by Mike Befeler
“What kind of team is this?” Meyer asked in disgust.
“Consists of old, blind, crippled, incontinent vegetables,” I said. “Don’t get so upset.”
“Where’s your will to win, Paul?”
“Don’t care one way or the other,” I said with a shrug. “No one besides you seems to care, either.”
“Where’s the excitement?” Meyer shouted. “Where’s the zest? Where’s the desire?”
“Not in this room,” I replied. “I don’t think a cattle prod or a ton of Viagra would bring that back.”
* * * * *
Afterward, Meyer and I watched a staff member take the net down.
“You really get into balloon volleyball,” I said to Meyer.
His face was still red. “Yeah, it’s my A.D.D. I can’t stand to sit still.” He paced back and forth and pounded his right fist into his left hand. “I can’t get these people to care about the game.”
“You’re lucky they show up. Attendance is a victory at this age.”
He sighed. “I guess you’re right. I need some more exercise. You want to walk over to the shopping center?”
“Sure. Have that much left in this old body.”
As we strolled over, I asked, “What’s with the A.D.D.?”
“I was always hyperactive as a kid. In the District Attorney’s office I drove people nuts with my questions. It wasn’t until I was in my sixties that I was diagnosed with attention deficit disorder.”
“You are different from most of the people around this infirmary, Meyer. You act like you’re alive.”
He laughed and slapped me on the back, almost knocking me over. “I’ll keep going until the old ticker gives out. I only have two speeds: full speed ahead and stopped.”
* * * * *
At the Long’s Drug Store I bought some throat lozenges and a candy bar. Always good to have an energy snack in case the guards forgot the food.
On the way back Meyer said, “Besides Denny, do you have any other kids?”
“No. Just him. Shot blanks after that. And Denny has only one kid, Jennifer. Wish I could remember what she looks like.”
Meyer chuckled. “You’ll be able to artificially remember some things now with our new system. Between writing in your journal and me to harass you, you’ll be a regular Einstein.”
“More like the absent-minded professor. I still don’t remember you from yesterday.”
“Henry and I could play games with you,” Meyer said. “We could pretend to be each other. That would really mess with your mind.”
“Wouldn’t matter. The next day I’d have forgotten anyway.”
* * * * *
Back in my apartment, I started contemplating how I was going to clear my name with all the crime going on around my new home. My thoughts returned to the stamp collection. Obviously, this was the key to the murder. Someone had taken the stamps, probably the murderer. May have been the same person who broke into the cash box in the business office.
How did you track down a stolen stamp collection? First, you needed to know what was in the collection. I wondered if anything associated with the lawsuit over the stamps would shed any light on this. I opened the brown metal box in which I kept my valuable papers. There was a manila folder with TIEGAN penciled on the tab.
Leafing through the pages in the folder, I found nothing helpful. The only thing I located was the name of my lawyer, Frederick Kapana, and a phone number. Great. Even though I hated lawyers, I decided to call.
After speaking with a receptionist and an administrative assistant, I was put on hold. I sat there drumming my fingers on the nightstand. Finally, a booming voice came on the line.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Jacobson?”
“I’m calling regarding the lawsuit with Marshall Tiegan over the stamp collection.”
“I received word that Mr. Tiegan died.”
“How does that affect the suit?” I asked.
“All depends on what the executor of his estate decides. We’ll have to see.”
”But the reason I called, do you have anything that describes the stamps?”
“Hold on a moment.”
I listened to seventies elevator music and imagined being in a prison where this was the constant background. Maybe Kina Nani wasn’t so bad after all.
“All right.” The loud voice came back on the line. “Here it is.” I had to hold the phone away from my ear. “I found a list of all the stamps with the missing ones circled.”
“Can you send me a copy?”
“Sure. You’ll have it tomorrow. I have your new address.”
“How’d you get that?”
“Your son called when you moved into the retirement home. He also notified the opposing lawyer, Harrison Young. Speaking of whom, I had a call from him. He says he’s considering filing new litigation. Claims you stole the whole stamp collection this time.”
I shuddered, remembering from what I had read that Denny had called Harrison Young. “Yeah, the guy seems out to get me.”
“I’ll let you know when anything happens officially.”
“Great,” I said. “I can hardly wait.”
As I hung up the phone, I wondered whether I should have discussed being a suspect in Tiegan’s murder. That’s what Denny and Meyer wanted me to do. No, I didn’t want a lawyer mucking with my life any more than I had to. I’d keep working this on my own for the time being.
That taken care of, I went down to the second floor for lunch.
Meyer and Henry were both working on their salads when I arrived. As I sat, Meyer was asking Henry, “Where do you buy coins for your collection?”
“Catalogs and coin stores,” Henry replied.
Meyer raised his eyes to glance at me. “Henry’s recounting the life of a coin collector.”
“Do these stores handle stamps as well as coins?” I asked.
“Most of them,” Henry said.
“How many deal with stamps on Oahu?”
Henry paused for a moment and closed his eyes. “One in Kaneohe, one in Kailua, and two in Honolulu.”
“You’re a genius,” I said.
“I know,” he replied.
* * * * *
After lunch I accompanied Henry to his apartment. He lived on the fourth floor in the opposite wing in a single room suite like mine.
“You must have a good housekeeper,” I said, noticing the immaculate interior.
“I don’t like clutter.”
While he opened a desk drawer, I saw a plaque resting on his bookshelf. It was a mathematics award from Princeton.
“This is impressive,” I said. “When did you win this?”
“When I was working on my Ph.D.”
“Where did you go after you got your degree?”
“I taught at the University of Oregon.”
“Did you enjoy teaching?”
“Not much. I liked the research.”
I could picture Henry struggling with bored students.
Then I saw a photograph of a woman on Henry’s dresser. Plain-looking woman with short hair, but a pleasant smile.
“Was that your wife?” I asked.
“Yeah. Grace died of a heart attack four years ago.”
“You must miss her.”
He didn’t answer, just nodded his head.
For a moment I thought I saw tears in his eyes, but then he turned back to the desk drawer. He removed a neatly labeled folder and extracted a typed sheet of paper.
“You can make a copy of this,” he said. “Has store names, addresses, and phone numbers.”
I thanked Henry and left his apartment, wondering if maybe he wasn’t such a jerk after all.
I headed to the Kina Nani business office, where I sweet-talked the secretary into making a copy of Henry’s store list for me. Back in my apartment, I checked the phone book and found two other stores listed under “stamp collectors,” which I added to Henry’s list.
* * * * *
Later that
day, a woman padded up to me. She had vivid blue eyes, a fetching pug nose, and a curled silver coiffure that looked like she’d been to the beauty salon. She beamed a pleasant smile, highlighting her full red lips around even white teeth. “You’re Paul Jacobson,” she said.
“That’s me.”
“I’m Marion Aumiller. Meyer Ohana suggested I talk to you. I’m putting on a little party tomorrow evening to welcome new people to Kina Nani.” She had a twinkle in her eyes.
I looked at her more carefully. She stood almost five-foot-six, trim figure, and noticeable breasts pushing out the top of her orange blouse. Not bad for an old broad.
She put her hand on my arm. “I would like it if you could join us.”
“Sure. What’re the specifics?”
“Seven P.M. in the rec room,” she said.
“I’ll be there. Save the last dance for me.”
She smiled again and shuffled away, displaying a pleasant, rounded posterior filling out her black slacks.
Damn, I thought to myself. That would be an appealing woman to get to know.
Chapter 8
The next morning I remembered to read my journal. What a life! Things happened, I forgot them, and then I had to peruse my written account to make up for a lousy memory.
If I kept this up, I could spend the whole day reviewing what I’d done in the past. Then I wouldn’t have to do anything new, just stuff my face with meals three times a day. I wondered if I’d been writing down exactly what happened. What if I invented things? No, I wasn’t that kind of person. If I had gone to the trouble of keeping a journal, the damn thing would be accurate. It also seemed I could verify things with this guy named Meyer. I wondered if I’d recognize him at all today. I tried to imagine what he looked like. The only hint I had was what I had written. He had white hair and a white beard and looked a little like an aged version of my son Denny.
At breakfast I found my table and stared at the white-bearded guy. “You don’t look anything like Denny,” I said.
“Good observation,” he said. “He’s better looking and forty years younger.”
“I read my journal and tried to think what you looked like. The writing says I know you, but I can’t remember ever seeing you before.”
“It’s like a little game for us, Paul. Every morning you start over and by the end of the day we’re old buddies. By the way, I hear you have a girlfriend.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Marion Aumiller stopped by a little while ago, all atwitter that you’re coming to her party tonight.”
“I read that name,” I said. “What’s she look like?”
Meyer pointed across the room. “She sits over there. I can’t see her clearly with my bad eyesight, but she has on a dark blue muumuu.”
I squinted in that direction and a woman waved to me. Never seen her before.
“You should get a little action there, Paul.”
I dropped my fork. “You implying what I think you are?”
Meyer leaned close to me. “There’s one thing about retirement homes. Look around this room.”
I scanned the dining hall.
“What do you see?” he asked.
“A bunch of old people.”
“But what else?”
I looked again. Then it hit me. “Except for this table and a few others with both men and women, most of the tables have only women.”
“Bingo. See, women wear us down and outlive us. You, Henry, and I are the exceptions. Our wives died first. Typically, it’s the other way around. The three of us are prime meat for these women. If you’re still up for a little old-age sex, it’s readily available.”
“Haven’t had sex since before Rhonda died,” I blurted.
“Then maybe you better avail yourself of the one benefit of a retirement home.”
I glanced around the room once more. A hand raised from the blue muumuu and waved at me again.
“Don’t know if I remember what to do,” I said.
“It’s like breathing. It’ll come back to you. Just make sure there’s some Vaseline around.”
I sighed and returned to my pancakes.
After breakfast Meyer and I took a walk.
“You have many visitors?” I asked.
“No.” Meyer said with a grimace. “I seem to have outlived my close friends. I don’t have much family on Oahu anymore. My roots are typical of the islands. My ancestors include a Hawaiian fisherman, a Portuguese sailor, a Scottish businessman, and an Irish rogue. A regular goulash of backgrounds. But somehow along the way, my side of the family went off on its own, so there were no big gatherings of distant cousins. My kids visit once in awhile, but they have pretty busy lives.”
“They live close by?”
“My son’s in Chicago. He’s a stockbroker and wrapped up in his work. He comes here with his two kids once a year. My daughter is married to a contractor in Hilo. She visits every couple of months and often brings one or more of her three teenagers. I expect to see her in a week or so.”
“So you ever get off this rock, or have you been here forever?”
“I was a local boy who went to Kamehameha School—made possible by my one-sixteenth Hawaiian heritage. Then I went to Occidental in Southern California as a history major, of all things. I did a stint in the navy on a destroyer escorting supply ships in the European theater. After VJ Day, I used the GI Bill of Rights to go to law school at Boalt Hall in Berkeley, and then practiced law in a small town in northern California before returning to the islands, back to my roots.”
“We must be approximately the same age,” I said. “And we were undergraduates in the L.A. area at the same time. I was at UCLA right before the war. And I was in the European theater. With the army in England, preparing for the Normandy invasion.”
“See? We’re practically brothers.” Meyer whacked me on the back, and I had to catch my step so I wouldn’t fall over.
We passed a large banyan tree, with its aerial roots dropping toward the ground. Two young boys dangled from a branch.
Meyer looked up at the gigantic tree and he sighed. “Did you ever go to the amusement park in Long Beach when you were in college?”
“Yeah. That old rickety roller coaster that went out over the pier. Looking down at the ocean from up there scared the piss out of me. I tried to be brave to impress Rhonda.”
“That roller coaster was something. Martha and I used to go there when we were dating. I met her when I was a senior at Occidental. But we didn’t get married until after the war.”
“She waited for you?”
“I guess she didn’t get any better offers along the way.”
I thought back to Rhonda and me courting, driving around in my beat-up yellow roadster which rattled like a collection of tin cans dragging on the pavement. We chugged up to Big Bear, along the coast to Santa Barbara or down to San Diego. Then an apartment and home in Long Beach. Now replaced with this retirement home. It was really the shits.
Meyer and I stopped in front of a hedge of yellow and pink hibiscus.
“I used to garden,” he said. “How about you?”
“Gardening wasn’t my favorite thing. Played golf, did some painting. Haven’t done either in recent years, as far as I know.”
“How’s your investigation going?” Meyer asked.
“Kind of crappy. I reread everything I’ve discovered. Don’t know how I can accomplish anything when I have to start over every morning.”
“So what does your journal tell you?”
“Night before last I talked to a suspicious night watchman named Moki Iwana. Trouble is, I wouldn’t recognize him if he spit in my face.”
“What caught your attention about him?”
“He had access, was here the night of the murder, and has keys. Keys. . . .” I needed to do something about that.
* * * * *
When we returned to the building, I stopped by the facility manager’s office. I knocked on his open door, and h
e waved me inside.
“Can I get a new lock with my own key?” I asked.
He shook his head. “No can do. We need get in all da rooms fo’ cleaning and fo’ any emergency.”
“Doesn’t say much for privacy.”
“Dis a retirement home, not a private residence. Besides, my boss say you moving out next month.”
“So they tell me.”
* * * * *
I spent the rest of the morning feeling sorry for myself, wallowing alternately in the two feelings of anger and dread.
What a pisser having this crapola memory of mine. It was like misplacing a sock in a drawer. I was rummaging around trying to find something. I’d empty the drawer. No sock. Must have lost it in the washing machine.
How could I remember my childhood so clearly and not be able to remember yesterday? Not anything. Like it never happened. It was no different than if I’d gone into a coma for five years. Here I was with absolutely no connection to anything that happened to me recently.
If I read yesterday’s newspaper, it would still be news to me. And it would be news tomorrow and the day after.
How did that make me feel? There was a big void in my gut to match the one in my cranium. It made me want to cry, kick the wall, scream, throw a glass against the wall.
It wasn’t fair. I was in great health, otherwise. I could be a useful senior citizen if I didn’t have this one little glitch in my system. Kind of like an airplane getting ready to take off. All gleaming silver. Great meals ready to be served to the passengers. Everyone buckled safely in. Flight attendants had made all their announcements. Pilot put his hand on the throttle. One problem. No engines.
Whenever I saw people around this joint, I wondered if they knew me. I could have made a great friend yesterday and wouldn’t recognize him from a hole in the wall. Most people carried memories around that got triggered by sight, sound, or smell. With me, nothing. Did I know that guy? Did he know me? When I sat down at breakfast this morning, Meyer was a brand-new acquaintance. Then I talked to him, and he had all this information about me. It was spooky. Like my evil twin had been here for days and I’d just shown up. What did my twin do or say? Did he get in trouble? What was his connection to this murder? I had no clue.
