The Butcher's Granddaughter
Page 26
We faced each other once again, for the last time. He explained to me how it would happen. I listened, not saying a word.
When he finished, the door behind me swung open, and a distinguished looking man in his mid-fifties stepped into the room. I stood up and faced him. He had salt-and-pepper hair combed back from a high forehead in a conservative cut. He was tanned and healthy-looking, with a simple gold ring on his left hand and no other visible jewelry. His deep brown eyes swept past me as if I were nothing more than one of the works of art hanging on the wall.
Behind him stood a trembling wreck of a man named Robert Waterston. His face was drawn and hadn’t seen sleep in days. He looked at me with as much recognition as Daniel’s uncle. I considered doing or saying something that would make him recognize me, but stopped short.
Because I recognized him for exactly what he was:
A dead man.
Tran bowed first, and the older man consented with a quick dip. Tran then looked at me and said, “Again, I thank you for your journey.” His hand brushed the breast pocket that held the locket. “Our business is concluded. All of the specifics will be taken care of within days.”
I turned and stepped softly through the door.
Past the tiny Buddhist shrine and the disordered stocking shelves, the old woman was still on her stool, still calmly folding cranes. I bowed politely to her and disappeared into the street.
Epilogue
Honolulu Examiner
June 3rd, 1994
MANOA—The body of Solomon “Sonny T” Tiexiera was found early this morning in the bathtub of his Manoa home, the victim of an apparent suicide. Police discovered the body after neighbors complained of the uncontrolled barking of Tiexiera’s two pit bull terriers.
Linked on several occasions to organized crime, police refrained from suggesting any foul play in Tiexiera’s death. In a statement to the press earlier today...
Los Angeles Times, Orange County Edition
June 4th, 1994
NEWPORT BEACH—Local business magnate Robert Waterston was found dead yesterday in his home in Corona Del Mar. Police are initially calling the death a suicide. The incident comes only a day after a grand jury handed down an indictment of Waterston on charges of money laundering. A Newport Beach Police investigation uncovered financial connections between his highly successful art brokerage and the prostitution ring of Cynthia Dazhai Ming, a high-end madam known locally as the “Yacht Princess.”
On a tip from local private investigator Richard Cane, Newport Beach police began the investigation of Waterston. His financial records revealed receipts for expensive works of European modern art that had never been purchased...
It is suspected that the Newport Beach Police Department is using Waterston’s high media profile as leverage in their ongoing attempt to make a case against Ming, who has eluded conviction on prostitution and gambling charges for over fifteen years...
Honolulu Examiner
June 5th, 1994
HONOLULU—Two fishing boats emptying their nets late yesterday afternoon came across fresh human remains that were obviously the result of recent high shark activity along the Kakaako Waterfront. Shark attacks, though uncommon along the highly populated southern shore of Oahu, are not unheard of. Interesting to this particular case, however, is the lack of any missing person report regarding the victim.
The remains were transported to the Honolulu Medical Examiner’s office. Derek Kapaho, Honolulu City Coroner, stated that the remains were damaged to such an extent that identification would only be attempted in light of a court order. There is no indication that such an order is pending...
I let the three newspapers fall to the floor beneath the plastic cafeteria table in Honolulu International Airport, shuffling the consequences of my actions under my feet. My flight back to the mainland would leave in fifteen minutes. Del would be waiting at the terminal, my skeletal explanations of where I had been the past few days being just enough to bum a ride from LAX.
I wondered if she would notice that she was talking to a different person than the one who promised her dinner on Saturday—if she knew she was being lied to when I told her that I was fine, and that I would tell her everything when I got back to civilization.
I wondered if she could hear the gun blast that still reverberated in my head, the one that blew a yawning hole in Jay Ballesteros’ stomach, and pitched him into the waters off Kakaako Point.
Or the echo in my ears of the phone in room 1724 of the Hyatt Regency Downtown, as it rang.
And rang.
And rang.
And rang.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Michael Lion spent the bulk of his youth voluntarily associating with people of whom his parents disapproved, in places they would not have been caught dead, working jobs that required strange hours and the occasional violation of constitutional rights. He cannot explain his attraction to these darker elements of society any more than heroin addicts can explain why they enjoy throwing up. All he knows for sure is, if you want happiness, spend your time in the daylight. But if you want honesty, it’s to be found after the sun goes down.