The Green Room (18 page)

Chapter Thirty-two

When Storm got back to the cottage, she found a note from Hamlin, telling her he'd run to town for groceries. She wandered into the bedroom and tidied up while she thought about the meeting with Barstow and O'Reilly. She had the feeling they thought they could manipulate her, perhaps on the basis of their self-appointed celebrity status. In some ways, they'd struck her as juvenile. Game players, both of them, but of a different sort. One thing she'd hand Barstow was that he'd handled Goober gently, despite the young man's hostility. He'd seen past the boy's bravado to his need and disappointment.

Both O'Reilly and Barstow were showing signs of stress. They were in the middle of an enormous operation, complete with prima donna surfer personalities and media scrutiny. Throw in a bit of local antagonism, and it was probably hard for them to sort out the critical issues from the stuff they could let wash over them. On reflection, though the complaint about Buster DeSilva had seemed trivial, it was probably worth following up. She wouldn't do anything major, but asking Brian if he had an arrest record wouldn't take much effort.

Her own impression of DeSilva was that he was an eccentric, and possibly even an extremist who believed Hawaiians had been hoodwinked by Western concepts. But he hadn't struck her as someone who would use violence. He'd seemed genuinely concerned about the
ka‛ane
and Nahoa's package. On the other hand, he taught jujitsu, and possibly even incorporated
lua
into his martial arts instruction. She had no idea how his dojo operated, and perhaps this was something she should look into. In her experience, martial arts philosophies ran the gamut of inner control and “oneness with the universe,” to cinderblock-smashing, bokken-flailing aggression. If he were in the latter group, he might be more of a threat than she'd thought.

Storm walked into the kitchen, where she'd seen a phone book. Buster and Evangeline DeSilva lived on Kawailoa Drive, which was on the way from Laniakea to Haleiwa. She also looked up Warren Yee's address. After all, he'd invited her over to talk about something he hadn't seemed willing to go into at the dojo. His address was in Haleiwa, not far from the dojo where he and DeSilva taught.

Storm found Kawailoa Drive without any problem, but once she'd made a left onto it, the road headed back toward the mountains for miles and became more potholed as she went. By the time she got to the DeSilvas' plain frame home, which was on a large plot of land and surrounded by mature mango, lychee, and avocado trees, she was glad the old VW had a stiff suspension.

The first person to answer her knock on the screen door was a baby in a one-piece blue romper. He'd crawled faster than most people could walk, and then stood up at the aluminum door. Storm figured he'd be running upright in about a month, when the parents, or grandparents, would really have their hands full. He beat on the rattling frame with both fists. The more noise he made, the wider his smile grew, and the louder his verbal greetings became. It was close to “hi,” but he couldn't quite form the word yet. But he didn't care.

A slender, longhaired girl in low-rise jeans and a cropped top ambled about two seconds behind the little guy.

“Sorry to bother you,” Storm said. “Your little brother is going to be fast, isn't he?”

The girl, who appeared to be about fifteen, laughed. “Sparky's my son. And yes, he'll be fast. Like his father.”

Teen pregnancies were nothing unusual in the islands, but this girl looked like she should be learning to neck, instead of dealing with parenthood.

Storm kept her smile in place. “What's his dad do?”

A flicker of sadness passed through the teen's dark eyes. “He's a surfer.”

Storm's stomach twisted. She surmised the two were no longer together. “Well, your son is adorable. Is Buster DeSilva around?”

The girl picked up the baby, who squawked at having his noise curtailed. “My dad's at the dojo. You know where that is?”

“Yes, thanks. Does he have classes this morning?”

“No, he goes in on Saturdays to tidy up.”

“Thanks, I'll drive over.” Storm said. “Take care,” she added, and meant it.

When Storm reached Kamehameha Highway, she called Hamlin's mobile phone.

“Where are you?” he asked.

She told him where she'd been and how she planned to head into Haleiwa. “Have you had breakfast?”

“No, and I'm starving.” He sounded a bit grumpy.

“I'll meet you at Rosie's Diner in an hour.”

“An hour?”

“Okay, a half hour. Go ahead and order. I'll have huevos rancheros. With sour cream and extra guacamole.”

“Working up an appetite?”

“Yeah, aren't you?” Storm hung up. She was sorry to keep him waiting, but she'd have to make it up to him later.

Storm pulled up in front of Warren Yee's house. A rusting pickup and a van, even more beat up than Sunny's, sat in the carport. The pickup looked familiar, and she thought she'd seen it in the dojo's parking lot.

Warren answered the door. “Hey, I thought you'd be getting ready to go to the surf contest.”

“I am, but there's still time. You have a few minutes?”

“Come on in.” He held the door open for her and led her into the kitchen. Another young man sat at the table, drinking a long-neck.

“This is my roommate, Justin. Justin, this is Storm.”

Justin jumped up from where he'd been reading the paper and almost knocked over his beer. “Hey.” He extended his hand and shook hers enthusiastically. “Want a beer? I went out for dawn patrol and worked up a thirst.”

“No, thanks.”

“How about some orange juice?” Warren didn't wait for an answer. He handed her a glass.

“Thanks. I wondered if you'd mind if I asked you a few more questions.” She glanced at Justin.

“No problem. Justin knew Ken Matsumoto, too. We all worked out together.” Warren gestured to the table. “Have a seat.”

Storm sat down across from Justin. This was better than she'd hoped; she'd have two points of view. “The other day, you said Ken was a generous guy. Did you mean with his money?”

“You said Ken was generous?” Justin looked in surprise at Warren.

Warren shrugged. “He was if it got him somewhere.”

“Like if it got him exclusive use of a break.” Justin's voice was derisive. He met Storm's surprised glance. “Don't get me wrong—I'm as sorry as the next guy that Ken bought the farm, but I did think he was headed for a pounding.”

“Did someone threaten him?” Storm asked.

“About a dozen someones,” Justin said.

“I didn't want to talk about it at work,” Warren explained. “We try to keep only positive energy in the dojo. No anger or resentment. It's counterproductive to developing our mental focus and our search for self-knowledge.” He swirled his orange juice and sighed. “I'm trying to be less negative in my life.”

Justin wasn't. He rolled his eyes, stretched his legs out, and leaned back in his chair. “Ken was an asshole. He paid these guys, the Blue Shorts, to keep certain breaks clear. Especially if the conditions were good.”

“Did Buster know this?” Storm asked.

Warren looked down at his feet. “Yeah, I think so. He looked disappointed one day, and wouldn't talk about what was bothering him.” He looked at Storm. “That's how he deals with problems, though. He considers all aspects before he'll talk about the solution.”

“Buster wasn't the only one who was upset,” Justin said. “Half the surfing population was pissed. Goober tried to get him blacklisted from contests.” He looked at Warren. “You saved Ken from getting thrashed, remember?”

“Maybe. I don't know what that group would have done.”

“Who?” Storm asked.

“Bunch of local guys. Even Gabe Watson had had enough, and he's part of the Blue Shorts.”

“Yeah, Gabe keeps a careful eye on public opinion,” Justin added.

“So Ken wasn't such a popular guy,” Storm said. “What about Nahoa?”

“Oh, he was great,” Justin said. “Everyone's devastated at what happened.”

“Wait a sec.” Warren looked at his roommate. “Nahoa wasn't any saint, you know.”

Justin took a swallow from his beer. “Hey, that's water over the dam.”

Warren paused, then seemed to reach a decision. “Not for everyone. Sometimes a bad decision is something you live with forever.”

“Come on, she was sneaking him in her bedroom window,” Justin said.

“But she was fifteen.”

Storm felt her hands go cold. She had a very bad feeling about this. “What happened?”

Warren examined the surface of his orange juice. “Well, Nahoa messed around.”

“I see.” Storm nodded, not sure she wanted to hear the rest. “How long ago was this?”

“At least a year and a half,” Justin said, as if it were over and done with.

Right, Storm thought. And the kid is not quite a year old. “Buster's daughter?” It wasn't really a question.

“Yeah, her name's Evie.”

“Shit.” Storm dropped into a chair at the table.

“Yeah,” said Warren. “But Nahoa had a good heart.”

“He really did,” added Justin.

Storm gulped down her orange juice without asking about the state of DeSilva's heart.

Chapter Thirty-three

Storm drove directly to Rosie's Diner, where she was already ten minutes late for brunch with Hamlin. She couldn't have faced Buster DeSilva right then. Any questions she had for him would have revealed her newfound knowledge and her anguish and disappointment with Nahoa's judgment.

She couldn't help but stew over the story Warren had related. Evie had been afraid to tell Buster she'd missed her period—five of them, in fact. She'd just worn baggier clothing, which her father never questioned.

Though Warren and Justin deduced she was pregnant before Buster, they knew exactly when he caught on because one morning he appeared at work snarling and uncommunicative. At the dojo, he'd barked out the most rudimentary of commands to his classes and flattened unsuspecting students with lightning-fast moves. This had continued for about a month, when he'd apparently risen above his rage. He cheerfully informed Warren that he'd felt the baby move. After that, he gave frequent reports on the progress of the pregnancy. Class attendance rose, too, though Warren doubted it was because Buster had again become personable. Warren's opinion, which was substantiated by Justin, was that many martial arts devotees have a streak of masochism. Buster's reputation as a tough and skilled instructor had spread across the North Shore.

Storm went straight to where Hamlin sat. He had a pot of coffee on the table and the morning paper propped before him.

“Hi,” he said, and rose to greet her. “The food should be here any minute. I was afraid yours would get cold.” He gave her a second look. “What's wrong?”

She told him. Hamlin sat back in his chair and listened without interruption, his face impassive, though the set of his mouth was grimmer than usual.

“Damn,” he said. “You've met this DeSilva?”

“Yes.” Storm paused while the waitress set their heaping, fragrant plates before them. Her appetite wasn't what it had been an hour ago.

She tore off a corner of a tortilla and nibbled on it. “He's an activist, but no one's mentioned that he's ever done anything violent.”

“Have you asked Brian Chang to run a check on him?”

“Not yet. I'll do it after we eat.”

Storm ate about half her huevos rancheros and let Hamlin finish the rest. Since they'd come in two cars, they agreed to meet back at the cottage and drop one off before driving to the contest.

Storm called Brian before she got into the highway traffic, and asked him to check if DeSilva had an arrest record. Brian said he'd call her back, and Storm followed Hamlin back to the cottage. As she drove, she reflected on how everyone she'd met during the week connected to one another. Pua's request to find who delivered the
lei o manō
had led to DeSilva, which coincided with Barstow's problems with the man. Stephanie, Ben, Gabe, and even Goober were in the mix of people who'd had difficulties with Ken Matsumoto and/or Nahoa. Not necessarily both, though. She still had some digging to do.

Brian didn't take long to ring her back. “Buster DeSilva got arrested for a civil disturbance about ten years ago. He and some other activists were evicted from some beach land near Ka‛a‛awa and resisted arrest.” He paused. “I know the arresting officer and he's not usually a hothead. DeSilva must have done something he considered dangerous.”

“Thanks, Brian,” Storm said.

“You got anything you need to tell me?” Brian prodded.

“I don't think so. One of the surf promoters said DeSilva had sent him some hostile letters. Wanted to know if I thought he should get a TRO.”

“Any threat of physical confrontation?”

“He said no.”

“He probably won't get one without it.”

“That's what I told him. But thanks for your help.”

“You're welcome. If I find out anything else, I might get to tell you in person. Leila, Robbie, and I'll be out tomorrow late afternoon.”

“Great,” Storm said. They disconnected, and she crawled along behind Hamlin in slow-moving traffic. People were beginning to crowd the North Shore in anticipation of the contest, which was scheduled to take place at a break called Outside Log Cabins. The inner break, Log Cabins, was already closed out, unsurfable. Storm turned on her car radio to follow what was happening.

The Intrepid was following a format different from most surf contests. Sports enthusiasts breathlessly announced that, thanks to a storm surge and an unusually large swell along North Shore beaches, the contest could take place at a different break each day. This not only showcased O‛ahu's spectacular beaches and its variety of surf conditions, but was a concession to the O‛ahu Surfing Alliance's complaints that the holding periods closed beaches to non-contestants.

Hamlin waited for her at the front door. He unlocked it, stepped into the house, then looked and listened for any signs of a repeat break-in.

“I don't think he'll be back,” Storm said. “He either got the info he wanted, or found I didn't have it.”

“Let's hope so.” Hamlin went into the living room and turned on the television. “I saw some TV vans in that line of cars.”

“It's a big event. The traffic's going to get worse. We should probably get going.” She picked up the phone. “Let's see if Sunny and Dede have left yet. They may have parking suggestions.”

Dede answered. “We were just leaving. Since we're on the way, why don't you come over here and we'll drive together? I've got a friend who lives about a half-mile from Log cabins.”

Storm hung up and turned to Hamlin. “You're going to meet Sunny and Dede.”

“The girls you told me about?” He looked very happy.

She rolled her eyes. “You're spoken for.”

“I can look, can't I?” Hamlin bounced his eyebrows.

“Sure, I will be.”

“I knew it,” he said, feigning disgruntlement. “All those young surfers.”

“Yeah,” Storm said, and waggled her eyebrows back.

When they got to the girls' house, Sunny and Dede were outside, waiting by the van. Dede eyed Hamlin's 1965 200SE convertible. “Let's take your car.”

“Okay,” Hamlin said without hesitation. Storm knew that he'd have ridden in Sunny's van without protest, but the spotless old Mercedes had been willed to him by a grateful client. He not only loved to drive it, she could see he relished the idea of driving a carload of beautiful women.

Dede directed Hamlin, who got a lot of amused and envious stares in the stop and go traffic, to a narrow residential road that ran parallel to Kamehameha Highway. When they got to the house she pointed out, the front yard already looked like a parking lot. Dede's friend had been standing on the last patch of grass, and she watched them pull up with an expression that combined relief, impatience, and amusement.

“Thank God,” the young woman shouted at them. “Hey, nice car. You probably want to put the top up.”

Hamlin did, and they gathered their hats, binoculars, and water bottles before joining the throng of pedestrians marching along Kamehameha Highway. People trekked along the narrow shoulders of the highway like pilgrims on their way to Mecca, small packs of supplies slung over their backs. A nimbus of excitement moved along with them. The aura grew more charged as they got closer to the contest site and saw signs of the hoopla surrounding the event.

Television vans, studded with satellite dishes and antennae, already lined the highway. To get so close, they must have parked the day before, and some of the technicians who climbed in and out of the vehicles looked like they'd spent at least one night on site. Large Starbucks cups were apparently part of their gear. Razors weren't.

The logistics of getting to the site kept the crowd from getting as unruly as the highway. There were no parking lots, and the road was lined with cars as far as they could see. Like the vans, anyone with a nearby spot had to have staked it out the day before.

Sunny apparently was thinking along the same lines as Storm, because she turned to Dede. “Thank heavens your friend saved us a spot. Some of these people won't get in.”

“Yeah, a bicycle is better than a car when it comes to attending one of these,” Dede replied.

The four of them followed the majority of the spectators along a public beach access. It led through a stand of tall ironwood trees, which separated two large beachfront homes. Many of the arrivals paid no attention to the public walkway, and made their way across private yards and driveways.

Sunny led the way across a stretch of the beach to a makeshift hut, where a cluster of media personalities and TV camera operators came and went. A board that announced the teams, the color of their singlets, and their standings loomed behind it. Storm could see O'Reilly inside, waving his hands and gesticulating at one of the sports announcers.

On the way by, Storm could hear snatches of his diatribe. “…don't give a fuck about any floating leis in their memories…let the goddamn girls cover the heart-warming stuff…” His voice sneered at the word “girls,” and Sunny and Dede exchanged glances.

Storm caught Hamlin's eye. “A few hours ago, he was in his lavalava, making lattes,” she said out of the corner of her mouth. “He was downright jovial, then.”

“High pressure job,” Hamlin said.

“Yeah.” Sunny jutted her chin toward O'Reilly's partner, who was planted not far away on the sand. Barstow stood, feet planted in a wide stance, arms folded tightly across his chest. He glowered at Goober, whose back was to Storm and her friends. The muscles in Barstow's jaw stood out in knots.

“Makes me tense just looking at him,” Dede said. “Let's go farther down the beach and see if we can figure out who's in the water.”

“Looks like the judges are sitting over there.” Storm pointed to a large, square tent that had been pitched on the sand in a prime spot.

“That's a good place to hang,” Sunny said. “If any of us get separated in this crowd, let's meet behind it.”

“Good idea,” said Storm. She squinted at the back of a wiry, dark-skinned man who had stopped to shake the hand of a surfer. Sure enough, when he turned to face the water, she could see it was Buster.

Storm took a deep breath. She'd had time to digest Warren's news about Nahoa, and she figured now was the time to tackle Buster. He looked happy and relaxed. “I'll be right back,” she said to Hamlin, who had put his binoculars to his eyes.

Before Storm reached Buster, though, a lovely woman holding a microphone intercepted him. Storm stopped dead in her tracks. Pua wore TV makeup and a tasteful dress. A graceful puakenikeni lei encircled her neck, and a cameraman hovered over her shoulder. Her hair drifted in the offshore breezes. She looked happy and relaxed, a magnet for the camera and anyone she approached to interview.

Pua saw Storm at the same time, and gave her a brilliant smile. Buster followed her gaze, and looked over his shoulder. He grinned, waved gaily, then turned back to Pua, who asked Buster about the conditions today's surfers would have to deal with, then held the microphone out for his answer.

Overhead, a couple of helicopters hung above the shoreline, one of them emblazoned with the call letters of a TV station. Between the surf, the helicopters, and the blats of the contest announcer's public address system, Storm could only hear snatches of their conversation. Buster said something about how the lateral current would pull the surfers and all their equipment toward Haleiwa, and then Storm lost the rest of his words in the noise.

She looked around at the media activity. This was turning into a well-publicized event. And there was Pua, in the middle of it, talking knowledgably about conditions, wave form, and prevailing currents. Some weather woman. Storm couldn't wait to hear how she'd pulled this off.

Meanwhile, other camera operators honed in on the inevitable scantily clad beauties and buff beach boys. There were always a few. Naturally, the cameras ignored the majority of the spectators, who, like Storm, had dressed for the cool onshore breezes by pulling sweatshirts and jeans over their bathing suits. The bathing suits were an optimistic touch. No way did she want to get in surf conditions like the ones today.

Storm realized these shots would be transmitted across North America, which the morning's paper announced was suffering its first major winter storm of the year. It might be warm compared to Wyoming and Saskatchewan, but no one was getting a tan that day. The swell was high and still rising. Arctic storms, part of the same weather system that swept across the continent, generated waves that grew as they accelerated, unimpeded, across the North Pacific. NOAA ocean buoys pinged their warning of these monsters, which barreled toward Hawai‛i's reef system, a veritable welcome mat.

Impenetrable gray clouds draped the skies, and the surf, already approaching twenty feet, sent salty mist rolling across the shore and land. A tiny young woman, wearing a thong bikini that would fit in one of Storm's B-sized bra cups, scampered by. The breadth of her lower back was tattooed with a hawk's wings, and goosebumps pimpled her lithe and exposed body. Of course, the cameras that followed her like flies at a picnic wouldn't see those.

DeSilva finished his interview and walked over to greet Storm. Pua mouthed “later” at her, and turned to a famous Australian big wave surfer, who towered above her, wearing a very pleased expression.

“Hi.” Storm intercepted DeSilva. “Do you know Pua?”

“I'd heard of her, but this is the first time I met her,” DeSilva said. “She's my grandson's auntie.”

“Um, I just heard about that.”

“I wondered if you knew,” DeSilva said. He gave her a wry half-smile.

“You must have been terribly upset with Nahoa.”

“I was, at first.” But he sounded cheerfully unperturbed. Storm watched his face carefully, but his eyes met hers without hesitation. “I thought about having him arrested,” he admitted.