by Chris Bauer
“I knew all the people on the island, but I can’t say I could have matched every face to every name. I can say that I don’t remember you as any of these people, Mr. Stakes, in either census, but I’m getting old, and my memory is suspect nowadays. You can keep that. There’s also this.”
He moved another folder front and center to him on the desk, opened it, scanned the first page. “The Island of Kauai censuses for the same years. Here are some comparisons where we can see the names of every person in each census for Kauai who listed Miakamii as their birthplace. Some of the twenty-five people who left Miakamii aren’t on the Kauai census because they moved elsewhere, or they died. Again, if you or your family were among the people who moved from Miakamii to Kauai, I can’t validate that. I’m sorry.”
Patrick’s eyes had glazed over, but Philo understood the net of it. These lists weren’t definitive enough in divining Patrick’s parents without having census data on all fronts for each year, for Miakamii, the other Hawaiian Islands, and the mainland, where Patrick ended up.
He patted Patrick on the shoulder. “We’ll have to wait, bud, for the Ancestry results to come in. Might still happen while we’re here. Grace and Hank will let us know.”
“But Philo sir. Look at this list,” Patrick said.
Philo looked over his shoulder. “What about it?”
“These people, sir. Her, her, him, and him. We know their names, sir.”
“He’s right, Trout. The four murders—my friend Chester, Captain Malcolm’s fiancée Miya, the Navy contractor Vena Akina, and Ichigoo the street performer—they were all transplants from Miakamii.”
A concern hit Philo dead nuts: Logan didn’t recognize Patrick as a Miakamii transplant, but he couldn’t be sure that he wasn’t one, either, and Miakamiians were dropping like flies.
“You need a gun, Patrick,” Philo said.
“Sir, I can’t—they won’t sell one to me—”
“I’ll take care of it. There’s a fifth death, Mr. Logan. The cops and the Navy are looking into it.” Philo perused the list further, wondering if the fifth murder victim, another gutted woman, her name unknown, was on it. “Her body parts were dropped by drones all over the Alakai Swamp. The Navy found them two nights ago, next to the trail. The cops, they’re trying to ID her—”
Philo arrived at the last name on the list. His face blanched.
“Holy fuck…”
“Trout, that language is not acceptable around here. I ask that you please refrain…”
Philo held the list up to Patrick and pointed.
“Holy fuck,” Patrick said.
“Gentlemen, language, please!”
“Sorry, Mr. Logan, but you need to tell us more about this woman, the last person on this list. Kaipo Mawpaw. Do you know her?”
22
Fresh from his surgical chop shop, where his doctors found a home for a partial liver with an opera star from the sixties and seventies, Wally had Magpie drive them back to the hotel. He was exhausted, having held the woman’s hand all through surgery prep, then for an hour after she woke up. Eight p.m.-ish on a warm night, Magpie made the turn into the hotel parking lot, coasted down an incline in the direction of their VIP luxury accommodations. A few limo lengths forward he had to jam the breaks, jolting Wally.
“Magpie, I told you, screw those crazy chickens, damn it—”
In the limo’s headlights a drone hovered, white lights trimming its arms, red lights blinking underneath, the white rectangular package held in its claws mesmerizing them. Then Wally came to his senses.
“Shoot it down.”
Magpie drew his weapon, couldn’t get out of the car fast enough. The package dropped onto the asphalt, the drone humming skyward, into the darkening night.
Another white cooler. Wally threw open his door, drew his own semiauto handgun, and took aim, shooting wildly at the drone as it gained altitude, his gunfire too passionate for accuracy. He stood there breathing hard, cursing loudly. He climbed back inside the car. His phone rang.
“What?” he screamed into the receiver.
Not just an audio call, but rather a video connection, and he found himself staring at a Japanese man with a thin, disinterested face that seemed the antithesis of excitable.
“My, my,” the man said, “aren’t we a bit testy.”
“Who the hell are you, asshole?”
“Someone you would like to talk to. I am Yabuki, oyabun of a Yamazuki clan.”
“Who?”
“You know me as ‘Y.’ Head of a Yakuza family. I left you another offering. I believe it was just delivered.”
“You Yakuza sonovabitch!” Wally yelled, expelling spit. “You’re setting me up! I don’t want your fucking body parts. When I get a hold of you—”
“You must calm down, Lanakai-san. I have the greatest respect for you and your work here in the islands, past and present. I have a friendly proposition arising from this respect, in addition to the couple of million dollars or so that I’ve already handed you in human livers. What I have in mind is an event that will celebrate the passing of the scepter from one ruling family to another, yours to mine. A competition. It will involve a wager in a sport I know interests you greatly. Would you care to join me in promoting a bareknuckle boxing match?”
Wally’s anger had him hurling obscenities at the screen; the fucking nerve of this guy, this spindly-looking Japanese fuck whose head Wally knew he could pinch off at the neck with one hand.
“Fuck off, Yabuki! I’m not interested! And quit making me look like a ruthless prick, murdering people from Miakamii. Stop this shit—”
“I can tell from your fervor that you would like to meet me, correct? A bareknuckle fight will accomplish this. So, why don’t we—”
“Lose my fucking number,” Wally said, and hung up, winging his phone onto the floor. “Goddamn it…”
The phone rang again, another video chat request from the same caller. Wally let it ring, Magpie saying nothing from the front seat. Ring, ring, ring…
Wally picked up the phone. “Listen, you Yakuza prick—”
Yabuki said nothing, his grim face visible for only a moment on the screen, repositioning the phone to replace his image with a photograph he held in his hand. It was the picture of Kaipo Mawpaw that Wally had given cockfight promoter Shiko, asking for her help in finding her.
Wally started forward, gasped. “What the hell…”
“So. Now that I have your attention,” Yabuki said, “the bareknuckle fight was only part of the reason I called. It gives us a reason to meet. The good news, Lanakai, is that we found your former associate, Ms. Mawpaw, and we intend to return her to you. The bad news is it will be in pieces, so you will at least make some money off her organs while we continue to frame you for these murders…”
“Yabuki, you motherfucking piece of shit—!”
“… unless you leave the islands for good. The hell with you and your Ka Hui crime family. Hawaii is mine. Oh. Here. This is also for your viewing pleasure.”
The next photo Yabuki held up took Wally’s breath away. Kaipo was doubled over at the waist and on her knees on a bed, the side of her head flat against a mattress, her grimacing face visible. A leather strap encircled her neck, with more leather straps connecting her wrists to the headboard, her arms fully extended. She was naked from the waist down, a side shot of one butt cheek. What made Wally nearly choke on his tongue: a Japanese man knelt behind her on the bed, his pants off, ready to mount her from behind, his face looking into the camera, smiling and giving a thumbs-up.
“Tell me what you want,” Wally said, seething.
“I already have what I want. Your bitch. This photo is only a few minutes old, Lanakai. I will stop this… situation—there are more men in line, out of the picture—if you agree to the bareknuckle fight. My man against whoever you put up. So here are the terms. If you don’t take the fight, you get her back in pieces, and we throw you out of Hawaii by any means or condition necessary. If you do tak
e the fight, and you lose, you will still get her back in pieces, and you agree to leave Hawaii and stay out. If you take the fight and win, she gets returned to you whole, but you still need to leave. Capisce?”
Wally pursed his lips and scowled into the camera. “Deal, motherfucker.” He gritted his teeth; he had more to say. “And when I do win, before I leave the islands, I will have you bound up in leather just the way Ms. Mawpaw is here, and then I will force your men to mount you, and I will listen to you squeal and cry like a baby when they insert their micro dicks into your ass. Or I’ll just kill you myself.”
The call ended, no other terms of the fight discussed. Magpie was quick to comment, leaning his bulk over the front seat.
“Boss, I am at your service. I volunteer for the fight. I fear no man. I will crush whoever his fighter is. You know I’m good for it.”
Wally stared out the window, analyzing what had just happened, taking shallow breaths, trying to calm himself. “We need to get this organized fast. Bring that cooler inside the car and let’s get back.”
“Boss—”
“They are going to kill her, Magpie.”
Wally contemplated what would need to happen next, what his new priority was, and how he would prepare to handle it.
“I do not doubt that you would lay down your life for Ka Hui, and for me, Magpie. You are a good man. But I have someone else in mind.”
23
Philo recognized drunk texts when he saw them, sometimes simply by their timing. Anything after midnight would always be suspect. He’d received them from women he’d dated long-term, from women who’d been one-night stands, and occasionally from wingmen he’d frequented the bars with over the years. He’d authored enough of them himself, after nights of debauchery celebrating bareknuckle fights where he’d earned large purses, or after SEAL missions he could never tell anyone about, having drunk himself into oblivion to ease the physical beating he’d taken to earn those purses, or complete those missions. But this one, this text arriving 11:37 p.m. from one former wingman in particular, was heartbreaking.
I am in pain, Evan’s text said.
He had Evan’s home address, near Poipu Beach in Koloa, a gated condo community a half block from the ocean. Its hip-roofed building housed single-floor residences with gorgeous tropical architecture in soft greens and blues, and bright white wood framing that gleamed in the moonlight.
Another late night for Philo, which was becoming routine in its exclusion of the kind of company, female, that he was hankering for when he’d booked this Hawaiian junket. To his knowledge, Patrick had no experience in talking people off precipices, so Philo would have him sit this excursion out.
Evan opened the door to his condo, stood at the threshold in gray boxer jockeys and a Gold’s Gym beater tee in yellow. He leaned severely starboard, the doorjamb keeping him upright.
“C’mon in, you SOB,” he said fondly. “Beer’s in the fridge.”
Beer was not what Evan was drinking. A fifth of tequila was nearly empty on the coffee table, a coupla shots of the crystal-white liquid in Evan’s tumbler, then in Evan’s mouth. The TV was off, no music on the stereo. His only company, the only diversion of consequence, was his unholstered sidearm next to the tequila. Even in its silence, the handgun had the loudest speaking part in the scene. Philo popped open a bottle of beer, tossed the cap into the sink, and sat across from his intoxicated friend in a tufted chair.
“I’d ask you to talk to me, Evan, but I don’t want you to feel any more pain than what you’re feeling already. How can I help?”
“Less pain since I sent you that text. That bottle’s been a help.” He drained his glass, poured the equivalent of another few shots into the tumbler. “Sumpin to show you. Came tonight, special delivery.”
“Where’s your holster?”
“The study.”
“That’s where your sidearm belongs. I’m taking your gun. Be back in a minute.”
Philo walked one way with the gun, Evan wobbled another. When Philo returned, Evan was shoving papers out of the way to close an inch-thick binder on the dining room table, many pages dog-eared. He stumbled back into the living room with the binder and dropped it into Philo’s lap. “Start reading.”
“What am I looking at?”
“Miya and her team’s research. A draft version. I’ll wait.”
“Evan, give me a hint. What am I looking for?”
“She had the goods. She validated the rumors. She and her research team had the proof. The solution.”
“The solution to what?”
“Alzheimer’s. Read.”
Philo started paging through the binder, deciphering what he could. The clinical trials. The subjects, from Miakamii, from Kauai, from the other islands, and from the mainland. The blood work. The health records. The lab test results. Medical data going back fifty-plus years. The chemical analyses. The brain scans. Philo took only cursory glances at each sheet, not understanding much. An impatient Evan tried standing up from the couch, fell onto his knees, pulled himself into a crawl, and closed the short distance between them.
“You’re taking too long, damn it.” He dragged the binder off Philo’s lap, slobbered on his fingers to moisten them, then turned page after page from the seat of his pants while squinting at the print. He stopped to jab a finger at the paper in front of him. “Here, goddamn it. Right—the hell—here.”
Findings, the heading said. Next heading, Recommendations. Next heading, Impacts.
“They can cure it, Philo. But there’ll be some unintentional—(burp) unintended—consequences.”
Philo reviewed the summary info and charts, all too technical for him, but he got the gist.
Dr. Miya Ainaloli and her team had unlocked the genetic coding, had isolated the part of the DNA string that kept Miakamiians from getting sick from the disease. And they showed proof that the amazing chemical factory nature of the Miakamii human liver originated from the ingestion of the “meat of the momi,” the small snails who created the beautiful “pearls of the Pacific” molluscan shells. It was not the handling of the shells that provided the immunity; it was generation after generation of eating the detestable mollusk meat. Specifically, Miakamiian mollusk meat, whose high hydrogen sulfide content from eons of volcanic activity worked to reduce the oxidative stress on the human cells of the people who ate them. It helped their cells stay stronger, last longer, not break down, yet it did break down the amyloid plaques that were said to accumulate on the brain caused by advanced age, thereby reducing neurodegeneration. The stronger the snail’s hydrogen sulfide content, the better the protection and the more effective the plaque removal, the research proved. It appeared that all Miakamiians had this protection.
The research team’s recommendations: harvest the snail meat, break it down, atomize its hydrogen sulfide content, inject the little plaque scrubbers into the bloodstream, and watch ’em go.
Impacts, intermediate: potential depletion of natural resources in/around Miakamii; worse yet, potential depletion of Miakamii natives if nefarious types decided to go directly to the source. Impact, longer term, with smart administration: disease immunities spanning wider populations; a disease cure.
“You ever eat Miakamii snail meat, Philo? Miya fed the mollusks to me one time as a joke. Made me (burp) sick for days. ’Scuse me.”
Evan pushed himself upright, stumble-rushed to his powder room, and lost his stomach contents to the porcelain. Philo found the overnight pouch that had delivered the clinical papers, found and read the typed note that accompanied the package addressed to Commander Evan Malcolm, who continued his heaving in the background.
Joke of the Day: Female Miakamii dog makes unanticipated personal organ donations to her own study; American mobster Lanakai transplants them; the U.S. Navy mourns. One slaughter, three bucket-list groups embarrassed: Miakamii Island, Ka Hui, and the U.S. military. What do you call this? A good start.
There couldn’t have been enough alcohol in the house to
numb the PTSD or blunt the anger that had arrived on Evan’s doorstep with this package. Philo lifted his head in the direction of the powder room and listened; he heard snoring.
The key words from the note, Philo decided, were actually among the first few: Miakamii dog. Sending the scientific study to Evan… Philo felt it was an afterthought, the research findings a tangent. Of primary importance was the note-writer’s opinion of Miakamii natives, calling them “dogs.” Three more of these “dogs” had faced similar horrific treatment.
A second late-night text beeped on his phone. What other drunk was contacting him at two a.m.?
How would you like to make $100K, Philo?
The origin phone number meant nothing to him, but including his nickname in the text forced him to read it, not delete it outright like other spam. Additional texts followed the first, legitimizing his interest.
First class airfare to Hawaii. I’ll cover your expenses.
Two weeks in the islands.
You need to come now.
This anonymous asshole now had Philo’s attention. Philo texted back, Who the hell is this?
His phone chirped with a new text.
Wally Lanakai.
Chunky crime boss, murdering loudmouth. Crooked businessman. Grandiose gambler. Felon. Dangerous. Philo’s eyes narrowed at the phone screen, his thumbs hovering, his blood pressure rising. Did he want to get into a conversation with this… criminal?
He would bite. The hell with texting. Philo called him.
“I thought you were back to jail, Lanakai. Where are you, and what do you want?”
“I’m in Hawaii. If you’re smart, you’ll hear me out, so don’t hang up. It’s worth a lot of money to you. I need you to fight someone, Trout. Bareknuckles. As a favor to me, but it will be for big money.”
The balls on this guy. Philo shook his head, unimpressed. “You fucking kidding me? You’re doing the same illegal transplant shit in Hawaii that you were doing in Philly. You ruined the life of one of my closest friends with your criminal organ trafficking. Lose my number, Lanakai, I’m not interested. By the way, I’m letting the cops know you contacted me.”
