He woke two hours later, bathed in perspiration. He'd been dreaming of Julie. His heart was pounding in his chest, and the stiff erection inside his swim trunks made him dash for the beach.
Dripping wet, he jogged back to the lanai and flopped down on a lemon-colored string hammock to relive the dream. Julie had been standing on the beach, all alone, swaying to some unheard music. He'd been sitting on the lanai, stringing her favorite blossoms into a lei. He'd strung hundreds and hundreds of blooms into an endless string. He'd spotted Julie and ran to the beach, the endless lei trailing behind him. They hadn't spoken. Their eyes met and held. He'd wound the blossoms around her from neck to toe. Still they didn't speak. The scent from the flowers was making him light-headed. Julie, too. He'd woken when they both toppled to the sand, their arms around each other.
He'd successfully pushed Julie from his daytime thoughts, but now she was invading his sleep. There would be more dreams, he was sure of it. On an impulse, he rolled out of the
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hammock to reach the phone. He sat cross-legged on a reed mat to dial the information operator. He asked for the number of the Waikiki Beach Tower. He memorized the number and quickly dialed. "Julie Kingsley," he said coolly.
Twelve rings later the switchboard operator came back on the line. "Miss Kingsley isn't answering. Would you care to leave a message?"
"No. I'll call back later. Thank you."
He was insane. It had to be the flowers and the sunshine. He was drunk on the island. It happened to people, he was told. He'd sworn he was never going to get in touch with Julie again. "Bastard," he hissed. "Just hours ago you were talking to your wife, telling her you missed her and wished she was here. What kind of bastard are you?" he demanded of himself.
"The kind that's going to shower, dress, and drive into Waikiki. I'm tired of fooling myself. I want to see Julie and I intend to see Julie."
The thought stayed with Cary while he showered and dressed. He splashed some cologne on his cheeks, strapped on his watch, and ran a brush through his hair. He checked his wallet and looked for the car keys. He could make it to Waikiki in an hour and a half, according to the map. Just in time to announce himself to Julie and take her out to dinner.
Cary arrived in Waikiki and its maze of one-way streets. He drove around for an hour trying to find the entrance to the Beach Tower. Frustrated and angry, he stopped a policeman on a three-wheeled bicycle to ask directions.
"Turn around here, go to Ala Wai Boulevard, and follow that till you come to Niu Street. Make a left and stay to your right, and you'll be on Kalakaua. Stay on Kalakaua till you come to Liliuokalani Avenue. There's a McDonald's on the corner; make a left. The driveway is one block down on your left."
Cary turned the car around and narrowly missed two women dressed in brilliant red muumuus. He cursed loudly as his eyes sought out the street signs. Every damn street had at least four Ks in its name.
He drove slowly, caught behind two young boys on bicycles. He'd never seen so many people clustered in one area in his life. They walked aimlessly, carrying their shopping bags, apparently with no destination in mind. He cursed again until he saw the golden arch of a McDonald's. He waited for a crowd of giggling girls to cross the street before he made his
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left turn. There was the sign—Waikiki Beach Tower. He'd been up and down this street three times and had missed it. A group of women were walking toward his car, so he had to wait again. All of them wore large name tags. The woman closest to him wore a badge that said she was from Poplar Bluff, Missouri.
A valet took his car, and before he knew what was happening, it was gone, tires squealing down the ramp. A second young man approached him and asked who he was visiting. "This is a high-security building, sir. We lock the main gates here, and even the tenants have to use a key to get in. I'll call for you."
"Julie Kingsley. I'm not sure which floor she's on."
The boy grinned. "I think you're too late. She went out about thirty minutes ago, but I'll check."
"Do you know all the tenants' names?" Cary asked.
The boy grinned brashly. "Only the good tippers."
Cary grinned, too. He'd hustled once himself at that age. Hawaiian tourists were noted for overtipping, or so Amelia had warned him. "Fifteen percent, darling, no more," she'd said.
"I was right, sir; she's out. Would you like to leave a message?"
"No. I need my car."
He paid three dollars to get his car back and drove out the way the valet had driven in, tires squealing. He should have known better. Calling would have solved everything. She could be anywhere. Maybe she was with the lady from Poplar Bluff, and he'd missed her in the group. She could be one of the pedestrians he'd seen carrying a shopping bag filled with souvenirs. "Shit."
Now all he had to do was find a street that would take him back to H-l and Maggie's house.
On the drive home he felt like a forty-eight-year-old fool.
Cary was up the following morning at 4:00 a.m. He was on his way to Waikiki by four thirty-five and chopper-bound for a round-trip to Hilo at six forty-five, courtesy of Mr. Yoneyama. He'd be able to scope out the sugar plantation from the air before their noon meeting.
The pilot looked like a recycled beach bum, Cary thought. He was also quiet. He'd furnished two cardboard containers of coffee which said it came from Apple Annie's.
"Good coffee," Cary complimented. The pilot nodded.
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"You don't say much, do you?"
"You're paying me to fly. You didn't say anything about wanting a tour guide. That's Molokai to your left. Maui is a little south, and Hawaii due south of that. Another thirty minutes and we'll be in Hilo. What do you think of our Hawaiian sunrise?"
"Awesome. It beats Key West," Cary said honestly. "You been flying this thing for a long time?"
"About four years. I was a helicopter pilot in the navy. When I got out I came here for some R and R, knocked around the surfing circle, got myself a busted spleen and lost a kidney. Now I'm just an observer on the Banzai."
"You surfed the Banzai?" Cary asked increduously. "Only the best surfers in the world surf the Pipeline."
"Or fools. You must be the dude that's going to buy the old Peralta sugarcane plantation. You don't look British."
"I'm not. My partner is, though. He lives up on the North Shore. The Kamali estate. Do you know it?"
"Used to pass it every day on my way to the Banzai. Where are you from?"
"Texas." Cary sipped at the coffee. It was delicious. "By the way, how did you find out about our interest in buying the plantation?"
The pilot laughed. "They've been trying to unload that plantation for years. You aren't the first man I've flown to Hilo to look it over. You're the first guys interested in building a refinery, though. At least, to my knowledge. I'm no real estate salesman, but I've been here long enough to know a deal when I see one. The plantation is overpriced. Otherwise, the Japanese would have snapped it up by now. They own half this state as it is."
"So I've heard."
"My advice to you would be to play a little hardball. That's just my opinion. We could use a refinery here. Something besides tourism for employment."
"I'll keep it in mind."
"I have a couple of other suggestions if you're interested."
"Let's have it. I can use all the information I can get."
"Check the drainage. Get the weather reports for the past twenty or thirty years and see what the rainfall was. Do a projection. Irrigation is real expensive over here. There's Hilo. Do you want to land or do you want me to circle the plantation?"
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"Circle. I want to take some pictures from up here. I assume those shacks are the workers' quarters?"
"Shacks is the right word. Nobody should have to work all day and live in those hovels. There's no running water or electricity. It wouldn't cost that much to put up some military-type housing, maybe Quonset huts. You could take that off the a
sking price. The main house is in bad shape. There was a write-up about it not too long ago in the Honolulu Advertiser. Now, that's going to cost a small fortune to refurbish, if you plan to live in it. I've never been in it, but the pictures were fantastic. Your wife would have a ball getting it into shape. Women see stuff like that as the ultimate challenge. Again, that's only my opinion."
Cary shuddered, remembering the time Amelia refurbished her mother's old house in Texas, spending hundreds of thousands of dollars, and then burned it to the ground the day she finished it. Her words came back to him: "Sooner or later, everyone pays his dues." He shuddered.
"I think I've seen enough. Let's go back to the heliport. I might have time for a visit to the courthouse before my meeting."
"If you plan on doing business here, I'd like to offer my services. I have two choppers. If the price is right, I could keep one on Hilo and ferry you guys back and forth. I'll give you my card when we set down."
"I'll consider it."
"I can't ask for more than that. You should know I have two experienced guys I use when I have more business than I can handle, which isn't often." Cary nodded.
They talked nonstop on the flight back to the heliport. Half the conversation was business, the other half Hawaiian folklore. Cary soaked it all up like a sponge. When Amelia arrived, he'd be able to tell her all about it.
"Where's a good place for breakfast?" Cary asked as the pilot landed the small craft at the heliport.
"When I'm in Waikiki I usually hit the Jolly Roger. They don't skimp, and the food is good. The one I like is on Kuhio. Give it a whirl. Here's my card. Call me if you need me. If I'm out on a run, I turn on my machine. Don't be afraid to talk to it."
Answering machines. Kuhio. Didn't he drive along Kuhio last night when he was looking for Julie? There was a tingling
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in his hands and arms when he climbed into his car. He pulled the map over to the window for light. Yep.
It was only ten-thirty; he had lots of time. He'd have a bite, do a little sight-seeing, stop in an ABC store for toothpaste, call Julie, stop by and see Julie, ask Julie to dinner. See Julie.
This time Cary plotted his course carefully, remembering the one-way streets. If he turned down Liliuokalani Avenue, he could park, and call Julie, then leave his car there while he walked to the corner of Kuhio and the Jolly Roger.
Cary tried to calm his twanging nerves. What tourist in his right mind would be in his room at one in the afternoon? Not Julie Kingsley, according to the attendant.
Cary headed for the Jolly Roger.
While he finished his coffee and Orange Julius, he scanned the map to see how close he was to 1800 Kalakaua Avenue. Satisfied that he could walk, he left a tip and paid the check. He did not give in to the temptation to phone Julie again—but he knew he'd try again after the meeting.
It was ten minutes of six when Cary left the offices of Thomas Yoneyama. The deal was going to go through, he could feel it in his gut. A couple of days of phone calls back and forth would tie things up nicely. He'd kept his poker face intact when Thomas Yoneyama mentioned that several Japanese investors were interested in the plantation. Cary had leaned across the table. "I never make more than one offer. I never dicker and I never renege. What that means in Texas is take it or leave it. All my credentials are in the folder I gave you. You can reach my banker any time—right now if you like. His home phone number is at the bottom of the bank statement. I'll wait to hear from you, Mr. Yoneyama."
Thomas Yoneyama was a peaceful-looking man with honey-molasses skin and a crown of pure white hair. He had great dark eyes which looked like pools of warm chocolate, a sensitive mouth, and square white teeth. They gleamed brightly every time he opened his mouth.
He'd already checked Cary Assante out, as well as Rand Nelson. They fared far better than the Japanese. He had a deal, one he'd been waiting for for years. There was a sucker born every minute. On the other hand, maybe he was the sucker. Both Nelson and Assante were astute businessmen. What did they see that he didn't.
* * *
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There was still no answer in Julie's room. Cary was bushed; he'd put in a long day. He could hang around and continue to make a fool of himself, ringing Julie every ten minutes, or he could go back to the house, call Marty Friedman, his lawyer, and go to bed. He opted for the sensible plan and headed for his car.
It was past midnight when Cary dialed Marty's home phone number. Cary listened politely while Marty squawked about the eleven inches of snow that blitzed the New York area. "Will I come to Hawaii? I'll be on the next plane. I'll call Alan now to save you the call. We should be there by tomorrow evening, your time. I'll have my secretary call you sometime tomorrow with our arrival and flight number. Hold that sunshine!"
A quick dip in the ocean with the moonlight smiling down on him was just what Cary needed. A cheese sandwich and a cold beer would lull him to sleep. A fitting end to a long, hard day.
Just as sleep claimed him, the phone rang. He rolled over, burying his head in the pillow. Was it Amelia, calling him to chastise him for not calling earlier? He was too tired to get up and go into the kitchen to answer the phone. But what if something was wrong at home? He stumbled out of bed and padded to the kitchen. In the dark he reached for the phone, missed, and grabbed a second time. When he brought the receiver to his ear, he heard only a dial tone. "Shit!" he said succinctly. Now he was wide-awake. Should he call Amelia? It was early morning at home. Angrily, he punched out the Texas number. Amelia's cheerful voice annoyed him. "Did you just call me... honey?"
"Aha, there's another woman in your life! Sorry, darling, it wasn't me. I am glad you called, though. I expected you to call last evening. I sort of waited up but finally fell asleep. How's it going?"
"Fine. Everything is fine. I was just falling asleep and the phone rang. By the time I got to the kitchen, whoever it was hung up. I thought something might have happened at home."
"My, you are testy. Go back to sleep, darling. We'll talk later. Love you."
"Uh huh," Cary mumbled as he hung up the phone.
Someplace in his dream Cary thought he heard a phone ring a second time. In his nightmare he was running for his very life on Waikiki Beach. Amelia and Julie were both chas-
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ing him. His heart beat wildly as he tried to run faster, but the sand and his dress shoes held him back. Long arms, hundreds of them, all wearing gold bracelets, reached for him, dragging him down to the sand. He gasped and woke. It was the phone again. He squinted at the digital clock on the night table— 8:45.
He staggered out of bed to head for the kitchen, only to hear the phone stop ringing. "Goddamn it!" he thundered as he made his way to the shower.
Julie hated bus rides of any kind. She'd taken the tour to Germaine's Luau just so she could say she'd done it. It hadn't been fun for her, although most of the couples seemed to enjoy themselves. There had been only three single people on the whole bus, and it wasn't till they were actually at the luau that she paired herself off with them. She was sorry five minutes later when they announced they were born-again Christians from Sangaree, South Carolina. A devil perched itself on her shoulder at that moment and she said, louder than she intended, "I was born right the first time." She hadn't gotten any laughs, even a titter. The three women, who were also schoolteachers, had moved away from her as though she had underarm odor.
Left to her own devices, and without benefit of an escort, she was afforded the best seat in the house for the show. She enjoyed the Polynesian show, but the song-and-dance team had been awful, in her opinion. The food was something she'd never want again, nor the watered-down blue drink that came with it. She concluded, as she made her way back to the bus, that she'd wasted $38.95. But then, nothing in Hawaii had pleased her so far. Don Ho and his rendition of Tiny Bubbles left her as flat as the coconut drink the Hilton Hawaiian Village served during his performance.
She'd done the International Market Place i
n two hours. Fifty dollars and two straw bags of junk convinced her it wasn't a place to return to even if she was bored to tears. Waikiki Beach, she decided, after the first two days and a vicious sunburn, was worse than Coney Island on a hundred-degree day in August. Diamond Head was beautiful from the highway or from the side window in a plane, but going into the crater was like walking in a field of burnt-out straw. She'd enjoyed the jitney ride around the eighteen-hundred-acre wildlife and botanical gardens of Waimea Falls Park, but again,
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she'd felt uncomfortable with all the couples holding hands and snapping pictures.
Her itinerary still held places to see: Pearl Harbor, Hilo Hattie's Fashion Factory, the Dole Pineapple Cannery, Nuuanau Pali Lookout, and the Kodak Hula Show. She had made arrangements on her own to see the Kawamoto Orchid Nursery, but she had neither confirmed nor paid for her reservation. She'd signed up for a cruise around the islands but was going to cancel it. She didn't need another whole day and evening of watching happy couples.
The bus was quiet now, the happy tourists thinking about tomorrow's activities. She was tempted to hang out in her room and give her sunburn a chance to cool down.
When the bus ground to a halt at the Waikiki Beach Tower, Julie was the third one off. There Was no one to say good-bye to, no one to wave to but the tour guide.
She walked across the road and entered the Tower from the side entrance. After five minutes of foraging for her key, she realized she'd left it in her other pocketbook. She asked to be let in.
The young man at the desk smiled. "That's what we're here for. Guests tell me the islands are so overwhelming, they forget the most ordinary things."
"I guess that's what it is," Julie said tiredly.
"Miss Kingsley, earlier today—twice, in fact—a gentleman called for you. He didn't leave a name, but he has a very distinctive voice."
"For me! Are you sure?"
"I'm sure. I have to log it in the book. The same man was here last night, too, I have his license number, since we parked his car. You were out all three times. Would you like the number of the plate?"
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