by Tony Bulmer
“Not much really, but that is not what I wanted to talk about.”
Karyn took a hit of tequila, “You got four minutes thirty seconds and counting to spill your
story, because after I swallow down this drink I am breezing out of here solo—you understand?”
Brad Verner swallowed, gave her an awkward look. “I work with statistics, geophysical statistics. I study spatiotemporal data sets and predict probability distributions for mining operations.”
Karyn nodded, “I was messing with you Verner, I know exactly what you do. You are a goddamn rock doctor. Question is why do the rocks around here need doctoring and who the hell are you working for?”
Brad Verner’s mouth drooped open, as words formulated on his tongue.
Karyn held up her hand. “Stop. Don’t answer that question. I already know the answer.”
“You do? How could you?”
“A taxi driver told me on the way over from the airport.”
“But I don’t know any taxi drivers. I drive a Toyota Prius.”
“A Prius huh? Figures.”
“Listen, I am sorry to inconvenience you miss, but if you could perhaps just give me Chief Mālama’s number then I could give him a call…”
“My name is Kane, Karyn Kane.”
“I am sorry, I didn’t know.”
“You didn’t ask.”
“You are right…I didn’t, I am sorry…I…”
“You think the chief is going to swallow down your wild story any better than that detective you were talking to in the squad room?”
Brad Verner, furrowed his brow. “He has to listen, I got no one else to turn to, I have contacted
everyone I could think of, the NSA the FBI, even the President himself.
“The President huh?”
“Yes, I didn’t get a reply, but he is very busy, I know.”
Karyn nodded. “I know the feeling.” “You don’t even want to know what they
are going to do?”
“Blow up the world right?”
“That’s not what I said… listen, if you don’t
want to help me…”
“Where did you park this car of yours?” “Car?”
“You said you had a Prius.”
“But I didn’t tell you about Deng Tao.” “I know all about Deng Tao.”
“You do?”
“Yeah. He has a yacht bigger than a cruise
ship that cost a billion dollars and change. Parks the damn thing in the bay, because it is too big to sail into the harbor.”
“I used to work for him,” said Verner, “—or his corporation at least—on the geothermal project. The one everyone is protesting about.”
Karyn raised her eyebrows, “No kidding. He is the man who is giving everyone free electricity.”
As Brad Verner opened his mouth to respond a large figure walked up beside him and slapped a heavy arm around his shoulder. The Detective from the squad room, the one Verner had been selling his high-‐wired story to. The detective was tall and heavy-‐set with a face like a cage fighter. “Verner here spinning you a line of crazy sweet-‐stuff? Don’t pay him no heed, he spins that same story to just about everyone he meets, isn’t
that right Verner?” the big guy tightened a mighty bicep around Verner’s neck, before reaching up with his other mighty paw and slapping Verner affectionately on the cheek.
Brad Verner cringed and squirmed, as though he were receiving the unwelcome attentions of a particularly dim-‐witted high school jock.
Karyn regarded the newcomer with a steady gaze.
“You ain’t going to introduce me to the pretty lady Verner? You slacking off on your manners today?”
“This is detective Kibishi,” said Verner, his voice tailing away weakly as the big cop squeezed down on his neck.
“I was having a private conversation with Mr. Verner here,” said Karyn.
“That so sweet-‐stuff? I wouldn’t have thought he was quite your type, if you know what I mean.”
“Here’s an idea Detective, why don’t you go grab yourself a cold-‐beer, or some peanuts, or what ever the hell it is you came in here for, then go about your day, because as I was telling your friend here, I ain’t in a small talk kind of mood.”
Detective Kibishi released Brad Verner as roughly as he had accosted him, twisting his neck as he did so. “Hey, you got yourself a smart Washington mouth on you sweet-‐stuff—that little crack you just made, I should give you a slap for sounding off like that. What would your smart-‐ assed Washington-‐friends think about that?” His big ugly face was all twisted up now, his breath
flecking with spittle as he prodded a giant sausage-‐ style finger in Karyn’s general direction.
Karyn smiled thinly, caught the giant finger with a deft backhand and snapped it like a breadstick. Then, as the big cop tottered
backwards, in agony, Karyn reached inside his jacket and pulled out his service issue Beretta in a fast, fluid movement. Without pausing, she popped the latch on the magazine release, cracked the cop full and hard in the face with the gun then pointed the weapon at his gonads. “I am guessing a guy as sloppy as you probably leaves a shell jacked into the breech as a matter of course, am I right?”
The reply came as an agonized squawk, as Kibishi’s eyes bugged wide with agony.
“Yeah, that is what I thought ‘sweet-‐stuff’. Now, here is what is going to happen, you are going to pirouette out the way you came, or I am going to blast you in the nuts with your own gun. That sound like a deal to you tough guy?”
“You broke my goddamn finger—you broke it!”
“Yeah I did—you want to file a claim? No? That’s what I thought, now get out of my sight before I change my mind and pop you anyway,”
“You haven’t heard the last of this, not by a long shot, he hissed, his face burning red and petulant.
Karyn nodded, “Your boss know you are down here Kibishi?
The detective shrank back like a cornered jackal. “I ain’t leaving here without my weapon so you better hand it over, or shoot me.”
“Real tempting you big crybaby,” said Karyn smoothly. She jacked the breech of the Beretta
sending a live round clattering to the floor. Then, without taking her eyes off the circling Kibishi, she collapsed the gun into pieces and dumped them into a pitcher of beer that sat on the bar.
The barman voiced his protest, but Karyn held up her hand. “The Detective here needs a beer and a splint. You might want to see that he gets them. The barman paused gaped, then cringed, as he saw Kibishi’s broken finger hanging at and angle that it had never been designed to hang at. “You want some ice for that hand dude?” asked the barman. “It looks like its never going to come right—you should see a doctor or something before it sets all crooked.”
Karyn slid another c-‐note across the counter, “Sorry about the mess,” she said as she got up to leave.
The barman nodded, his face twisted out of
shape like he had just sucked back a lime-‐cordial shooter.
12
As Karyn headed through the Club Carmady moving quickly down a dimly lit passageway into the parking lot out back, Brad Verner followed in her wake. Together, they strode out into the night where finally, he looked at her and said, “You aren’t a lawyer are you Karyn?”
“I never said I was.”
“The way you snapped his finger, then took his gun, that was gruesome—amazing, I have never seen anything like that. It was like a scene in a movie or something. Where did you learn to do that stuff?”
“Quick reflexes—runs in the family.”
“That was more than reflexes,” gushed Verner. “That was like the craziest kung fu bullshit I have ever seen in my life. Did you take classes or something?”
“My pop’s family come from County Kildare.”
“You are kidding me.”
“Yeah, they are from Boston really, but they tell anyone who will listen that they are from County Kildare—it’s like a badge of honor or something.”
“You don’t look Irish.”
“My mom is from Puerto Rico. She has a fiery Spanish temperament. I guess she and my father never stood a chance.”
“They are divorced?”
“Isn’t everybody?”
“My folks live in Seattle,” said Verner glumly. “They have been married since Eisenhower
was running things. They almost called me Dwight,” Verner said.
“That’s funny.”
“How so?”
“My Dad looks like Ike. Even has a photo of
him in his office.” Brad Verner looked suddenly brighter, “Say, can I take you to dinner or something? You can maybe even teach me some of those crazy kung fu moves?”
Karyn gave Brad Verner a tight look, “That’s real generous of you Verner, but like I already told you, I am running a tight schedule.”
“But everyone needs to eat dinner right?” Verner paused, looked earnest and said, “I am a vegetarian personally—not a complete vegetarian you understand—I eat fish, and eggs and cheese and sometimes I will even have a veggie burger—I know I shouldn’t really, it causes guilt by
association—the unconscious mind associates meat shaped food items with the real deal, so it is actually really unhealthy to even consider…”
“Verner, where is your goddamn car?” asked Karyn, her voice cool and even.
“Oh, I parked it down the block. Not far really, but you are lucky if you can get a space at all most days. This is what society is coming to—we are swamped with gas-‐guzzling motor vehicles and cities that are overpopulated to the point of collapse.”
“I never really thought about it to be honest,” said Karyn, scoping the back lot for movement, her every instinct on overdrive.
“You didn’t?” Brad Verner sounded shocked. In the street light glow, he stared at her
over the top of his black-‐framed spectacles, like she had just revealed a thoroughly unwholesome truth.
Karyn saw him staring and snapped. “What is this, the third degree? I got no time to mix with causes Verner, so quit trying to throw the big sell on me would you? I got business to attend to downtown. So, if you can give me a ride, cool—if not, I will flag down a taxi and figure things out for myself.” Karyn looked up the street, first one way then the other, scouring the traffic to see if she could see any sign of a cab. Instead she saw something rather more unwelcome, Detective Kibishi standing outside the Club Carmady, having a heated conversation with a pair of burly goons who looked more like poster boys for the yakuza than members of Honolulu Police Department.
“We’ve got to go,” said Karyn.
“What’s the hurry? The world clocks off at five, can’t this business of yours wait until tomorrow?” asked Verner.
Kibishi and the thugs were looking their way now. One of the thugs turned and threw a signal—flagging down their wheels—that could only mean one thing, the goons were making ready for a heavy move—things were going to get ugly— real ugly and quick.
“I have never driven a Prius before said Karyn.”
Brad Verner stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and turned to Karyn, his face beaming with newfound enthusiasm, “Oh, they are marvelous to drive—comfortable, economical, great gas mileage. Did I tell you, I have the dual fuel model?”
“Give me the keys Verner.”
“Oh, I couldn’t possibly do that. You are not
down on my insurance policy as a recognized
driver. Can you imagine how many forms I would
have to fill out if you had a fender bender? Plus, I
would lose my no claims discount for certain and
insurance companies being what they are, they
would probably try and drop me as a customer
altogether—it is just another example of corporate
greed run rampant I am afraid.”
Karyn drew her automatic, held it low by
her side so it couldn’t be seen in profile. She said,
“Give me the car keys, Verner. Give them to me
now.”
Brad Verner looked like he was about to
blub. “You have a gun? What the hell do you need a
gun for? Wait a minute—you are a cop aren’t you?
Working undercover or something—well it’s no
good, I won’t tell you anything, I…”
Karyn grabbed him by the scruff of the neck
and marched him faster down the street. “Where is
this goddamn car of yours?”
“Wait a minute, you aren’t going to shoot
me are you? You will never get away with it. Too
many people saw us together at Police
Headquarters.”
“I am afraid that is part of the problem,”
said Karyn, her tone grim.
“What do you mean?”
The Yakuza thugs were walking their way
now, slowly at first but with building speed. Brad
Verner was still staring slack-‐jawed at Karyn. Karyn said, “If you want to live, you will
follow my instructions exactly. First, you will give
me the car keys and you will walk quickly and
quietly with me to the car, do you understand?”
Verner plainly didn’t understand. He paused for a long moment, staring at her, a thousand questions forming as he reasoned through the instructions he had just been given. Then he looked back up the street. When he did, things moved fast.
The Yakuza thugs broke into a sudden run, both of them pulling guns.
Verner turned to Karyn, a look of horror on his face.
The first bullets zipped past them high and wide.
Verner fumbled through his pockets for the car keys, found them, then promptly dropped them on the sidewalk. As he stumbled forwards to pick them up more bullets came, the hornet fizz of 9mm shells cutting through the air.
Karyn dropped to one knee and returned fire. Four quick rounds and t
he first guy was down from a hundred yards out. The rapid takedown sent his buddy careening into traffic to avoid the gunfire. Karyn saw him, had him marked as he bobbed along the far side of the parked cars. Seamlessly she scooped Verner’s keys off the sidewalk and whispered to him, “You good?”
Verner was laying prone on the pavement his hands pressed tightly over his head, as though this might offer him some kind of protection, “Hell no,” he almost shouted. “Those men are firing bullets at us, they are trying to kill us.”
“No shit Sherlock. So here’s what happens next, you want to live, you peel your ass up off the sidewalk and we head on out of here. You got a problem with that?”
“I am not going anywhere until the police
get here. They are trained for these kind of
emergencies, they will know what to do.”
“You wait for the cops Verner, they are
going to be zipping you in a body bag when they get
here.”
Karyn pressed the door lock blooper for the
Prius and the car sprung alive, no more than
twenty yards away now.
More bullets cutting overhead, this time
with greater urgency, the gunman knowing he had
to finish his play and fast.
Karyn assessed the situation. “I am going to
give you a three count Verner and unless you are
up and running, I am going to shoot you myself. Are
we clear?”
The words had an almost magical effect.
Brad Verner rose to his feet and tore down the
sidewalk roaring at the top of his lungs—what he
was roaring exactly was rather hard to determine,
but the effect was impressive. The Yakuza gunman
who had been crawling along behind the parked
