Forever Poi

by Tyler Colins

  “Hell, he loves them so much, he'd be happy to keep them for the night, if not the month.”

  * * *

  “Why are we looking through this box here at the Kuilei Cliffs?” Perched in the rear of the Jeep, Rey held an industrial flashlight over Linda's shoulder as we pawed through a sundry of items once belonging to the unfortunate Clifton Myers Wood.

  A quick shoyu chicken dinner at the Waielae Zippy's was followed by a stop at Randy's cousin's place, not far from Kahala Mall. Quiet and bookish Cousin Nickie had a nerdy look going: large-framed glasses, unstylish clothes, and fish-belly-pale skin. Randy, resting on a recliner, was recovering nicely, though his face looked like he'd been in the ring with Danny Garcia for ten rounds.

  “It adds an element of intrigue, don't you think?” I joked, grabbing a journal.

  “It adds something,” she groused. “Eyestrain.”

  “What's up?” Linda asked, regarding me curiously. “And don't say 'nothing'. I've learned to read you.”

  “… Cash Layton Jones is back in town.”

  “Oooh, Mr. Hunky Drug Dealer's here, is he?” Rey slapped my back. “And you're not with him … why?”

  “Because he's a jerk.”

  “Ain't they all?” she asked with an exaggerated sniff.

  The three of us laughed and Linda returned to the task of sifting.

  Rey, having grabbed a ledger, dropped back.

  “Hey! I need that light.”

  “Turn on the car lights, Lindy-Loo,” she instructed, aiming the flashlight at the dash before returning to her find.

  “They don't help much,” she mumbled. “Can we find a place with decent illumination—like home?”

  “I'd rather not go there right now,” I advised, flipping through the journal.

  “Do you think he'd actually hang around and wait?” Linda asked, surprised.

  “Of course he would. He's got the hots for our hot lady,” Rey jested.

  “Not funny.” I focused on the middle of a page. “What's the name again of the place in France that Lolita was trying to exhibit Bizz Waxx's door-paint art?”

  “Go for it, Lindy-Loo. Your French is better than mine.”

  “You have no French,” Linda chuckled. “Galerie Couteau—on rue de Faubourg.”

  “You got something?” Rey peered over my shoulder.

  I pointed. “On this page, and two previous, there are references to Galerie Couteau in the iconic Downtown L.A. Arts District. The name can't be a coincidence. Cliff's question marks makes me wonder if he was questioning whether something was iffy or illegal. He's got initials here. Have we come across anyone with the initials F.U.?”

  “F.U. could mean 'follow up',” Linda advised.

  “Which definitely suggests he suspected something,” Rey pointed out.

  “Which suggests a link between the Kahala gallery, Lolita, Bizz Waxx, and—”

  “The Chinatown galleries,” Rey finished for her friend. “Let's return to the office and review this stuff from top to bottom. Lover Boy won't go looking for you there, will he?”

  “It's after nine and I'd like to think he's given up by now, but knowing him, he's probably made himself at home.” Envisioning him with his feet on the coffee table, a soda or beer in hand, I exhaled at length. “I'd rather not find out the hard way he's decided to stay at Hotel Fonne.”

  “He must really have a thing for you if he's so determined to keep pursuing you.”

  “Cash a.k.a. Richie J has a thing for Cash a.k.a. Richie,” I stated drolly.

  “Yeah, but you must be dynamite in—”

  “Let's move on, shall we?” I broke in with a wry smile and started the engine.

  “Say, weren't we supposed to drop by Bizz Waxx's place?” Linda asked, buckling up.

  “Why don't we swing by?” Rey proposed enthusiastically.

  “Why don't we?” I concurred.

  Chapter Nineteen

  “It doesn't look like anyone's inside,” Linda stated with a creased brow.

  Rey and I murmured agreement as we sat in the Jeep before Bizz Waxx's large nondescript Halawa studio, just off Iwaena. A narrow bin-filled laneway curved around the right and a shoddy-looking real estate office with broken signage was situated ten yards to the left. Dim lighting lent a film noir milieu to the closed shops and businesses stretching along a street devoid of people and traffic.

  “Maybe he's got an exhibit,” Rey suggested.

  “He'd said he had one in two weeks, which would make it this coming weekend,” Linda clarified. “But he may be attending one.”

  “Or he could be out with buddies,” I submitted.

  Rey leaned so far forward, she was halfway between Linda and me. “It's weird that he hasn't been answering.”

  “Maybe he's avoiding you,” I joked.

  “Or maybe he's dead.”

  Frowning, we scanned the shadowy, two-story premises.

  “He might have gone to the Mainland,” Linda finally offered.

  “He might have done a lot of things,” I put forward quietly, feeling a little discouraged.

  “I say we go in.”

  Playfully, I slapped the side of Rey's head. “Stop with the B&E suggestions. We don't need to get hauled in.”

  “No one will know.” She looked through a scalloped faux-leather tote and pulled out Cousin Willy's B&E kit.

  Linda moaned and I groaned.

  “Are we private eyes or chickens?” she challenged.

  The two of us clucked in response.

  “Funn-nny. Okay, you both sit here and watch a dark ugly building and imagine what's inside, but I, ladies, am going to find out!”

  My ever-zealous cousin was on the sidewalk and in the laneway before Linda or I could say “chicken nuggets” three times.

  * * *

  To keep the single light we'd turned on from showing to the outside world—not that anyone would notice, given that night-time tenants were few and far between—we adjusted deco-dot sheets that served as window coverings. Odd, we'd not noticed them before. The skylights did little thanks to a pitchy sky, but a four-light bronze pendant lamp suspended above the spiral staircase illuminated enough that we wouldn't trip over things or ourselves.

  Linda wrinkled her nose and gazed warily around. “Smells a bit funky in here.”

  The fused smells of stale beer, sweat, and nondescript cologne intermingled with those of paint and art-related products. It wasn't pleasant, but it wasn't offensive; there were worse odors to inhale.

  Rey stood before a tall tapered door depicting a stream of contorted dampwood termites in various shades of red. “How f'g ugly.”

  “The art or the bugs?” Linda asked dryly.

  “Both.”

  “It looks like he's sold a few pieces since our last visit.” I indicated a bare wall where a half-dozen doors and windows had been previously propped.

  “Or those are the ones he's exhibiting,” Linda said.

  “Good point.”

  “I'm heading upstairs,” Rey announced, gesturing the stairs.

  “Do you think you should be talking that loudly?” Linda inquired, perturbed.

  “I'm not, but even if I were, it's obvious no one's here. Or alive.”

  We stared at one other for several seconds before she gestured again. A bright flashlight beam lead the silent way.

  A swooping stand-up lamp greeted us on the landing. Linda switched it on and we saw identical ones in three places. Upstairs proved a smaller, narrower version of downstairs, but this airy space served as living room, dining room, kitchen, and bedroom—although defining them as such was taking it a bit far.

  The “living room” was comprised of three lumpy army-green armchairs and a cubic coffee table that dated back to The Dick Van Dyke Show days, while the “dining room” consisted of a sanded oak table and four mismatched chairs. A double futon bed with two base drawers, and messy charcoal-gray bed sheets served as “bedroom”, with two black plastic crates as nightstands. On one
was a galleon-ship table lamp and on the other two empty bottles of water.

  The “kitchen” wasn't much more than a counter with a hotplate, four coffee mugs, two beer steins (one full), and an array of miscellaneous plates with cutlery resting on top. Beyond was a five-tier shelving unit that might have been considered “folk art” if it weren't so badly assembled. On it were haphazardly arranged cans of food, boxes of health-store cereal and granola bars, jars of dried beans and herbs, and who knew what else.

  “Charming.” Rey twirled slowly on a wooden floor painted gray with black swirls. “Kinda like Garage-Sale Central.”

  “One person's dump is another's castle,” I advised merrily, eyeing Bizz Waxx's artwork. It lined high walls that hadn't seen fresh paint in decades (there had to be an irony in that somewhere).

  “Doesn't look like there's much to search,” Rey murmured with a furrowed brow.

  “How about behind those?” Linda pointed at three neon-colored doors with large peace signs and feral-looking emojis underneath.

  “Awesome. One for each of us.”

  Linda and I chuckled, and Dean “mambo'd” again.

  Rey's grass-green eyes narrowed. “Weren't you supposed to leave that in the car?”

  I pulled the cell from my jean-jacket pocket. Dang. It was him. Adjusting the phone to vibrate mode, I tucked it away. “I want door number one.”

  “I'll take number two,” Linda said cheerfully.

  “That leaves me with good ol' number three. Let's see who wins the big prize.” With a grin, forward Cousin Rey marched.

  My door led to a washroom with shower, narrow counter, toilet and, interestingly enough, a cast-iron claw-foot bathtub. A durable, puce-ugly linoleum floor proved as clean as the room. A metal cabinet revealed various over-the-counter pain medications, toothpaste and toothbrush, bandages, and ointment. An unadorned wooden box served as laundry hamper. Inside: paint-speckled towels and rags, two black Ts, and a Kings of Leon baseball cap.

  That prompted an image of Dale, a friend of Xav Konani's, to pop into my head. That reminded me of something: we'd forgotten to attend Honey Konani's birthday party. Damn. We'd definitely have to make up for that.

  “Hey guys!” A note of urgency rang in Linda's faraway voice.

  I rushed over, as did Rey, and the two of us nearly crushed each other as we simultaneously dove through “Door Number Two”. We were in a long, dimly-lit storage area with a descending flight of stairs no more than two feet wide. Along one wall were doors and windows in various stages of art-work completion while on the opposite side were shelves with a sundry of art supplies and various-sized crates, some open and some closed.

  Gazing below, Rey yelled, “Did you win the big prize?”

  “I did if you can call Bizz Waxx that,” Linda called up matter-of-factly. “Are you planning on using X-ray vision? Or are you coming down?”

  My cousin and I exchanged entertained glances and hastened below.

  Linda was crouched in a corner beside an unsealed crate. Inside was a door with paint-spray graffiti of pornographic proportions. Rey's mouth fell open while mine disappeared.

  “Forget 'Long-Legs Lolita' and look behind the frame,” Linda instructed sharply.

  Forcing incredulous gazes from the carnal image, we peered behind. The flashlight illuminated scraped wood and broken clasps.

  Rey cursed softly. “Whatever was attached is gone now.”

  We turned to a tense-looking Linda and she indicated a corner.

  Between several painted windows lay the artist, wearing a ripped Sex Pistols T-shirt, designer jeans, and a nifty (e-x-p-e-n-s-i-v-e) Movado watch.

  “Nuts,” Rey murmured.

  “Double nuts,” I said, stepping closer. “Are we sure he's just not passed out? He looks like he's sleeping.”

  “He's got a cyan paint marker in his chest and 'death to the greedy' spray-painted on his forehead,” Linda advised. “Surprisingly neatly, I might add.”

  “So he does.” I surveyed a body that bore no visible acts of violence. “We're going to have a tough time explaining this one.”

  We eyed one another musingly.

  “Given the situation, Ald Ives will overlook our unauthorized entry,” Linda stated, but didn't look overly confident.

  Rey smirked. “Yuh think?”

  “I hope.”

  * * *

  “Man, can that dude yammer. He's worse than Grandma Columba,” Rey muttered under her breath.

  We'd just received a ten-minute lecture from Ald after he and his team had completed a preliminary assessment of Bizz Waxx and the studio.

  The three of us were seated in a first-floor corner on the uncomfortable wooden chairs with the vivid serpents snaking up the legs. Sporting a hint of a beard, Ald looked relatively relaxed and rather handsome dressed in True Religion jeans, a white-and-navy long-sleeved T, and a black full-zip jacket. The derisive tone was the only thing to give away his true mood.

  “I heard that, Fonne-Werde.”

  She sneered. “You get an 'A' for A-1 hearing.”

  “You, lady, are in no position to get lippy.”

  “We found you a dead body. You should be applauding us.”

  With a scowl, he tucked hands into jean pockets and leaned into a wall. “This isn't the end.”

  “Of course it isn't,” she snorted. “There's a murderer to catch!”

  Exchanging sideward glances, Linda and I swallowed amused smiles.

  “And that'll do from you two!”

  With Eru (Hyouka) Chitanda innocence, we stared at the detective.

  “Those doleful anime expressions don't get you off the hook. Haven't I warned you time and time again about breaking and entering?”

  “Mr. Waxx invited us to drop by any time,” I stated flatly, crossing my arms. (What was a little white lie?)

  Crossing hers, Linda nodded. “Yeah.”

  “Without a key?”

  “He wasn't around, so we let ourselves in.” I pulled out my cell when Dean crooned. It was just after midnight and Cash Layton Jones was still calling. Give the man ten points for resilience. But then, as he'd said, we were both as persistent as dogs with bones.

  He stepped close and our toes nearly touched. “You entered without a key. That's otherwise described as gaining admittance to someone's premises without authorization, especially after the use of illegal means to gain said entry.”

  “Can you prove there was no authorization? As I said, we had no key, so we had to find another means of access.” I rose. “And 'illegal' is a rather dodgy word, don't you think?”

  “Yeah,” Rey slapped her thigh. “You say po-tay-toe, we say poe-tah-toh, but it amounts to the same thing: we did your job by finding the poor guy.”

  Ald looked from her to me to Linda, and shook his head. “This is getting too weird. Go home and get some sleep. We'll continue tomorrow, in my office at eleven.”

  * * *

  “You never mentioned Grandmother Columba,” Linda said as we drove away from the studio.

  “I didn't know her long or well. She was my dad's mom and I knew him even less long than I knew her. Man, that broad was one feisty lady who could scare the crap outta you with a simple look from teeny-weeny, asphalt-black eyes.”

  “Funny, isn't it, how all three of us really never knew our fathers?”

  “We're no worse off for it,” Rey responded glibly.

  “What did yours do?” Linda asked, looking around. “I don't believe you ever told me.”

  “He was a soap actor, who did all right. He was handsome, in a young Raymond Burr kinda way.”

  “What happened to him?”

  “They were shooting a death scene by the Le Brea Tar Pits and he wandered off while everyone was on break.”

  “Did he get sucked into the pits or something?”

  “Fatally beaned when his head hit an oversized fossil.” Rey chuckled dryly. “They had to film a second death scene the day after. It was a plot twist nobody saw coming.”r />
  Swinging onto the H-201, I asked, “So, girls, what do we do next?”

  “Get some sleep. Have mega cups of coffee in the a.m. Collect the pets after visiting our least favorite detective,” Rey replied. “Then focus on Lolita Renoir and Bizz Waxx.”

  “We should check in with Xavier, too.”

  “Good thinking, Cousin Jilly.”

  “I'm also thinking that a trip to Cali might not be a bad idea.”

  “To visit galleries Lolita might have been working with?” Linda asked.

  I nodded. “It could be worth checking out in person.”

  “To save time, why don't we split up?” Rey suggested. “We can put Cholla on hold for the moment; she's not going anywhere and we pretty much have her number. Linda, you should visit the Mainland. I'll dig around with Gail and get more on James-Henri and Cliff. And you, JJ, can try to stay on Detective Hives' good side and see if he'll share info … while you're avoiding Lover Boy.”

  “Speaking of, can I sleep over?” I asked with a sheepish smile.

  “You think the guy's in your condo?”

  “If he's not, he probably will be at some point—like six a.m.”

  “Why don't you just tell him to F off?”

  A very good question indeed. Ah, could it be … he'd not listen? But Rey was right in proposing that. I needed to leave him behind and to do that, I had to be decisive, forthright, authoritative … and out-and-out rude.

  Chapter Twenty

  Grabbing coffees, Xavier “A” Shillingford nodded to an empty corner table in the first-floor coffee shop of the building where Conwind Assurance and CON Hawaii Security Systems were located. An important mid-morning senior-executive business meeting had him wearing a sharp Italian linen suit with flat-front trousers. I couldn't help admire how soft beige emphasized lovely crème-caramel skin.

  “Sounds like you've been busy.” He motioned two metal chairs.

  “Not as busy as we'd like,” I confessed, slipping into a seat that proved more comfortable than its cold, space-age look advertised. “There are too many questions—”

  “And not enough answers,” we finished in unison and high-fived.