The Green Room (5 page)

“Ben, too,” Robbie said. “Can't we stay, Mom, please?”

“No, dear. Tomorrow's Monday. You've got school and I've got work.”

“I've got an eight o'clock deposition,” Hamlin said.

“And I've got…well, I've got to see what I've got,” Storm said.

“You have a client and you've only been open a week,” Hamlin said. “That's not bad.”

“More people will be coming in this week,” Leila said.

“I need to look into some things for Stephanie Barstow,” Storm said. “It'll give me a great excuse to call her tomorrow and find out how Ben and Nahoa did in the finals.”

Hamlin drove back into town, and all four spent the hour and a half talking about whether Ben or Gabe Watson would come in second and claim the $13,000 purse. They were certain that Nahoa had the $25,000 first place in his pocket, and Storm sat back and contemplated how happy Rochelle must be for her adventuresome son. It came with a price, though. She'd seen the worry on Stephanie's face.

Chapter Eight

“Your TV guy says we need a hundred fifty thousand purse,” Barstow said. He drained the bottle of Beck's, burped, and put his feet up on the deck rail.

“He doesn't have a clue,” O'Reilly answered. He got up, went into the kitchen, and came out with a couple more beers. “He figures if the purse is six figures, his pay will be, too. Fat chance.”

“Whaddya pay these guys, anyway?”

“It's gone up since I was in the business, but not a hundred G's, I guarantee.” He burped, too, longer and louder than Barstow's.

Gordon will always try for the big bucks, O'Reilly thought. He'd known him for years, and he knew when Gordon was trolling. Hell, he was campaigning.

“Maybe twenty grand. For a few hours' work, that's pretty damn good.” He took another swallow. “But we'll offer him twelve to start. He wants this job. He'll get a lot of exposure.”

“What'd he make today?” Barstow asked.

O'Reilly shrugged. “The meet promoters were a bit evasive about that, but I'd guess around six or eight. Maybe less. Ours is gonna be more spectacular. A tow-in, with minimum twenty foot surf.”

“The Eddie Aikau looks for the same conditions. We don't want to compete with those guys—they're legendary.” Barstow's eyes slid over to O'Reilly. “Have they started their holding period?”

“Not yet.” O'Reilly took a long swallow. “That's why I need you to talk to the guys that make these things happen. I've had feelers out for months, but it's nothing like talking to the local people.”

“Yeah, especially around here, where who you know is the bottom line. We've got to make sure we don't step on any toes.”

O'Reilly made a rumbling noise in his chest that might have been a chuckle. “At least not the toes that matter.”

“We better sprinkle some gin on
ti
leaves, too. For good fortune.” Barstow smiled. “Stephanie always did it when there was some kind of event. She went nuts for our wedding.”

O'Reilly looked at Barstow out of the corner of his eyes. He didn't know yet how much to tell him about the steps he'd already taken. The man's gaze was out to sea, where stars were beginning to appear in the night sky. Barstow had always been intense, but he seemed touchier than he used to be. Probably because of his marriage problems. As far as O'Reilly could tell, he'd only talked with his son for about two minutes after he'd done so well in the contest this morning, and this was the first mention he'd made of his wife in a long time.

O'Reilly knew that he, too, was different than he'd been during their college days, and he wasn't any more willing than Barstow to talk about it. One thing he knew for sure was that he needed this surf contest to be successful. Barstow, however, didn't look like he needed the money. He just wanted to be part of the surf scene again.

He wondered if he should tell Barstow that after they left the meet this afternoon, he'd gone back to the Tubin' Tanker. After all, Barstow's
kuleana
(O'Reilly had learned this term from Mo‛o Lanipuni just today) was the surfing. He was supposed to use his contacts to get sponsors and to make sure that the local, uninvited surfers didn't get their noses so far out of joint they made trouble.

O'Reilly's business was getting the media contacts and the big names, so Barstow might get a little hinky if he knew O'Reilly was asking questions about the surf part of things. O'Reilly's visit had been a spur of the moment thing. He'd been driving by Mo‛o's just as the shaper was opening up shop. He'd apparently closed during the semi-finals. Passing by at that moment had seemed like good timing, and the visit turned out to be productive. Mo‛o had given him a few tips for getting beach and marine permits.

As he left, O'Reilly asked if there was anyone he should talk to about which jet skis to use for the tow-in contest, and whether any of the manufacturers would donate machines to the event. Mo‛o had spent a few moments putting tubes of sunscreen in a display case before he answered. “Try see Gabe Watson,” he said.

O'Reilly, of course, recognized the name as that of one of the morning's finalists, but something kept him from revealing this to Mo‛o, mostly because he didn't want to appear like a know-it-all. O'Reilly remembered Mo‛o's conversation with the skinny guy and knew that he might fit Mo‛o's definition of a fuckin'
malihini
to a tee.

But he wasn't, not at all. He was asking locals' opinions about this deal. And he wasn't
malihini
, either. A long time ago, he'd spent two years in Hawai‛i when his dad was in the Air Force.

O'Reilly popped open another Beck's. “Marty, you ever hear of Gabe Watson before this weekend's meet?”

He could sense, rather than see, Barstow's head turn toward him.

“Don't think so, why?”

“Cuz someone told me he knew about tow-in contests.”

Barstow took his time finishing his beer. “Most of these guys have jobs other than surfing. They have to. You know where he works?”

“No.”

“I'll ask around,” Barstow said. “You still got media lined up for next few weeks?”

“The guy who owns the Tubin' Tanker gave me some contacts for the beach permits.” O'Reilly watched Barstow for signs of annoyance, but Marty seemed to perk up a bit. “He said there's a big swell predicted, and he thinks we could get a holding period starting next week.”

“As in Monday?” Barstow set his beer bottle down with thunk. “What's the surf prediction?”

“Big storm in Alaska. The NOAA buoys are pinging already. It could be huge by Thursday or Friday.”

“Give me those names and I'll call tomorrow.” Barstow picked up his beer again and leaned back in his chair with a smile. “It's really gonna happen, isn't it? I tell you, I've had my doubts.”

“I know what you mean,” O'Reilly said. It was a good thing, too. He couldn't afford this beach house much longer, and he certainly couldn't afford to go back to the mainland empty-handed.

He swung his feet down from the porch railing. “We've got a lot of work to do, though. Gordon's got to start doing TV spots for us in the next day or two. I've got four other networks coming in by the middle of the week. What's the response from the surfers we discussed on the phone?”

“So far, I've got eighteen out of the twenty teams you wanted. They've been waiting to see if the swell comes in. Some of the Australians and Europeans will leave in the next day or two if we give 'em a green light.”

“You just made my week, man.” In the light that filtered from the kitchen, O'Reilly could see Barstow return his grin.

“What's your time frame?” Barstow asked.

“If the surf's good, we could start the first round Thursday. Friday, we do two more. Surf prediction is for twenty-five foot faces and rising. Saturday, we'll have quarters and semis, and on Sunday, we'll do the finals. If we need, we can spill over to Monday.”

He looked over at Barstow. “What sponsors you got so far?”

“It's lookin' good. Wait'll I show you. Not only equipment for the meets, but I've got some huge names—sports drinks, suntan lotion, clothing. Some of the surfers have their own sponsors, in addition.” Barstow looked thoughtful. “What's the meet going to cost us to run?”

“About seven hundred fifty thou.”

“Cheaper than football, I bet.”

“No shit.” O'Reilly chuckled.

“What will the winner's purse be?”

“I'm thinking of a hundred twenty thousand, which is bigger than any of the other contests. Plus, we've got sponsorship guarantees for the top three finalists that amount to multiples of that number. Right now, the winner could make up to two-fifty, three hundred with sponsorships. Minimum.”

“Yeah?” Barstow squinted over his drink. “You've got something up your sleeve, don't you?”

“I was savin' it till I was sure, but one of the credit card companies is talking about a contract for the winner.”

“You're makin' my day. How much we talking?”

“Seven figures. It's a first for a surfer.”

Barstow nodded. He was looking happier by the minute, and O'Reilly felt good about that. If his old friend was going through a hard time on a personal level, it was nice O'Reilly could help out in a business sense.

“You haven't asked what we're going to clear.” O'Reilly handed him a fresh beer.

“Okay, what are we gonna make?”

O'Reilly threw back his head and laughed. The ocean breezes ruffled his thinning hair. “Don't quote me yet, but we should each clear a half mil. And that's just for this year. This is the beginning of a wonderful new tradition.”

Chapter Nine

Storm got two calls from the Public Defender's Office on Monday morning. One of her new clients came to the office in handcuffs with an HPD escort, and the other came in with her distraught mother, who insisted her daughter couldn't possibly have shoplifted the bathing suit she wore under her clothing when she left an exclusive teen boutique. Ink blots from the store sensor still spotted the kid's leg. It was eleven o'clock before Storm had a chance to call Stephanie Barstow.

“Hello,” Stephanie shouted over a lot of background noise.

“Can you hear me? It's Storm.”

“Barely.” Her voice crackled with radio interference.

“How's Ben doing in the meet?”

“He came in second.” Stephanie's voice broke, and Storm thought it was due to excitement, rather than the bad connection.

“All right,” Storm shouted. “He beat out Gabe.”

“Yeah, Gabe came in fourth.” Stephanie laughed. “Couldn't happen to a nicer guy.”

Storm had to grin. “What about Nahoa? And who came in third?”

“Nahoa won. The crowd loves him—I hope Ben is as strong when he's Nahoa's age. Kimo Hitashi came in third. It was a real upset, and Gabe was madder than a wet cat.” Stephanie sounded downright gleeful. “Kimo dates Gabe's ex-girlfriend. They hate each other. Gabe wouldn't talk to reporters or anything.”

“I'm thrilled for Ben. That's wonderful!” Storm said. “I also called about your case. I'd like to get together sometime this week. Will you be coming into town?”

“No, I've taken too much time off already. Any chance you'll be on the North Shore?”

“Um, I might be able to manage that.” Storm knew that the two clients from the PD's office wouldn't need her until their arraignments, which would be at least a week away. She'd also had a call from one of Uncle Miles' former clients, an elderly woman who wanted to revise her will. Mrs. Shirome lived in Waialua, near Haleiwa. She would love the personal visit. It was the kind of thing Uncle Miles used to do.

“I'll pay for your driving time. I really need to talk to you,” Stephanie said.

“No need. I have another client out that direction to visit, too.” Storm reflected how good it felt to say that.

“Thanks, Storm.” Stephanie sounded relieved, but Storm wasn't sure if it was because she'd said she'd come out or whether it was because she wouldn't bill her for the hour and a half drive.

“How's Wednesday, around lunchtime?” Storm asked. It would give her time to set court dates for the two people who'd visited this morning and catch up on some other office work.

“You mind coming to the restaurant where I work?”

“No problem. Congratulate Ben for me, okay?”

Storm got a few more phone calls from potential clients, transferred by Grace, who whooped enthusiastically before she connected them to Storm's line. Storm began to feel as if she might be able to make a living in her own law practice.

By Tuesday afternoon, though, she was rearranging her storage closet, which was pretty damned desperate, as her home closets were all a cluttered mess. Another of Uncle Miles' former clients called with questions about his estate, but Storm found that she still had plenty of time on her hands. She even went home early to do two days' worth of dirty dishes and feed Fang, the one-time skinny stray cat who now weighed fifteen pounds. Fang purred like a lawnmower and did figure-eights against Storm's legs to show her appreciation.

“Don't get too excited. I'm meeting Hamlin for dinner. You'll have to entertain yourself tonight.”

About an hour later, Storm sat on the lanai of a notable Hawai‛i Kai restaurant, one of Hamlin's and her favorites. The live entertainment, a trio Storm enjoyed, was about to begin, when Hamlin called to tell her he was going to be fifteen minutes late. He'd had a crucial phone call just as he was leaving the office and now he was stuck in rush hour traffic on Kalanianaole Highway.

Storm didn't mind, though. She ordered a glass of merlot and some of the restaurant's special seared
ahi
sashimi and sat back in her chair. The guitarists were tuning, the sun was setting in a cranberry glow over the ocean, and a breeze ruffled her hair. She thought about the strange delivery Nahoa had received last Saturday. If someone had hoped to rattle him enough to affect his performance at the meet, they'd accomplished the opposite. No one had come near his final score.

The restaurant wasn't busy yet, and no one sat near her. She looked around and decided she could slip behind a potted bougainvillea to use her cell phone.

Aunt Maile answered cheerfully, sounding as close as next door, instead of 300 miles away on the Big Island. In the background, Keali‛i Reichel sang from his album
Lei Hali‛a
. Storm pictured her aunt, playing Reichel's soothing music and preparing supper, and she felt a pang of
hali‛a
for the simpler, less confusing days of childhood. Back then, people were either good guys or bad guys, and jealousy was painful, but rarely life-threatening, though she hadn't realized it then.

“How are you, Aunt Maile?”

“Keone and I are fine, love. But you sound troubled. Is Ian all right?” Aunt Maile never referred to him by his last name, unlike Storm and the rest of Hamlin's friends.

“He's fine. His limp is getting better and his practice is booming. I'm waiting now to meet him for dinner.”

“At a nice, romantic spot?”

Storm grinned. Aunt Maile and Uncle Keone loved Hamlin. Funny, because she might have expected them to want her to meet a nice Hawaiian man. But she should have known they'd see past culture and skin tone straight to his soul.

“Very. I'll bring you both here next time you're on O‛ahu.”

Aunt Maile laughed. “I can't wait. Now tell me why you called.”

Storm hated to bring the subject up, but Aunt Maile had always been able to sense people's true motives. “I saw Nahoa Pi‛ilani last weekend. He lives near Pupukea, and he's a really good surfer. He took Robbie and me out with some friends of his.”

“That's wonderful.” Maile's voice became thoughtful. “I wonder how Rochelle is after all these years.”

“Me too, though she hated me after the accident.”

“Not your fault. She was a troubled woman before she lost her husband.”

“Nahoa seemed happy to see me, though, and he sent a friend to me for legal advice. He's a handsome guy, and by the way he looked at Leila, I think he knows it.”

Aunt Maile chuckled. “Why am I not surprised?”

“But Aunt Maile, some kid brought him this package. Inside was a
lei o manō
.”

“
AuwĒ
.” All the merriment went out of Maile's voice as she voiced the oath. There was a pause while she turned down the music in the background. “Did he know the boy?”

“No, he was just an innocent kid. He even asked for an autograph.”

“What did Nahoa say when he saw the weapon?”

“He asked the boy where he got it. I got the feeling the kid felt bad when he saw our reaction. He said some guy had paid him.”

“Sending a
lei o manō
used to be a challenge to battle. But when the old Hawaiian chiefs did it, they made sure the recipient knew where it came from,” Maile said. “What was Nahoa's reaction?”

“He said someone was trying to scare him and we all assumed he was referring to the big surf meet this weekend.”

“How did he do?”

“He won.” Storm was proud of him. “In fact, he was great.”

“Then we have to hope he answered the challenge and it's over.” But there was a note in Aunt Maile's voice that told Storm she was worried.

“When one chief challenged another, what would happen?”

“They fought to the death, and the winner would dislocate the loser's joints and break all his bones. The victor wanted to make sure his enemy wouldn't return in another powerful form, like a shark or a boar. Sometimes he would even consume part of his victim to gain his
mana
, or power.”

“Ugh.”

“But only a coward would send a warning or threat in secret.” Aunt Maile sounded grim. “It was probably a tasteless joke.”

“Yeah,” Storm said. She caught sight of Hamlin making his way through the tables. “Hamlin's here. I'll get back to you later.”

“Be careful, love,” Maile said, and they disconnected.

Hamlin bent over and kissed her. “Sorry I'm late. A client?”

“No, Aunt Maile. I called her about the package.”

“Good idea. What did she say?”

“It's a threat,” Storm said. “But you knew that, didn't you?”

“I read about it somewhere. Those old Hawaiians were brutal.”

“You think it was meant to threaten Nahoa?”

“Sure, someone was trying to intimidate him. Nasty way to do it, too, if you know Hawaiian legend.” A waitress stopped by the table and Hamlin looked up at her. “I'll have a glass of what she's having,” he pointed his thumb toward Storm's half-empty wine glass, “and a couple of menus.”

Storm shoved the plate of seared ahi toward Hamlin. “I saved some sashimi for you.”

Hamlin picked up a set of chopsticks, dredged a piece of fish through the special wasabi sauce, and popped it into his mouth. “I'm starved.”

“I was.”

“You're worried.” He pushed a wayward lock of hair from her forehead. “But Nahoa's okay. The threat didn't work, did it?”

Storm smiled at him and shook her head.

“So, do I need to distract you?” He ran one finger gently around the curve of her ear.

Storm gave a little shiver and edged closer to him. “You'll have to work harder than that.” She grinned. “But I do have my appetite back.”

“That's what I like to hear.”

In a couple of hours, Storm's concerns about the parcel had faded to a lurking unease. The menu was filled with tempting dishes and neither she nor Hamlin had been able to make up their minds, so they ordered different entrees and shared. The restaurant was so accustomed to people doing this that waiters brought extra plates. She had
shutome,
or swordfish, which came with a red Thai curry basil peanut sauce. Hamlin ordered coriander-seared
ono,
or wahoo, and mussels with Kalua pork, taro hash, and Polynesian coconut crab. They took their time, and when they finally pushed away empty plates, Storm sighed with contentment.

“Want to share dessert?” Hamlin asked.

“You're going to go for a long walk tomorrow, while I'm going to be sitting on my derriere in the car. I've got to drive out to Haleiwa.”

“You do?”

“I forgot to tell you. I want to talk to Stephanie about her case and she can't get any more time off work.”

“Wish I could go.” Hamlin ran his eye down the menu. “Did we have to order the melting hot chocolate soufflé ahead of time?”

“Yes, thank God. I love it, but the most I could eat now is a few bites of sorbet.”

The waiter showed up as if he operated by telepathy.

“We'll have a scoop each of haupia and lilikoi sorbet, to share.”

Storm sighed happily. “My favorites.”

“I know.”

“You're going to make me fat.”

“No way,” Hamlin said, and slid his eyes over to hers.

“You're bad,” Storm said, and he just smiled.