be her from the first time we ever met. There was never a doubt in my mind.”
“That’s good,” said Ben.
“It’s more than just good,” said Ho. “It’s the way it’s got to be.”
The two men drank their whiskies and Ben’s eyes broke away and roamed across the spines of the various volumes filling the shelves. They then lifted and settled on a magnificent, ornately framed painting on the wall and grew wide with awe. It was a romantic depiction of a muscular Hawaiian brave wrestling in water against a thrashing tiger shark almost double his size. Man and shark appeared to be pitted against each other in a darkened underground cave that had been carved out and flooded to form a sunken, gladiatorial arena.
A low rumble of thunder grumbled from the skies above them, making Ben tense up.
“Jesus,” he said.
“You like it?” said Ho.
“Like’s maybe the wrong word. What is it?”
“Ancient tradition. Where I come from man always strived for harmony with the sea. If that harmony was lost, man would have to appease the king of the sea, show him there should be mutual respect.”
“A sacrifice?”
“Not exactly.”
Ho rose and walked over to one of the bookcases. He stretched up and pulled a glass case down from the top shelf, then returned, holding it up for Ben to see. Inside was a large single shark’s tooth, mounted on the end of a short wooden handle to form some sort of ancient weapon.
Ben stared at it in disbelief.
“You might say it was similar to a bull fight,” said Ho. “Except the gladiator had only one hope. To hold his nerve until the final moment of the tiger’s charge. He would then have to dive beneath the great fish and gut it in that single pass. Otherwise he would almost certainly be ripped to pieces.”
Ho put the glass case down on the desk between them and sat back down. Ben stared at it, and then up at the painting again. The warrior there wielded a similar token weapon against the shark’s gaping jaws of dagger-like teeth. There was another rumble of thunder overhead.
“I can’t imagine they had many volunteers,” said Ben.
“They were different times,” said Ho. “Men went to extraordinary lengths to feed and protect their loved ones every day.”
Ho downed his whiskey. He sighed and poured himself another large one.
“You OK?” said Ben.
Ho seemed to be dazed, introspective, as if he'd forgotten Ben’s presence for a moment. Ho slowly looked up at him with a sad, almost lost expression. An oppressive silence descended over the room, and it was while before either of them spoke again.
“I don’t suppose you want to buy a hotel, do you?” said Ho, eventually. “I'll give you a good price.”
Ho began to chuckle to himself, so much that he started to tremble. Ben watched, feeling more and more uncomfortable, sure that the other man was about to burst into tears.
“I should go,” he said. “Thanks for the drink.”
Ben stood up and limped out, unable to look Ho in the eye. He left the hotel and wandered out to the cliff edge. There, he stood and smoked and watched the black storm clouds gathering over the sea, as he wondered what he could say to appease Jo.
*
It was dark when Ben finally returned to their room. He slowly opened the door and peeked inside, wary of the reception he might get. Jo was already in bed, but she was fully dressed and reading by lamp light. Their gear lay in the centre of the room, packed and ready to go. He stared at it and felt dread thicken in the pit of his stomach. He approached Jo, his mind racing to find the right words he'd need to make her stay.
“Look,” he said. “I’m sorry about earlier.”
Jo glared at him.
“I...I was...”
Jo's eyes widened and she slowly raised her index finger to her lips. Ben's brow creased in confusion. She held his stare and silently rose from the bed, then crept over to the wall opposite. She motioned for him to join her and then pointed to an area of it at roughly head height. Ben leant in and examined the busily patterned wallpaper. There, set amongst the flying cupids and hearts, was a peephole drilled into the wall. The couple stared at it and then at each other for a long time, as the meaning of this slowly sank in.
*
Angie Ho stood out on the porch, silhouetted by the light spilling from the hotel reception behind her. She watched Ben and Jo shoulder their packs and head out into the night and the driving rain. Thunder rumbled somewhere above them in the blackness.
“Are you sure you don’t want to stay tonight?” she called. “You’re all paid up.”
Ben raised his hand without looking back and waved away the idea. Henry Ho watched them leave with cold fascination from an upstairs window. His hard stare tracked them as they slogged towards town through the torrential downpour.
Ben and Jo were both soaked to the skin within seconds of leaving the hotel. They didn’t hurry, resigning themselves to the weather, but in silent agreement that it was a small price to pay to be out of the suddenly creepy hotel. They trudged down Sweetwater’s high street, as the driving rain sparkled beneath the few remaining patches of lamp light. The only sign of life around was distorted jazz music blaring out of the doorway of The Black Cat saloon.
“I can’t believe I felt sorry for that dirty old bastard,” said Ben. “Do you think he was watching us last night?”
Jo kept walking. She didn’t even look in Ben’s direction.
“You’re still not talking to me then?” he said.
Jo remained silent, focused solely on the way ahead.
“I’ll take that as a no then.”