WE WENT OUT the door. I had my hand around her shoulders and my face turned and buried in her hair. Cars were poking their way through the narrow, crowded street, but I heard no sudden banging of doors, which was what I expected to hear if the two cops got off their asses in a hurry. For all I knew they could have been doing anything.
“You feeling better now, honey?” the hooker said, shifting her weight to give me more support. “All you guys drink too much. You think you’ll be able to love me like I want to be loved?”
Ah, the language of romance!
“Don’t want a short time,” I mumbled. “Want a real long time. All night.”
There was a crack in the sidewalk and I stumbled over it. Bless her little heart, she did her best to keep me from falling.
“You got the money for that long, dear?” she wanted to know.
“Got plenty of money, darling. Money for a whole week with you. I think you’re cute.”
I began to straighten up a little. It would be a pisser if the two dicks were walking right behind us with big grins on their faces. No way to check because we hadn’t gone that much distance. We passed bar after bar, with rock music pumping out of all of them.
“I think you’re cute too,” the hooker said. “Try to get with it, willya. There may be MP’s hanging around.”
That was a thought and so I left off the drunk act and walked more like a lover, my arm around her waist instead of her shoulders. I was thinking that it was almost one o’clock and The Brig, like the other discos, wouldn’t close till four. If the cops were patient and didn’t do anything till then, I had the best part of three hours to figure out the next part of the action. They had waited for three hours, why not the rest of the time? I couldn’t get inside their heads, so there was no way to know.
“Gee, you’re making a remarkable recovery, sweetheart,” the hooker said. “It’s the fresh air. The air in that place is terrible. You’d think they’d do something about the air.”
“Is your place far?” I said. “I want to get into your panties, lover.”
Most hookers have hearts of steel. This poor slob was tough but good natured. My last crack made her giggle and she bumped her hip against mine.
“What panties? But I’ll put some on if taking them off turns you on. Don’t worry. My place is in the next block. I’ll give you a good time. Just tell me what you want and I’ll do it. Just don’t get rough, okay?”
She sort of steered me round a corner into a quieter street. “Let me just lean against the wall a minute,” I told her. This would be the test: if they didn’t turn that corner, then I was batting a thousand.
Nothing happened and we went on to her apartment. She lived in an old waterfront warehouse that had been converted to rental units. No elevator. We walked up to the third floor and she opened the door to a tiny place that smelled of Lysol and air-freshener. First kill the nasty sex smells before you replace them with New England Pine. She had not one but three Robert Redford posters on the walls of the boxy little living room and that dated her as surely as carbon testing dates dinosaur bones. She had been a teenager in the late Sixties and here she was nearly worn out at thirty-three.
She was nice enough, but she wanted to get the all-night charges settled before it went any further. Why not? An all-night deadbeat could cheat her out of a lot of short-time tricks. I think it had been some time since she’d scored with an all-night John. After I gave her the money she went into the kitchen to hide it, thinking maybe I might demand a hundred percent rebate in the morning.
“You got a beer or something?” I said when she came back.
“Sure,” she said, and went back to get it.
I took the beer but I didn’t take her, not that she was so bad. Some guys can think and screw at the same time. I’m the orderly type. I like to do one or the other. After I said I was tired and we’d leave the hey-hey till later, she relaxed and poured herself a glass of white wine. That’s what they’re drinking these days. White wine and cheese and I don’t know what else.
I didn’t want her conversation any more than I wanted her. But she was there and maybe I could use her for something besides sex. Three hours go fast when that’s all the time you have, and I could have done without her efforts to keep me entertained. Out of the bars and off the streets she wasn’t as hookerish as she had sounded earlier. Strewn around were serious paperbacks with resounding titles. And there were others, mostly self-help and how-to. She was trying to educate herself and I gave her high marks for that, if only she’d shut up.
Her name was Samantha, or so she said. Me, I still was J.T. Irwin. It had brought me luck so there was a sentimental attachment. Samantha had been telling me about the amazing variety of people she knew.
Suddenly out of the blue she said, “I even know some of these Hawaiian Liberation Army people. There’s quite a few of them at the university. Of course I don’t think the kids I know have anything to do with that awful thing that just happened. It has to be some splinter group of crazies that did that. My God, when I think of all those poor children.”
I set down my empty beer glass. “You go to the university?”
“Sure. Open admissions. I could have passed the entrance exam if I’d studied after high school. I’ll be honest. I never did graduate from high school. Yeah, I take classes at the university. My favorite is art history.”
I said, “What are these Liberation people like?”
She shrugged. “Like any other group, I guess. Some mild, some medium, some red hot. A lot of it is talk, naturally. But, you know, they have a point. Why should the native Hawaiians have to kiss ass?”
“Are you a native Hawaiian?”
“Sure. I was born here. I mean the native natives, if you know what I mean. I was very interested in the Liberation movement until this thing happened. Now I have to re-think my position. I was attracted to the red hots, as I call them, but now I think I’ll see what the moderates have to offer. Actually I’ll probably keep away from all of them for a while.”
“Good thinking. Who leads the red hots? I’m interested. This is all new stuff to me. I’m ashamed to say I have no interest in politics of any kind.”
Samantha frowned, then smiled. “Neither had I for the longest time. Years, in fact. But it’s never too late to learn, right? Who leads the red hots? Well, my friend Kenji Ohara used to be one of the leaders.”
“O’Hara doesn’t sound very native Hawaiian.”
“Not O’Hara, Ohara. Japanese. It was Kenji got me interested in the movement and other things. I was just fooling around when I enrolled under open admissions. For kicks, you know. What harm could it do, right. Well, do you know Kenji took me under her wing though naturally she’s a lot younger than I am. I didn’t want to tell her what I did, not that I’m ashamed of my body or how I use it, which after all is strictly my business and not the Establishment’s. We talked for hours about that. At that time Kenji was heavy into organizing girls like me who had no consciousness of their exploitation by male sexists.”
Jesus Christ, what a line of patter!
Samantha refreshed herself with a sip of white wine before she continued. “Kenji didn’t stay with that for long. She wasn’t around for a while, then when she came back and started taking classes again, she told me she was involved in something really deep.”
“The Hawaiian Liberation Army?”
Samantha nodded slowly. “Right; There were others, but she was right out in front. Kenji always is. She’s a natural leader. I don’t mean to be disloyal to a friend, but, you know, it’s easy for her to do as she pleases. Comes from a real rich family. But, you know, she’s okay. If it wasn’t for her I wouldn’t have any direction in my life. Now I go to classes and read good books.”
Samantha indicated the serious paperbacks with a wave of her hand. “You see what I mean, J.T.?”
“Too rich for my blood,” I said.
“Don’t put yourself down,” Samantha said. “That’s what Kenji taught me. I miss her.”
“You mean she isn’t around?”
“Not for weeks. When I describe her as a red hot you better believe I’m not kidding. I heard stories about her that would make your hair curl. Some of them may even be true. Not all of them, though. That would be too fucking much.”
“Well, they tell lies about everything,” I said. “What kind of stories?”
Samantha pointed a finger at me. “Are you a cop, sir?”
I grinned at her. “Who, me?”
“I was just kidding, J.T. I know you’re not a cop. There was talk, rumors, whispers, that Kenji was trying to buy machine guns. What I mean, not big machine guns, little ones. And army rifles if she could get them. Well, if they were for sale, and I have no idea where, she’d get them. A rich family, etcetera. Money is no object, right?”
“Right. You certainly have interesting friends. Kenji didn’t get into any trouble, did she? I mean, at the university?”
Samantha made a face. “Well I don’t know what you mean by trouble, J.T. Look at it this way. She was always in trouble of some kind. At one time she was a regular student. Then she just attended classes when she felt like it. Now I’m not sure what she is. I heard they wanted to bar her from the campus.” Samantha laughed. “That would be hard to do. You better believe this is a very open campus.”
I shrugged. “Doesn’t sound any wilder than a lot of other radical students.”
Samantha came back with, “Oh but she is. The things she used to say at meetings. Like how peaceful negotiation would never get them anywhere. To hear her talk you’d think she didn’t even think they should make the effort. What did she used to say? Yeah, she used to say a war of liberation would have a cleansing effect on the oppressed native peoples. And she used to quote John Brown, the Harper’s Ferry guy. Only blood can wash away the sins of this land. Something like that. That wild enough for you?”
“It’ll do,” I said.
Samantha made another face, as if she didn’t take this Kenji Ohara with complete seriousness.
“I’d hate it if she got into deep shit. Okay, it’s a kick to say crazy things when you’re with friends. But what if she meant all the things she said. They might even try to tie her into this hospital thing. And I know she’d never go that far. Kill a lot of little kids! No way, J.T.”
“She’s your friend,” I said.
“Yes she is,” Samantha said. “Yes she is and I miss her.”
“You have no idea where she is? Maybe she got tired of Honolulu and just took off. You know how these kids are. Here one day, gone the next.”
Samantha shook her head and took a hit of white wine. “No. No, I’m pretty sure she’s still in town. One of the women in my art history class is sure she saw her driving a sports car on the Pali highway. There was a blond guy with her, according to my classmate. That could be Gunther Heydrich, a West German guy, a surfing instructor who was going to the university last year. I thought he had gone back to Germany. Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe he has. Whatever, he dropped out of sight. Nothing unusual in that. The university is like a revolving door for some people.”
I said, “Funny your friend would have a West German for a boyfriend. I mean, any German, the way she feels about racism.”
Samantha opened her eyes wide. “Oh you’re wrong. Gunther isn’t a racist even if he is a German. There are good Germans, you know. He was right there with Kenji at those early meetings. Being a foreigner it wasn’t his place to say too much. But I know he supported her all the way. They were very tight for a while. Who knows? Maybe they still are.”
“These rich people stick together,” I said with a trace of bitterness.
Samantha laughed and patted my face. “Gunther isn’t rich, you dumb Texas cowboy. I told you he was a surfing instructor. Came here because he wanted to learn to surf at the greatest surfing beach there is. Waikiki. Became so good at it he became an instructor. I can’t say I got to know him well, but he looks like a very intense kind of guy. Serious, I mean. Don’t let the surfing bit fool you. For some people surfing is a discipline, just like Zen. You master the waves by force of will. Well I know it sounds crazy to you, maybe even to me. But’s true. They believe it. I remember once at Gunther’s place he got into a real argument with some guy who disagreed with him about the Zenlike quality of surfing. I think that’s what it was about. I thought Gunther was going to kill him.”
“You’ve been to his place?”
“Just that one time. Kenji brought me. I don’t know why. When she smokes she does anything that comes into her head. Ordinary grass has no effect on her. She’s heavy into hash, even hash oil. They tell me hash oil comes from Afghanistan. Powerful shit. Dynamite stuff. Naturally I haven’t tried it myself. Wouldn’t mind trying it out. Where would I get it, though? Anyway, it costs a fortune but worth every cent, they say. Kenji loves her dope. Nothing she hasn’t tried. Angel Dust. You know, STP. Coke. Acid. I don’t know what else, if there is anything. You smoke, J.T.?”
“Tried it once, didn’t agree with me, made me sick. Tried it again. It made my head feel like a balloon.”
“It’s supposed to go to your head, J.T. You must have been uptight the time you tried it. The best high is with a friend. Want to try it again, here with me?”
“No thanks. I’ll stick to beer.”
“Mind if I smoke? It’s been a rough day.”
“Go right ahead. Just get me another brew before you light up.”
We sat there drinking and smoking. After a while Samantha began to giggle. Pot affects some people that way. She nudged up close to me. No longer were we hooker and John. We were friends.
“Hey,” she said, “it’s real nice being here with you and talking, J.T. What were we talking about?”
“You were saying you went to Gunther’s place with Kenji. There was a fight.”
Samantha pushed at me. “Let’s not talk about fighting, J.T. Gunther is very handsome but also a little ... I don’t know what the word is.”
“Sinister, maybe?”
Samantha stuck out her lower lip in a sort of pout. Then she knocked the side of her head with the heel of her hand. “Yeah. Yeah. Maybe. Maybe. Maybe brooding is better than sinister. Intense. Brooding. I guess a little sinister. A deep thinker. You’re not a deep thinker, are you, J.T.?”
“Nobody’s ever accused me of that.”
Another giggle. “Stay as sweet at you are. Anyway, this time we were at Gunther’s place. He has—or had—a little bungalow up in the Kaliki district. You know the city? No. Kaliki is a real poor section. A lot of Filipino illegals live there. Not just Filipinos. Other poor people as well. Gunther lived there, Kenji told me, because he identified with them and wanted to share their lives.”
“You recall where he lived?”
“Didn’t I just tell you, J.T.? The Kaliki district. You don’t listen.”
“Yes, I do. I’m just trying to get a picture of the place. A handsome blond German surfing instructor living among Filipinos is a bit peculiar.”
Samantha giggled, then became mock serious. “You want a picture, I’ll draw you a picture. You drive, walk or run up to Kaliki, see?” Another giggle. “Then you find Moana Road. You want to know why? Because that’s where Gunther had his little grass shack. I’m kidding. It’s a bungalow just like all the other bungalows except this one is painted blue. Some crazy Filipino decided it would look better that way. Stand out, make an impression. That, J.T., is where I went that time with Kenji. I wish she’d come back. I miss our conversations.”
Samantha yawned and rubbed her eyes. “I’m tired, J.T. I want to go to bed. Let’s go to bed, J.T.” Another giggle. “You’re all paid up. I’m yours for the night. Oh well, I’m going to bed even if you’re not. That wine always makes me sleepy ...”
Samantha’s voice faded as she fell asleep beside me on the wicker couch. In a while she began to snore. I got a beer and sat in a wicker armchair with flowered arm pads. Kenji and Gunther. It was worth checking out. As the cops say, they fit the profile. But there had to be more to it than a West German fanatic and a spoiled Japanese-Hawaiian student. Well maybe I wasn’t right: there didn’t have to be more to it than that. Many people still think there was a whole complicated conspiracy behind the assassination of John Kennedy. Somehow I don’t. I think it was the work of a misfit loner with good Marine Corps weapons training. So the HLA might be no more than Kenji and Gunther and a few others. The plane that dropped the leaflets? Samantha said Kenji was rich or had access to big money. So getting hold of a light plane would be no problem.
Forget all that, I told myself. First check out this Gunther Heydrich and then go from there.
Looking in Samantha’s closets for a change of clothes, I came up with a godawful Hawaiian shirt and nothing else. I looked nondescript enough after I took off the G.I. jacket and shirt and put on the stupid shirt. The G.I. pants and shoes were just pants and shoes. In time, the cops would know I had ducked out on them dressed in a soldier suit. That little bit of knowledge need not lead them to Samantha. The Brig was a soldiers and sailors bar so most of the hookers there tricked with servicemen. For her part, Samantha would hardly run to the cops when she found the abandoned uniform. I smiled. She might confide in some of her classmates in the art history class, but it would be a miracle if the story got back to Bridges and his boys. As far as I was concerned, after tonight she could go on TV with it.
Samantha didn’t even stir when I opened the door and went out. The discos were still open and I got a cab at the next corner.
“You know where Moana Road is in Kaliki?” I asked the driver.
“Sure, mister,” he said.
So there was a Moana Road and maybe there was a shabby bungalow painted bright blue. The question was: would brooding, sinister, intense Gunther be there? And if he was there, how many of his pals were with him?
Although no hard evidence linked the German to the bombing, I got the feeling that I was on the right track. A gut feeling if you like: sometimes you have to go with your hunches. It would have been nice if I could have called Bridges and go there with more fire power than a Colt .45. But that was just dream stuff, and I got rid of the thought. Bridges would certainly go there, and with a whole army of shooters to back him up, but I knew he would shove me aside because I was a merc and the son of a bitch didn’t like mercs. I’d be lucky if I didn’t find myself under arrest on any number of charges.
I considered the FBI and rejected the idea. Cops are cops when it comes down to the wire: the button-down boys would side with the flatfeet because there is no glory in giving credit to civilians.
Away from the honky-tonk district the city was quiet. I sat back and looked out at streets I didn’t know and wondered what the HLA had planned for the sleeping citizens and there was a sudden surge of anger at all the mindless bastards who spread terror because of some weird kink in the brains, some short circuiting of the normal thinking process. Save the sermons for church, I told myself.
The taxi crossed the city, which is a small one, and the driver listened to the radio as he drove. A Don Ho song was on. Don is the most popular singer in Hawaii. I guess he’s pretty good. I don’t like music like that. Me, I’m highbrow: I like silence.
“Be there in a few minutes,” the Hawaiian driver said, then went back to humming along with Don.
I had no scenario prepared for the blue-painted bungalow. Gunther might be long gone and I’d find myself with an irate Filipino in his underwear. What did I say if that happened? Pardon me, señor, are you a terrorist? I didn’t even smile at my own stupid joke. Because there was nothing funny about it. If Gunther had skipped, then there was no way to find Angel Dusting Kenji and the whole bloody band of child killers. And that, as the British say, would be a bloody shame.
“We here. Dis Moana Road,” the driver announced five minutes later. “You think you in the right place?”
I knew I was when we drove past the bungalow. It was bright blue even in the moonlight. And there were lights on at three o’clock in the morning.
“I’ll get out here,” I said.