by Don Porter
The point of the chin is the proper target because the skull snaps backward and traumatizes the vegas nerve in the spine, which in turn guarantees an hour's nap. But, back to the punch. Use the heel of your hand, wrist rigid, and roll your shoulder so it's behind your arm. You're crouching anyway, so straighten your legs and your arm at the same time to get every muscle in your body into the punch. Don't aim for the chin, aim for a point six inches beyond the chin, and come up on your toes for the follow-through.
He flew backward six feet and slammed the back of his head against the car. He slid down to sit on the pavement, and the original hostage was rolling at his feet, clutching himself. George was standing behind the car inspecting the bat, and the handle seemed to be broken. He tossed it across the road into the weeds.
“You survive?” George asked.
“No, that infernal racket is killing me.”
“Good point.” George stepped to the open driver's door, pulled the Glock out of his belt and fired twice through the CD player. Blessed silence reigned. By comparison, the groaning coming from the pavement was a lullaby. I could feel the tension drain away when that racket stopped, and can well imagine that listening to that noise would incite people to mayhem.
George was surveying the scene and shaking his head. “You know, we've got a real problem here. If we don't clean up this mess, we could be arrested for littering.”
We grabbed bodies, tossed them into the car and slammed the doors. We came to the driver last. He was flat on his back, desperately trying to suck in air, and his face had turned purple. George had probably hit him with the end of the bat, obviously in the solar plexus. George kicked him in the kidneys a couple of times to roll him over, and that helped his breathing. We picked him up and chucked him into the driver's seat.
George gave him a couple of brisk slaps. “Drive,” George commanded. He was reaching to slap again when the guy jammed the car into gear and screeched away.
“Have you had your moving target practice this week?” George asked.
“Nope, due tomorrow, I'll take the one on the right. Anyone who misses buys the next round at Fat Fat.”
“You're on.” By that time the car was a hundred feet away, so it was a challenge. I grabbed the Beretta in my right hand, my right wrist with my left hand, and buried my left elbow in my belly. That makes a good solid platform, almost like screwing the gun into a vise. George just extended the Glock at arm's length, but then, I don't have George's arms, and the Glock's barrel is two inches longer than the Beretta's. We both fired, and both rear tires went flat, but the car kept right on going, only it was bouncing around like one of those trick clown cars with eccentric wheels that you see in a circus. That may be the main advantage of front-wheel drive.
Peace and quiet returned to the mountain, and in a minute the crickets cranked up again. We continued up the sidewalk. A grove of palm trees below us made silhouettes in the path of moonlight on the ocean, and it was almost like being in an Elvis Presley movie. Sometimes when Hawaii is unbelievably beautiful, or I hear a group of locals beside the canal playing guitars and singing, I have the thought that it must all be hype for the tourists. It isn't. It's real, and it's hard to imagine why people like living anywhere else.
I had to pull myself back from my rhapsodizing to remember that we were sneaking up on a murder scene. As usual, George broke the spell.
“What's your favorite theory to date?”
“I'm sort of favoring suicide. Remember how Malcom X's father committed suicide? According to the official report, he shot himself in the back fifteen times with several different weapons, then tied himself to the trolley tracks. Maybe this guy beat his brains out with a pipe, and tossed the pipe into a passing garbage truck as he fell. Wouldn't that explain everything?”
“Not bad. We'll suggest that to Cochran. I was thinking more in terms of a rival family wanting to take over Hawaii gambling, if and when it happens.”
“Water pipes are a little unusual in gangland executions.” We came to the driveway and were looking up between hibiscus hedges, past shrubbery, to a very large, and very dark, mansion.
George had an answer for that. “Yeah, the water pipe is our clue, and obviously it was used to implicate O'Malley, but I think it's a red herring. What it does tell us is that the police contact is still involved. Remember, the water pipe attack on the FBI agent wasn't mentioned in the press, so someone had to know the connection.”
“Good, I hope it's those two Neanderthals who arrested us in Pearl City.”
“Nah, they were just doing their job. Cochran sent them to fetch us. What he knew, that we didn't, was that we were chasing a couple of FBI agents. Cochran probably had a tap on our cell phones, by the way.”
“How the heck do you put a tap on a cell phone?”
“Easy, if you're the cops. You just have a phone programmed with the same code, and presto, you're a party line.”
We stopped to survey the surroundings, and they confirmed that we were the only living people in the universe. The lights milling around Waikiki and racing on the freeway belonged to a mutant anthill. Our hill was very dark and very quiet, and we had it all to ourselves. George continued to theorize, maybe reluctant to venture into the black driveway. There did seem to be danger, and maybe evil, oozing down from the mansion.
“We know that the victim was Pendergast's client, and that a cop tipped him when O'Malley showed up. Maybe the same cop was double dipping, working for two different Mafia families, and that probably wouldn't strain Pendergast's ethics either. He counts his $500 per hour, but likely doesn't care where it comes from.”
We started up the drive. Just enough light came from the street to show the white concrete, everything else was black silhouettes. We were instinctively walking quietly, and I noticed that we were whispering. Not because there was anyone within hearing distance. It was more like a kid walking past a graveyard at night, being careful not to awaken anything.
I refused to be intimidated and tried a normal tone, but it came out pretty quiet. “How about this scenario? Dallas told us that O'Malley didn't do it and we believed her, but she didn't say that she didn't do it, and after all, she's the water-pipe queen.”
George was probably nodding; it was too dark to tell. The drive flattened out and turned into a parking area, hibiscus hedge hiding the world on the right, stone steps leading up to a wrap-around lanai on the left. The front of the house was mostly glass, reflecting moonlight; the dark gash in the middle was a doublewide front door. We marched bravely up the stairs.
George popped on a penlight to check the door, letting a narrow beam escape between his fingers. The light reflected right back at us from a “Police Line, Do Not Cross” tape. He reached over the tape and tried the knob. It was locked, and it didn't look like the sort of lock one opens with a credit card. Dynamite, maybe. We turned left and started around the house on the lanai. We were high enough to see over the hedge, but we would have missed the police car slipping silently up the road without lights if a streetlight hadn't reflected off the windshield.
“Silent alarm,” George hissed. He jumped off the lanai into darkness, and I was right behind him. I guess conscience does make cowards of us all. We hadn't done anything seriously wrong yet, but we had every intention of breaking and entering. The hedge we plowed into was oleander, highly preferable to hibiscus because it bent and let us through rather than impaling us. We hit the lawn beyond just as the cop car turned up the driveway.
We scrambled away on all fours, like a couple of running bears, heading for a black blob on the lawn that looked like more shrubbery. It wasn't. It was a chunk of lava rock, the size of a car and probably very decorative, but hard as hell when you bang into it. We tumbled around behind it just as the car doors closed.
The doors were shut quietly, apparently the cops were still planning to sneak up on us, but I was surprised to hear two more doors close. That made a lot of cops for a patrol. We were expecting the area to be probed by
spotlights, but they didn't come. I took a chance and peeked around the edge of the rock, keeping my face right in the grass. What I saw was at least four cops, stepping over the “Police Line” tape, and walking in through the now-open front door. They didn't turn on the lights. Several flashlights flickered through the windows and disappeared into the interior. In a couple of minutes, some flashing was going on in a window toward the back, then a couple more were moving around upstairs.
I noticed that it was a little damp, and more than a little chilly when we stopped moving. “Shall we make a dash for it, and come back some other night when the house isn't so crowded?”
George had been peering around the other side of the rock, but he crawled half way over to whisper. “How many cops did you see go inside?”
“At least four, I couldn't be sure.”
“Yeah, I've been trying to count the flashlights, but I haven't seen more than three at once.”
“So?”
“So, they came in a five-passenger car. What makes you think there isn't a lookout on the porch with a Kalashnikov?”
“Does your wild fantasy include a night scope?”
“Maybe, but look around.”
I did, and George had a heck of a point. Darkness is relative, or maybe perverse. It was too dark for us to tell the difference between a rock and a shrub, but there was far too much light for us to cross an open patch of lawn.
“Okay,” I said, “we'll spend the night here, but my feet are getting cold.”
“Try putting them in your mouth. You're usually good at that.”
“Thanks a bunch. Need I point out that visiting the scene of the crime was your idea?” There seemed to be more than one light in a room upstairs, flashing around for quite a while before they moved to the next room. “They're making a pretty thorough search for trespassers.”
George sat down with his back against the rock, obviously getting comfortable for a long siege, so I joined him and pulled my feet close so that I could hug my knees. That was a little warmer. George went into his pontificating mode.
“They aren't looking for trespassers. You do know what lobbyists do?”
“Yeah, they try to influence the legislature. So?”
“So, how do you go about influencing the Hawaiian legislature?”
“Surely you don't mean that any of our politicians are open to bribery?”
“Dick, do you know how many legislators and functionaries are taking time out from official duties right now while they serve their sentences?”
“I thought there were only a couple in Federal jail, a few under investigation or indictment for fraud and campaign fund irregularities, no reason not to trust government.”
George was shaking his head, giving me the retarded pupil treatment. “I thought you were getting smart. You did say you had doubts about the Tooth Fairy. Why do you think people spend a million dollars campaigning for jobs that pay a hundred fifty thousand?”
“I always supposed that they were altruistic, just wanting to serve their fellow men and their country.”
“Yeah, that's probably it.” George crawled over to peek around the edge of the rock again. Time passed, but very slowly, and I was wondering whether or not to shiver. It was probably seventy degrees in Waikiki, but we were two thousand feet up. The standard temperature gradation is only two degrees per thousand feet, but it felt more like ten. George crawled back and sat again. I decided to feed his ego.
“Well, Sherlock, what brilliant conclusions are you reaching?”
“Mostly, I'm thinking that there is a big pile of untraceable cash somewhere that hasn't been discovered yet, or at least not officially.”
“So, the guys inside are looking for it?”
“Nah, this is the usual method of operation for the crime scene squad. They always work at night without lights. That's why I was counting on them missing a few business cards.”
Chapter 18
We heard the house door open and scooted to respective ends of the rock. A shadow, the same shade as the door, moved to one side—so there had been a sentry on watch. I hoped that his feet were cold. Four guys filed out of the house, switching off flashlights as they came. Car doors closed quietly, the car backed around and slipped down the drive. It went half a block on the road before its headlights came on.
“Reckon they found the cash?” I asked.
“Nope, they left because it's almost daylight. I didn't see them carrying any bulky garbage bags or suitcases.”
“Can we go get some hot coffee now?”
“Since we're here, let's have a look around. As usual, the cops will have destroyed all of the evidence, but it still might be worth a look.”
We found a gap big enough to squeeze through where the hibiscus along the drive met the oleander around the lanai. The ground that had been tilled was thoroughly tracked by many feet.
“Cops?” I asked.
“No, O'Malley family. Dallas was telling the truth.”
The front door was locked again, so we walked around the lanai. Halfway back we came to a small window that was open a crack. It was six feet above the lanai, so George squatted down; I walked up his back and stood on his shoulders. He stood up; I raised the window and slithered through.
Inside was the mother of all darkness. I was coming through the window headfirst, clawing around for something to grab. My hands went down two feet, then into six inches of cold water, and when it was disturbed, the water smelled like a typically Hawaiian broken sewer pipe. I felt farther, it was a kitchen sink full of dishes. I got hold of the far rim, followed to the edge with my fingers, and pulled my feet through. Only one foot went into the water. I dropped to the floor and felt my way across the kitchen to open the back door for George. There seemed to be a lot of stuff on the floor. I could see a window in the door, and I shuffled toward that.
George snapped on his penlight, and we were standing in the aftermath of an earthquake. Drawers had been pulled out and dumped, cabinets emptied. Silverware, dishes, linen, appliances, and drawers all lay where they had fallen, and the kitchen table was tipped over on its side.
“This guy needs a new housekeeper.” George said. “This place looks worse than yours.” He swept his light around the room and we didn't notice any undisturbed hiding places. George opened the refrigerator. The light came on and looked like high noon, but there was nothing else inside. He looked down, saw the pile of vegetables he was standing in, said “Yuck,” and led the way toward the front of the house.
Every room in the house had been trashed, but most smelled better than the kitchen. I noticed that daylight was coming through the windows. We spent some time around the front door where the body had been. A mess had been cleaned up from the floor, but George was studying the walls, even though they were clean.
The upstairs was a shambles, but it was obvious that three rooms had been occupied. Two had no clothes on the floor, and the beds were stripped and turned over, but a quick sniff showed that the sheets had been slept in. The big room across the front of the house was a master bedroom, and that one was knee-deep in clothes. The king-sized bed was stripped, the mattress slit and leaking stuffing. It was light enough in there to survey the destruction, but George had his flashlight on and was studying the walls.
He was standing beside the door when he shouted, “Yes!” so loud that I dropped the empty jewelry case I'd been studying. I waded through the clothes to see what he was so excited about. He had his light on a tiny nick in the wall a foot above his head. He grabbed a chair, dragged it through the pile, and stood on it to shine his light down onto the nick.
“Gotcha! Look here, Dick.” I climbed onto the chair with him and it didn't break. The nick in the plaster that had him so excited had little grooves in it, just the size and shape of the threads on a half-inch water pipe. George jumped down, the chair tipped, and I nearly went sprawling but hit the wall instead of the floor. George turned on the lights in the room. It was light enough outside that it proba
bly didn't matter. When we studied the wall below the nick, looking sideways at it so the lights reflected in the paint, we could see that several places had been scrubbed, and there were even clean spots on the floor, under the ripped pillows.
George turned off the light and sat down on an empty suitcase. “Well, that answers about a thousand questions we've been asking ourselves.”
“It does?” I turned the chair around and sat on it.
“Well, sure. In the first place, guys like that don't answer the door themselves. They have bodyguards to do that. In the second place, if you break a head that's standing up, blood is going to squirt all over the walls, not puddle on the floor.”
“Right,” I said, and I was beginning to understand. “So, he wasn't killed by the door. He was killed right here.”
“Yep, probably not killed, there wasn't that much blood, but at least knocked out. They lugged him down to the door and beat his brains out with him lying down. They tried to set O'Malley up, not so much to throw off the cops, as to throw off the rest of the Mafia Family. O'Malley must have called ahead for an appointment and they saw their big chance.”
“So, where are the bodyguards?”
“They're wherever the car is, and that's also where the money is. They must have realized that the O'Malley frame wasn't going to stick, so they took off. Come on, I need some coffee.”
We stopped at the Wailana Coffee Shop and sat at the counter. The Wailana is right at the edge of Waikiki, across the Ala Moana Boulevard from the Hilton Hawaiian Village. It gets a lot of tourists, the adventurous ones who actually leave the Village grounds. We like it because it's been there for fifty years and has a homey feel to it. They change the carpet every ten years or so, but replace it with that same dark burgundy color that matches coffee stains. In Hawaii, places that don't change get to be old favorites in a hurry.
George was slathering butter on a slice of Hawaiian sweet bread toast. “I'll call the electronics company. You run down to the cop shop and get O'Malley out.”
