by Paul Levine
Lassiter signaled for a refill on the coffee. “I’d like to help him, Charlie, get him safely out of town, a fresh start, but I don’t know how.”
“ Amicus usque ad aras, you’re a friend to the end. But forget it, Jake. Once they’re into dope, they’re gone. Cut him loose.”
“I’m not the cutting loose type.”
“An admirable quality, albeit an anachronistic one. You’re a throwback, Jake. It’s one of the reasons I like you so much. Your ideals are as dated as that… Le Mans, or whatever it is you drive.”
“An Olds 442, Charlie. Four-barrel carburetor, four-speed transmission, dual tail pipes.”
“Precisely! You’re still a cheeseburger and double malted fellow in a world of quiche and white wine. And you still think all your friends wear white hats. Someday you’ll realize that nearly everybody in this town is playing it fast and loose. Bankers who launder drug money, boiler room gold bullion salesmen who cheat widows in Iowa, lawyers who cross the line and become partners with their clients. Everyone’s walking a tightrope, and with just a nudge one way or the other, most tumble into the swamp.”
Lassiter stared into his coffee cup. “Thirty years hanging around cops and corpses has left you a tad cynical.”
“Wake up, Jake. When you read in the paper that a dope kingpin walks because the cops lose the evidence, do you think it’s an accident? In case you didn’t know it, prosecutors tank cases, judges play favorites, and lawyers crawl in bed with their clients. Berto’s descent should not surprise you.”
Lassiter looked away and studied a group of residents — haggard men and women — filing through the cafeteria line. So young. Soon they would be experts at picking lead from gunshot wounds, standard fare in a county where gun control means holding it with two hands. “I’m not surprised by any thing in this town, Charlie. Now, how about helping me with something else. A crime I can’t figure out.”
“Murder?”
“No, a burglary. One-point-six million in negotiable bonds from a client.”
Charlie Riggs snorted. “Burglary. Ugly Anglo-Saxon word. Burgh, ‘house’ laron, ‘theft.’ A penny-ante crime for small minds. All that stuff about mastermind thieves is mostly fiction, you know. There’ve been some pretty glitzy B and Es, but mostly just second-rate smash-and-grab artists.”
“As I recall, there’ve been some pretty good jewel heists.”
“Hollywood,” Riggs scoffed. “Take the Star of India theft from the Museum of Natural History. You know damn well Murph the Surf was just a beach bum from Miami.”
Lassiter speared a fried plantain from Charlie’s plate. “Nothing as exciting as a giant sapphire here. My client kept the bonds in his office. He’s an old man who’s got a younger woman working for him, hanging around the office, hanging all over him. She’s got a look that says she’s been around the track a few times and hasn’t cashed any winning tickets yet. My client may be her last race.”
“ Auri sacra fames, the cursed hunger for gold. I assume she has an alibi.”
“A most convenient one. She was with my client at the time of the theft.”
“She has friends, does she not? A husband, boyfriend, nephew, that sort of thing. Have you done a workup on her, any surveillance?”
“The client won’t let me. He’s… fond of her.”
“Fingerprints at the scene?”
“None.”
“You’ve notified the banks, I suppose.”
“Immediately.”
“So what do you propose?”
“Don’t know, Charlie. I could confront her, make the accusation, see her reaction.”
“No. Sapiens nihil affirmat quod non probat. A wise man states as true nothing he cannot prove. You must have patience and wait. The problem with a burglary is there’s no body. Bodies are full of clues. But with a burglary, the thieves take the corpus delicti with them. For the time being, you’re stuck. Let the police handle it or mishandle it. But examine every clue they turn up. And don’t go looking for any geniuses.”
“I won’t, Charlie. You’re the only one I know.”
CHAPTER 13
Goddess of Desire
At seven-thirty, Jake Lassiter pulled under the canopy of the Sonesta Beach Hotel and gave his yellow Olds convertible to a goofy teenage valet — “Rad, man, that a GTO?” — who promptly ground the gears. Lassiter gritted his teeth and walked to the veranda overlooking the ocean. In five minutes they appeared, freshly scrubbed and wholesome as a Pepsi ad.
Keaka’s short black hair was still wet from the shower. He wore baggy cotton pants and a polo shirt, his arms strung with steel-cable veins. Lila had changed into a simple pink cotton dress, the sleeveless tank top clinging to her breasts and a full skirt falling away from a dropped waist. The long skirt flung easily with each athletic stride. When they walked outside and Lila felt the breeze from the Atlantic, she locked both hands behind her head, cradled her neck, and tossed her hair downwind. The ocean was streaked with creamy light as the moon rose in the east and smoothed a warm glow over her face. The wind was gusty and scented with salt, and as it blew, Lila’s skirt gathered between her long, strong legs. She stood there with eyes closed, back arched, and breasts thrust forward, listening to a silent song, laughing into the wind.
Jake Lassiter stood transfixed. Her physical beauty was intoxicating, as natural as a windswept beach. Never had he seen a woman so exquisite, so removed from his world of the mundane and mendacious… and never one so beyond his reach. His mind recorded the sight, savored it, and burned it into place.
“God I love the wind,” Lila said finally, her hair flying.
“Easterly,” Lassiter said. “About eighteen knots, but there’s a venturi effect here from the buildings. Feels more like twenty-five.”
Idiot! He cursed himself. The occasion called for savoir faire, for poetry, anything but a weather report. Then the moment was gone.
With the top down, they headed across the Rickenbacker Causeway to the mainland, through downtown and across the MacArthur Causeway, the lights from the moored cruise ships twinkling in Government Cut. On South Beach, Keaka Kealia paused before entering Joe’s, the famous stone crab restaurant, and said, “Surf here.” His head was cocked toward the ocean half a mile away. Lassiter listened and couldn’t hear a thing.
“The ocean’s just at the end of the street,” Lassiter said, “but not much surf, at least not by Hawaiian standards.”
“Three feet, maybe a little less,” Keaka announced judiciously.
They entered the restaurant, the Hawaiian still listening for the distant shore break, Lassiter wondering if he was being put on. A throng of tourists huddled in the foyer and the adjacent bar, and Lassiter had to elbow his way toward the maitre d’.
In Miami, there are three enduring personalities who, like Franklin Roosevelt, have defined an era. There is Shula the coach, Fidel the dictator, and Roy the maitre d’. Without access to Roy, the highlight of your trip to Joe’s was standing in line with fifty John Deere tractor salesmen from the Midwest.
Bespectacled and sleek in a black dinner jacket, Roy saw Jake towering over the crowd and waved him to the front. “How do you like the Fins against the Bills Sunday?” he asked.
“Give the points and put your money on Marino.” It was the same advice he always gave — give the points, or take the points — but bet on the Dolphins. He was right about half the time.
The captain took them to a corner table under a black-and-white photo of Miami Beach in the 1930s. When they were seated, Lassiter turned to his guests. “Keaka, did you really know there was surf here?”
Lila said, “Keaka has a sixth sense for water. His ancestors paddled canoes from Tonga to Hawaii, and Keaka believes in reincarnation, so he thinks he was a great sailor or King Kalaniopuu from an earlier life.”
Lassiter nodded nonchalantly, as if he often dined with reincarnated royalty. “King Kalan…”
Keaka smiled for the first time. “He killed Captain Cook.”
“And ate him,” Lila laughed.
“A lie!” Keaka barked at both of them. “A lie invented by the British. Cook was a fool. He did not know the people or the land but thought he was invincible because he had guns and the natives had only stones and slings.”
The outburst silenced the table. Lassiter shifted uneasily in his chair, wanting to change the subject. Anything but cannibalism or the weather. But Keaka wasn’t ready to let it go. “Do you know anything of Hawaiian history?”
“Not much,” Lassiter answered. “There was one king who united the islands, wasn’t there?”
Keaka gave a small smile of approval. “Kamehameha the Great, an invincible warrior. A string of war canoes four miles long. Of course, I am descended from Kamehameha the Great.”
“Of course,” Lassiter said.
Lila laughed and her hair fell across a shoulder. “It’d be hard to prove. Old Kame-ha-ha had about forty wives.”
“Only twenty-one,” Keaka corrected her. “Just enough to serve him.”
“Give me a break,” Lila said, “and pass the pumpernickel while you’re at it, Keaka the Great.”
Lassiter ordered stone crabs for the table. Boiled and served cold with a tangy mustard sauce, the hard colorful claws contain a meat sweeter than lobster. Keaka Kealia devoured his order and asked for a second portion. He ate quickly, going from one side dish to another, creamed spinach and hash browns and fried eggplant. Together, they put away several cold beers and the room became warmer. Around them was the clatter of plates and the cacophony of voices. At the table, everything was in softer focus now, the atmosphere changed. Keaka became more talkative, weaving tales of Hawaiian folklore, warriors from the jungle defeating great forces of invaders. Lila’s face radiated happiness, her eyes sparkling, and Lassiter thoughtfully concluded that the world’s most glorious sight was a dab of mustard sauce clinging impossibly to a cheekbone carved by Michelangelo.
On request, Keaka passed the second portion of stone crabs to Lassiter, but suddenly he winced, and Lassiter caught the platter before it crashed to the table.
“Good reflexes,” Keaka said.
“The pass-tip drill,” Lassiter replied. “You okay?”
Keaka was silent. Lila looked at him and asked, “Did you soak your elbows today?”
The Hawaiian shook his head. “Later, at the hotel. Don’t worry. I don’t bother you about your problems.”
Jake Lassiter waited, the outsider, figuring they would fill him in if they wanted to.
“Torn ligaments in both my ankles,” Lila explained, “from hard landings in wave jumping. But it’s really nothing compared to Keaka’s elbows. Chronic tendonitis from all that pressure on the arms.”
“Can’t it be treated?”
“Sure,” she said. “Anti-inflammatory pills, cortisone, tendon massage. Nothing works. Keaka soaks both elbows in ice after windsurfing every day.”
“Like Sandy Koufax,” Lassiter said.
“Who?” Keaka asked without taking his eyes from the claw he was dissecting.
“Pitcher,” Lassiter said, making a throwing motion with his left arm. “Struck out fifteen Yankees in the first game of the Series in ‘63. Had a bad elbow that cut his career short.”
“Yankees?” Keaka asked, clearly puzzled. “ Haoles?”
Lila erupted in laughter. “It’s a baseball team, Keaka.”
Now Lassiter was puzzled. “What’s a howley?” he asked.
“There’s a culture gap here,” Lila said. “ Haoles are Caucasians, foreigners as far as the native Hawaiians are concerned. So when you said ‘Yankees’…”
“I get it,” Lassiter said.
Keaka silently ate his stone crabs, ignoring the conversation, seeming not to listen until he looked straight at Lassiter and announced, “You haoles are ridiculous. You wear too many clothes, ties that choke the neck and hang down like an old man’s limp ole. Your women starve themselves and end up with chicken necks and hips sharp as bamboo sticks. You work in offices fifty weeks a year, then come to Maui and lie all day on a tiny piece of sand by your Hyatts and Marriotts where all you see are other haoles.”
The attack startled Lassiter. Why this resentment directed at him? Lila waited for Lassiter’s response, enjoying the verbal combat as if staged for her amusement.
Lassiter joined the battle. “Keaka, if you’re saying that modern America has a lot to learn, I agree. But we can’t all spend our days on the beach. Somebody’s got to grow the grain and make the widgets and even try the lawsuits.”
Lila’s full mouth parted into a small, enigmatic smile. “Jake, we all must find ourselves, decide what to do with our lives. I know that I would be out of place in a city. And maybe I have no right to say this, but when I look at you, I don’t see a lawyer in a three-piece suit and a fancy office. I see an outdoorsman, riding horses in the mountains, windsurfing on unspoiled waters.”
Lassiter looked at Keaka. No expression. Back to Lila. Was she teasing him, leading him on?
“I don’t know,” he said, “you might think I was just another haole.”
“No, Jake, you’d be different, I can tell.”
Keaka laughed without smiling. “Would he know the mountain or the jungle or the sea? There are spirits on Maui that sing, but the haoles are deaf. They, are forever strangers in my land.”
Jake Lassiter cleared his throat and bought some time. Had it been a courtroom, he would have thumbed through some papers, stood up, hitched his thumbs in his belt, and prepared to counterattack. Here he just took a sip of the cold beer and thought it through. First Lila flirts with him, then Keaka insults him. And does it well. I knew the bastard could out-windsurf me, but he’s outdebating me, too, Lassiter thought. A surprise witness catching him off guard. He had imagined they would talk about the latest in camber-induced sails and triple skegs, but Keaka was not just a jock and the sparring seemed to be for Lila’s approval. How to win? To tell them their lives were meaningless, just waiting for the wind, doing stunts in the waves, empty days of barefoot bliss. But was his life any more meaningful, renting himself out by the hour to balloon-heads like Thad Whitney at the bank?
Finally Lassiter said, “Keaka, you speak very eloquently. Your thoughts are profound and you deliver them poetically. But you overgeneralize. Every culture has its philistines, even old Hawaii, I’m sure. We have no monopoly on evil here.”
“It’s not poetry, it’s history,” Keaka shot back. “The English came two hundred years ago to build ports for their ships in the Pacific. Then the American missionaries, who thought nakedness was sinful, so they covered our bodies with heavy clothes and made us stink like them. The haoles stole our land and brought disease and killed the whales and swallowed the fish in huge nets. They planted that damn weed, sugarcane, for what, to make Coca-Cola? Then they burned the cane in the fields and blackened the sky.”
Any rebuttal, Counselor? a faraway judge whispered in Lassiter’s ear. He tried to remember what he knew of Hawaii. The college football team was called the Rainbows, or was it the Pineapples, and a long time ago he had read the Michener book, or did he just see the TV movie and think he read the book?
“Even before the Europeans, weren’t there constant wars on the islands?” Lassiter asked. “It wasn’t exactly Camelot.”
“Right,” Lila said, patting Lassiter’s arm. Her fingers lingered, and Lassiter’s pulse quickened. “Keaka’s ancestors used to get all painted up like Indians in a B Western and ride around in war canoes. The Big Island had five or six chiefs ruling different tribes, and they’d cut each other’s hearts out.”
Keaka narrowed his eyes and gestured toward both of them with a table knife. “It is an honor to be a great warrior, to die a warrior’s death.” Then he silently examined a claw that was not cracked, apparently overlooked by the kitchen crew which used mallets to break the hard shells that give the crabs their name.
Lassiter said, “Don’t worry, we’ll send it back and they’ll give it forty whac
ks.”
“No need.” Keaka scooped up the claw and it disappeared into a thick brown hand. The fingers closed and Lassiter watched ribbons of muscle pop from Keaka’s forearm.
“That’s not a walnut,” Lassiter warned. “The shell’s too thick…” A sharp crack interrupted him, the shell splitting into pieces. Blood spurted onto the tablecloth, a piece of jagged shell sticking from Keaka’s thumb. Expressionless, he sucked at the wound for a moment, then devoured the meat from the claw.
The show of strength seemed intended for him, Lassiter thought, a primitive warning, a staking out of territory. Had he telegraphed his thoughts about Lila, or did every man?
“I didn’t think that was possible,” Lassiter said.
Keaka grunted. “It’s easy. First you find the weak spot, then you apply pressure.” He jutted out his chin and smiled, the look of a barracuda. Then he rubbed his right elbow with his left hand.
“Keaka here is hard as a rock everywhere,” Lila said, squeezing Keaka’s thigh and simultaneously harpooning Lassiter’s morale. “But his elbow tendons are like spaghetti. He doesn’t complain, too Hawaiian macho for that, but I know how much it hurts. I wonder how much longer he can go on. We’re looking for easier ways to make money.”
Keaka shot her a murderous glance. “Listen, I’ve heard enough about my elbows. It takes more than a sore elbow to stop a Hawaiian. More even than three bullets.”
“Three bullets?” Lassiter asked.
Lila sighed. “A Hawaiian fable.”
“No. True story,” Keaka corrected her. “Haven’t you ever heard the saying ‘Never shoot a Hawaiian three times or you will make him really mad’?”
“No, must have missed that one,” Lassiter conceded.
“Right after Pearl Harbor,” Keaka said, “a Japanese pilot tries to get his plane back to its carrier but has engine trouble, so he puts it down on Niihau, one of the small islands. The local constable is a native Hawaiian, big-boned and a barrel for a stomach. He’s unarmed, but he puts the little Jap pilot under arrest. The pilot takes out a pistol and shoots the Hawaiian in the gut, but it doesn’t stop him. Bang, he shoots him again, but the Hawaiian’s big and strong and just getting madder, then bang again, a third shot in the stomach. Then the Hawaiian picks up the Jap and crushes his skull against the plane.”
