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Authors: Charles Knief

BOOK: Diamond Head
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I
f what Chawlie and I suspected about Thompson was correct he would have people watching for me to exit the building. I made it easy for them and stopped at the bank on the first floor to exchange a couple of hundred-dollar bills for twenties and tens.
It was raining in the mountains above Honolulu and the sun was behind me. A broad rainbow straddled a peak, one of its feet planted in Punchbowl Crater at the end of Bishop Street. As I slowly wandered up Bishop admiring the rainbow I noticed two men twenty yards back, following me on foot. We had anticipated a car, too. If Thompson was serious there would be two cars.
I crossed the street and traveled the short block to the Fort Street Mall, a pedestrian thoroughfare. That eliminated the cars. As I crossed, I memorized every vehicle on the street. If I saw any of them again, I would file it as a possible. We didn't want a confrontation. Chawlie and I had agreed that would be counterproductive. We wanted to demonstrate to Thompson that he was not dealing with either the police or an amateur. And we didn't want anyone hurt in the process.
The two men shadowing me were haole bodybuilder types,
not first-string material any way you looked at them. I named them Tweedledum and Tweedledee; they vaguely reminded me of those two characters from
Alice in Wonderland.
They looked like bouncers from a tough club, gym rats taking on a day job.
When I was certain they were following me I reversed course and went down Fort Street toward the harbor, then ducked into Liberty House and paraded through women's wear and cosmetics and then back out onto Bishop again. Once outside I headed east toward the Iolani Palace.
Traffic was unusually light in a city that reluctantly admits to more automobiles per capita than any other place on earth. I noticed a red Maxima traveling slowly in the same direction but on the opposite side of the street. It had been behind me on Bishop when I crossed earlier. Two men were in it, both intent on my itinerary.
I cut across the grounds of the palace, taking the narrow footpath between the grounds of the state capitol and the barred iron fence of the royal palace. My Jeep was parked in the underground municipal garage one block away. Tweedledum and Tweedledee were doggedly following and now looked as though they were trying to decrease the distance between us.
We emerged from the footpath together and waited for the light to change. My shadowers had closed the gap to less than ten feet, letting me know they were there. We were almost at the underground garage and I sensed that their intentions were not merely watchful. They had a message to deliver. If they were just going to follow me they would have been more discreet. This was about to get physical.
I took off my jacket, feeling the solid impact of the Honolulu summer sun on my back through my thin shirt.
Just as the light changed I felt the two men closing in on either side of me. We stepped off the curb and crossed the street in unison. Naked aggression was out in the open but I continued
to ignore the two men. I centered myself in anticipation of what was coming.
I attacked as we entered the gloom of the concrete ramp to the underground parking structure. They might be concerned with witnesses but that wasn't a concern of mine.
I dropped my aluminum briefcase. Both men looked down at the source of the noise. While Dee's head followed his gaze, I hit him in the temple with my right elbow, spun left and kicked Dum's shins as he reached for me. I followed the low kicks with kites delivered to his throat and face. He backed off, startled but not injured.
Dee had gone down. He started to get up. A roundhouse kick caught him on the point of the chin and he fell back, his head bouncing off the concrete. Dum recovered and grabbed for my arms. I reversed his grip, getting inside of his grasp, elbowed him in the chin, pounded his ears and raked my fingernails down the front of his face. He backed off again. I backpedaled and kicked him in the solar plexus.
Dum wasn't finished. Neither was Dee. They were merely angry. There was no room to maneuver in the narrow passage and they were crowding me. Dee grabbed my right arm and pulled me toward him. I went with it, using his momentum and the power to get inside his reach. I dropped my shoulder and smashed into him. We went down together. I shoulderrolled over Dee and got to my feet as Dum charged, roaring in pain and anger.
I glanced behind to be certain I had room, and stood my ground.
As Dum charged, I caught his outstretched arms and rolled backward, one foot planted solidly in the middle of his chest. As my shoulders touched the concrete I brought the other foot up and launched him overhead. He sailed over me and I heard his heavy body hit the cement beyond. I completed my roll and stood up.
Dee was on his feet again, staggering toward me. I could hear Dum cursing behind, still down but working on getting up. I jumped over him and retreated to the expanse of the garage.
They followed. Dum was enraged, his bleeding face purple in the dim flourescent light. He had lost the bandanna that covered his head pirate fashion. His bald head was bleeding. An ear was torn where I'd noticed a gold earring before. Dee looked dazed but angry. This was going to get nasty unless I ended it now.
Dee was first. I kicked him in the leading shin, knocking his legs from under him. As he fell I reversed and kicked him in the temple. I whirled and attacked Dum, driving him back under a barrage of kicks and kites that would have killed a smaller human being. He absorbed the blows but didn't fight back. He couldn't fight, but I couldn't down him. I increased my attack, my arms and legs straining to sustain the rhythm. I was tired and I would be sore, but this thing had to end.
I backed Dum into the side of a parked van. He cowered, covering his head with his massive arms. I worked on his stomach muscles. They had been hard as stone when I first started hitting him. Now they were loose, a good sign. When he covered his middle I went to work on his face. Blood flew from my hands as I struck him. It was brutal. A referee would have stopped it and given me the decision. But this wasn't sport, there wasn't any referee and the only decision was for Dum to quit.
That's just what he did.
He put his hands out in front of him, palms forward. “Enough,” he said.
He began to slump but I supported him, holding him upright until he could stand on his own.
“You okay?” I asked.
He shook his head. “Going to be sick.” And he was.
I left him to his business and checked his partner. He was down, but he was conscious. I extended my hand to help him up. When he took it I helped him to his feet and then walked up the ramp and retrieved my jacket and briefcase. Both men were still there when I returned, as if moving was too painful to contemplate. They had no fight left.
“Give Mr. Thompson a message for me, will you?”
They nodded, pain and confusion written on their faces.
“I live at the Rainbow Marina in Pearl Harbor aboard the yacht Duchess. I gave him my telephone number and now he's got my address. After he finds out I was telling the truth, have him call me.”
They nodded.
“You going to be all right?”
They nodded again.
“You boys are tough. Better go see a doctor, though, just to be sure.”
I carried my briefcase to the Jeep and stuck it behind the seat. I folded my jacket. It would have to go to the cleaners. My shirt and pants were torn and bloody. They'd go into the trash. It was a small price to pay to learn what I had learned.
The consensus was correct. Thompson was not a nice man. He had people working for him who weren't very nice, but they weren't very good, either. If this was an object lesson directed at me it had backfired, leaving him in even greater ignorance than before.
The John Caine whom Thompson had seen was an enigma. He had come bringing gifts and then beat up Thompson's bouncers. He shook the tail Thompson had hung on him and then volunteered his address. None of it would make any sense.
If Katherine Alapai and Chawlie were right about Thompson it would keep him off balance and interested enough to want to keep me alive until I could find out if he had anything to do with Mary's murder.
I drove out of the garage and nearly collided with the red
Maxima. I stopped at the entrance and motioned to the driver to roll down his window.
“They're in there,” I said, pointing back toward the garage. “Better call an ambulance.”
I drove off, content with the confusion I saw on their faces.
 
 
T
he next two days dragged as I waited for the bait to be snapped up by the big fish. Somewhere out there something was happening, but it sure wasn't happening where I could observe it. Chawlie agreed that Thompson was not the kind of man who could ignore the bait. It bothered me to know he was out there doing something, but not to know exactly what he was doing.
My body was sore from two fights in less than a week. That was a record, even for me. I limped. Somehow I'd acquired a deep bruise on the top of my shoulder. I was getting too old to be rolling around on the ground with men half my age.
For punishment of my sins I looked for hard physical labor. That isn't difficult to find aboard any boat. It's even easier aboard a wooden sailboat in the tropical Pacific. I discovered some railing that had become infested with dry rot. It was curved railing and had to be pieced. I spent some slave time and earnest money removing the damaged wood and replacing it with new solid teak. By the time I'd sanded the last section of railing smooth and oiled the new teak to match the old, the second day had nearly ended without contact from Thompson.
It was beginning to appear that Chawlie and I had erred in our assessment of the man.
I went for a run, showered and changed, and was sitting on my fantail watching the sunset, drinking a good merlot and thinking about a steak dinner, when my cellular telephone buzzed.
“Caine.”
“Mr. Caine. My name is Anthony Choy. We met the other night. The man you know as Chawlie wishes to speak with you tonight, if possible. He says it is most urgent.”
“Is he all right?”
“He would appreciate a visit from you at your earliest convenience.”
“Please tell him I'll be there this evening.”
“Thank you, Mr. Caine. I shall inform him.”
I pushed the End button. A feeling of dread passed through me. Had we miscalculated? Chawlie was not calling for me because he wanted to celebrate. Mr. Choy was another of Chawlie's nephew-sons, possibly a brother or a half brother of Garrick Choy. Chawlie was sending me a message. In the convolutions of his thought processes this was probably a fairly straightforward proposition, but I was having trouble keeping up.
I finished the merlot and went below to put on my sandals. Chawlie would be there by the time I could drive to Chinatown. There was no reason to delay the inevitable.
Passing through the lounge I spotted the morning's
Advertiser.
Remembering a headline I hadn't explored earlier I picked it up and glanced through it again. On the third page of the first section I found the small article. A young Asian male had been found dead in a cane field near Waipahu. He had suffered a single gunshot wound to the back of the head, execution style. He had also suffered other, unspecified injuries. The story didn't say so but implied that the man had been tortured. Police suspected organized crime involvement. His identity was being withheld pending notification of the next of kin. End of story.
It was short, simple and succinct. I made a bet with myself the name of the young man was Garrick Choy.
 
Chawlie's eyes held no emotion when he saw me. He motioned for me to sit in a vacant chair next to him, not the chair across from him, my usual position. That one was occupied by the young Chinese man I'd known as Mr. Anthony Choy. Mr. Choy was dressed in a business suit with a bright red silk tie and handkerchief. Chawlie directed a string of harsh Cantonese at the young man.
“Good evening, Mr. Caine,” said the young man. “Thank you for coming. I am Anthony Choy, the one who telephoned you. We have met before.”
Chawlie barked a short sentence. He was not looking at me. I glanced at the side of his face. It could have been carved from ivory, as much expression as I saw there.
“I have been asked to speak for my father. He is in mourning for the loss of his son, Garrick Choy, but he wishes to convey to you both his gratitude and his sorrow for having used you the way he did.”
Chawlie spoke another string of Cantonese. Anthony Choy replied quietly and respectfully. I watched young Choy's face during the exchange. He was fearful of something in the transaction, and he disapproved. There was no insubordination, but he was making it clear through his body language that his approval was not complete. I couldn't understand what was being said, but I followed the conversation. Chawlie was telling the young man to tell me everything, to leave nothing out.
“My father regrets that he is unable to speak with you directly. It is a form of mourning he has chosen that he wishes only to communicate with members of his family. He says he has a great sorrow because he has lost a son as well as a friend. He wants you to know that both losses are acceptable to him. Because he respects you he wants you to know this.”
I kept silent and listened. I didn't like what I was hearing, but I wanted to hear it all.
“You know that my father had men keeping my brother safe and away from this problem for his own protection. Some time after you spoke with the Australian devil Thompson, my brother escaped from those who were watching him. The men guarding him didn't know he was gone until much later. By then it was too late.
“My father thinks he ran directly to Thompson, not knowing you had informed on him or that Thompson was hunting him. We don't know anything for sure. We only know that the police have been here and told my father that his youngest son is dead.”
The old man leaned forward and said something in a voice so quiet I couldn't hear the words or even make out the language. The young Choy nodded, his eyes vacant.
“Father said it was fate that sent you to him the night he decided to do something about Garrick. He had asked for help and you suddenly appeared. You had been the solution to a previous problem and he saw you as the solution to his present dilemma. You were the solution to his problem as he was the solution to yours.”
Chawlie spoke again. He spoke for a long time. Anthony Choy nodded and looked as if he were memorizing every word of what was being said to him. I had the impression it was not the first time he had heard it.
“Father wishes to convey three things to you. First, he is grateful for your service, both past and present, and he wants to justly compensate you.” Choy pulled a thick sheaf of bills from his left coat pocket. “Father believes ten thousand dollars is adequate compensation.
“Second, Father wishes to assure you that he bears you no ill will for your part in the death of his son. It was fate. You were only the messenger and did not control the son who fled protection or the gun that killed him. Father understands that you
are working for another father, one who lost a daughter, and if the loss of a son can help another father's loss, then it will not have been wasted. Father tells me that he understands the sorrow a father has for a lost child, even if that child is only a female.
“Third, I am to tell you that Father wishes never to see you again. For any reason. You shall always wear the mark of his dead son. Had it not been for you, Garrick might still be alive. Father will always be grateful to you for what you did for him, but he will have you killed if you try to approach him again.
“These are all the things Father wanted me to say to you. You have one minute to leave this place.” He glanced down at his watch.
I looked at the old man beside me. Chawlie was staring out into the night, refusing to shift his gaze toward me. There was no appeal. He'd arranged it so everybody lost. I'd only lost a friend. He'd lost both a friend and a son. And his son had lost his life. All in the dubious name of family honor.
“Tell Mr. Choy I am sorry for his loss,” I said. I got up and left the restaurant. There was nothing else to do.
Once outside again I took a deep breath, inhaling fragrances as familiar as my own sweat. I believed Chawlie's threat. I believed he would regret having me killed. But I knew he would do it as easily as he had arranged for the murder of his own son. I didn't believe for a minute that Garrick Choy had escaped on his own. It was the only solution the old man could find to save the family's honor. He had to let the young man escape and find his own way. If he died in the process, it was not Chawlie who had killed him. It was the Australian devil Thompson and that fool Caine.
My feet began walking away from the river without a conscious decision on my part. I clutched the sheaf of hundred-dollar bills in my hand. I didn't remember taking the money. I had no use for it. I walked east until I found the small cathedral on Fort Street. I thought a church, any church, was the best
place for the blood money. I entered the church, not knowing what I was looking for.
An elderly priest sat in one of the pews, halfway down the center aisle, his head bowed. I didn't feel as if I belonged there. I stuffed the money into the poor box and went back out into the warm, tropical night.
Say a prayer for me, Father.

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