The Green Room

by Deborah Turrell Atkinson

  The skin had tightened around Nahoa’s eyes and she could see that he was pale beneath his tan. The handle sparked an image from her childhood, reinforced by Nahoa’s reaction.

  Nahoa spoke, his voice dead calm. “What did the guy look like?”

  The boy looked around as if he might see the guy. “He was tall. Um, he had a blue shirt with a surfer on it.”

  “What did he say to you?”

  The kid had picked up on Nahoa’s gravity. Nervous and off-balance, his foot knocked the edge of the wrapping. The item poked out so that Storm saw the other end, which was a flattened, heavy oval, its perimeter embedded with shark’s teeth.

  A jolt of revulsion went through Storm. Aunt Maile was a kahuna lā'au lapa'au, or traditional Hawaiian healer, and Storm had learned a great deal of their ancestors’ history and tradition under her watchful eye. The rest of the group looked perplexed, but the frown on Hamlin’s face told her that his mind was on the same track as hers. Hamlin was a voracious reader of Hawaiian history.

  The package held a lei o manō, or shark’s tooth club, used in lua, an ancient form of Hawaiian warfare.

  The boy perceived the tool’s malevolence; it was hard not to. “He gave me a twenty dollar bill.” The boy’s voice shook. “I’m sorry, I guess it’s not a nice gift.”

  “You didn’t know.” Nahoa’s voice sounded resigned. “Somebody’s just trying to scare me.”

  “Yeah, that’s it,” the boy said. “Hey, I’m really sorry.” He scampered off, anxious to get away. For a few moments, no one spoke.

  Goober was the first one to break the uncomfortable silence. “Hey man, you’ll be okay. Isn’t your 'aumakua the shark?”

  Nahoa attempted a laugh. “No, it’s pueo, the owl.”

  A chill puckered the flesh on Storm’s forearms. That was her mother’s 'aumakua, which wasn’t surprising because these deified ancestors, who took the shape of animals, were passed within families. But Storm’s mother had suffered from depression and committed suicide by taking an overdose of sleeping pills when Storm was twelve.

  Storm had never been able to understand what drove her mother to take her life, and throughout her teen years, she’d been tormented with the idea that the illness everyone whispered about would be passed down to her daughter. Nor had she been able to stop wondering whether she could have done something—anything—to prevent her mother’s gradual slide toward death. The pueo hadn’t helped her mother, so Storm chose Aunt Maile’s 'aumakua, from her grandfather’s side of the family.

  “Pueo is a good, powerful totem,” Ben said. “Anyway, like you said, someone’s just trying to rattle you.”

  “Yeah, like that asshole Gabe,” Goober said. “He wants to win the meet tomorrow.”

  Nahoa squinted at the water, which glared in the hot afternoon sun. “It’s not a big deal.” He picked up the package. “Maybe I’ll intimidate a few people with it. You know, hang it from my rear-view mirror or something.”

  It was a weak joke, but everyone in the group attempted to smile. He stood up. “I’ve got to get going. See you tomorrow at the meet?” He directed this comment to Storm, Hamlin, Leila, and Robbie.

  Storm stood and gave him a hug. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

  She sat back down and watched the back of his muscled shoulders head down the beach. He nodded a greeting to a group of surfers as he passed. She could see by their gestures that they wished him luck in the upcoming contest. He exchanged a few words and kept walking. She admired his equanimity in the face of the threat he’d just received.

  Meanwhile, she fought the impulse to wish Nahoa had a stronger 'aumakua. Anything but that of her mother. Stop it, she told herself. You’re a modern woman, for crying out loud. And Nahoa, unlike her mother, was tough and strong.

  Chapter Six

  Barstow awakened O’Reilly at six a.m. by showing up inside the colorful but thorny bougainvillea-covered fence surrounding the beach house and banging on the sliding glass doors of the master bedroom. O’Reilly had the heavy drapes drawn and thought it was still the middle of the night, but the girl he’d brought home last night sat up with a little yelp and said her girlfriends were going to be really worried about her, especially since she had borrowed their car. She ran by Barstow on her way to the Mustang convertible she’d left, roof down, in the driveway. It was raining and in the mid-sixties, a typical winter morning in the isles.

  Barstow hadn’t changed much. He even looked the same, about five-eight and wiry as a jockey. O’Reilly had forgotten the guy barely reached his shoulder. He’d forgotten how impatient Barstow was, too. Definite Type A.

  Barstow made a beeline for the espresso machine that the posh beach house supplied with other high-end kitchen equipment, and had two frothed and sweetened bowl-sized cups prepared by the time O’Reilly was out of the shower.

  Fifteen minutes later, they stood side by side in the sand and watched the rising sun scatter fuchsia and flame sequins across the ocean. O’Reilly shivered in the damp morning air and wished he had another cup. With a little Irish whiskey in it.

  “Hey, when did you get that tattoo?” O’Reilly asked.

  “You like? It’s my 'aumakua, the shark.” Barstow picked up his leg to give O’Reilly a better view of the design that encircled his ankle. “I can get you an appointment with the guy who does it. All the locals use him.”

  “Nice.” O’Reilly liked it, but it wasn’t really his style. He looked out at the ocean. “You know anyone out there?”

  “Yeah. See that tube action? If that guy can keep it up, he can beat the Hawaiian.” Barstow pointed to a short, muscular man with bands of tribal tattoos on his arms and legs.

  “Who is he?” O’Reilly asked.

  Barstow consulted a pad of paper. “Gabe Watson. He’s seeded second, right behind Nahoa Pi'ilani.”

  “Hey, isn’t Ben in this?” O’Reilly asked.

  “Yeah,” Barstow said.

  “So what’s his rank?”

  “Hell, he’s got to grow up.”

  “C’mon, you can brag to an old friend. If I had a son in this, I’d blab it all over the place.” O’Reilly clapped the shorter Barstow on the shoulder. “He’s in this thing, he’s gotta be good.”

  Barstow grinned. “Yeah, he’s okay. He’s still in the lineup for tomorrow.”

  “All right.” O’Reilly nodded appreciatively. “That means he’s made it through four rounds. He’s within striking distance of a trophy. It’s a good purse, too.”

  Barstow shrugged. “We’ll see. You never know till you’re out there, getting your wave. Anything can happen in the water.”

  “I’ll bet.” O’Reilly nodded. He followed Barstow’s gaze as three surfers headed out. “Isn’t that Ben?”

  “And Nahoa Pi'ilani. I don’t know the other kid.” Barstow squinted into the light, which was intensifying by the moment. He took an expensive pair of mirrored, wrap-around sunglasses out of his shirt pocket and put them on.

  “Don’t you want to go talk to him?”

  Barstow shook his head. “Not yet. I don’t want to break his focus.”

  O’Reilly knew Barstow’s wife had taken off over a year ago with the kid, though the way Barstow talked about Ben, he was sure the father stayed in touch with his son. He wasn’t sure of the details, though. A hardness had settled on Barstow’s face when he implied he’d wait to talk to his son.

  “Hey, you ever heard of the Blue Shorts?” O’Reilly asked, to change the subject.

  Barstow looked at him sharply. “Yeah, they used to be a tough North Shore gang.” He shoved his foot into the sand. “Where’d you hear about them?”

  “I was talking to some surfer-types.” O’Reilly could see the reflection of clouds drifting across the mirrors of Barstow’s sunglasses. The glasses gave the man the expressionless demeanor of a magnified insect.

  “They were bullies.” Barstow’s soft growl belied the impression the glasses left. There was an angry
sneer in it, like that of an outcast disparaging a high school clique. “A lot of ’em were lifeguards, supposedly working to protect swimmers and surfers.”

  “They wore blue shorts?”

  “Yeah, the lifeguards had these blue shorts with red piping and a slash of red and white print.”

  “Were you ever a lifeguard?” O’Reilly knew he’d hit a nerve the second the words were out of his mouth.

  “Fuck, no. Me? A California boy?” Barstow’s upper lip curled. “I was the type they were trying to get rid of.”

  O’Reilly grinned at Barstow. “Hell, I guess you showed ’em, didn’t you? You were a finalist in the ’86 Gerry Lopez Pipeline Masters.”

  Barstow let a smile lift one side of his mouth. “I guess so.”

  “And married a local girl, too.”

  “Yeah,” Barstow said. “But that was a long time ago. Things have changed, people are different.”

  O’Reilly let that comment go. He didn’t know whether Barstow was referring to his marriage or the local culture.

  Chapter Seven

  Robbie was the first one up, which didn’t happen very often. “C’mon, it starts at eight.”

  “It’s seven,” Leila yawned. “And it’s the only day I get to sleep in.”

  Leila owned a very popular bakery, and most weekdays she was in the shop at four a.m. so that succulent-smelling goodies were ready for the downtown professionals when they arrived at their offices. By eight a.m., Leila’s place was standing room only, and that’s what people did. They stood, talked story, and had a sticky bun or warm malassada or two with their lattes. She loved sleeping in on the weekends.

  Storm poured coffee into mugs while Hamlin got the milk and sugar out.

  “Uh oh, ants in the sugar,” he said, and poked at the open box. He leaned against the countertop in a way that told Storm his leg bothered him again. He’d hate it if she said anything about it, though.

  “Slam it on the counter a few times and they’ll run away,” Storm said. “Then transfer it to a jar with a lid. Ants are always in beach houses.”

  Leila poured cereal into a bowl and handed it to Robbie. “Mister, you don’t go anywhere until you eat breakfast.”

  “Don’t worry,” Storm reassured him. “You’ve got time. What heat are Nahoa and Ben surfing?”

  “Nahoa’s in the last heat, but Goober’s in the first,” Robbie said. “Ben’s in the next-to-last heat. We’ve got to hurry—it’s already the semi-finals.”

  “Four guys in a heat, right?” Hamlin asked.

  “Yeah,” Robbie said. “The first and second guys in the heats are the only ones to make the finals.” He gulped his cereal down.

  “Has anyone checked the surf report?” Storm asked. They could all hear the ocean breaking a hundred yards from the front door, and it sounded louder than it had yesterday. It had wakened Storm a couple of times during the night, though she hadn’t had the dream. Maybe the surf session yesterday had helped alleviate her fear of helplessness in the water.

  Sunset Beach wasn’t a long drive, but Kamehameha Highway moved like the Ala Moana Shopping Center parking lot on Christmas Eve. It not only took almost an hour to drive about eight miles, they had to park the car a half-mile from the meet. By the time they got to Sunset Beach, it was the middle of the third heat and Robbie was desperate to see how his new surf buddies were doing.

  “There’s Goober.” The unusual turtle tattoo made him easy to pick out in the crowd. He stood a hundred yards away, holding binoculars on the four surfers nearly a half-mile out in the water.

  “If you’ll take Robbie to find out what’s happening, I’ll find a spot in the shade,” Leila said, “or we’re going to be charbroiled by the end of the day.” She was wearing a wide-brimmed hat, but freckles were already popping out across the bridge of her nose and cheeks.

  “I’ll stay with Leila. You guys can give us a report,” Hamlin said.

  “We’ll be back as soon as we know what’s happening.” Storm and Robbie made their way through the spectators toward Goober, but Storm looked back when she thought Hamlin wouldn’t notice. Yes, he was limping more than he had been yesterday. He’d curtailed his physical therapy three weeks earlier than his doctors had recommended, and Storm worried because he pushed himself harder than the physical therapists had. He’d already increased his daily walks from one mile to three.

  A too-familiar surge of regret flushed through Storm. She and Hamlin had been the lucky ones in the incident that brought down the once-austere law firm of Hamasaki, Cunningham, Wang, and Wo. Miles Hamasaki, her guardian and mentor, had been murdered, another of his partners died, one went to jail, and one retired in alcoholic shame. Months later, Hamlin struggled to recover from the assault that nearly killed Storm and him.

  Robbie’s shout to Goober lifted Storm from her unhappy recollection. Robbie had his hand in the air, waving, but Goober looked over his shoulder at them and walked away.

  Robbie stopped dead in the sand and frowned at Storm. “Why’d he do that?”

  “He’s being a jerk,” said a voluptuous young woman, who had lowered her binoculars to observe Goober’s reaction. She was small and stood between two tall, athletic women.

  “No kidding,” said one of the taller women, a brunette, in a wry tone. “He needs to grow up.”

  “Aw, Dede, you’re being hard on him,” a tall blonde said.

  Dede rolled her eyes. “Everyone loses sometime, Sunny. You know that. It’s how you handle it.”

  “No one’s taught Goober that yet.”

  “You want to?” Sunny asked with a grin. The sunlight glinted off the half-dozen earrings she wore, from colored stones to tiny hoops.

  “No thanks,” the dark-haired girl said with a chuckle, and the three women sauntered away.

  Robbie watched them go. The brunette who’d criticized Goober wore a thong bikini, the kind Storm and Leila called anal floss. Storm grabbed Robbie’s arm before he walked into the back of the person in front of him.

  “Let’s see if there’s a scoreboard.”

  They wove their way to some umbrellas and a phalanx of cameras that showed above the observers’ heads.

  Robbie squinted at the tiny figures in the water. “Can you tell who’s who?”

  “We should have brought binoculars.”

  “Ben had on yellow flowered board shorts yesterday. Someone’s wearing yellow out there.”

  A spectator turned to them. “Yeah, that’s Ben Barstow. He and Gabe Watson are only three points apart.”

  “Who’s ahead?” Robbie asked.

  “Right now, Gabe is. But Ben’s—yeah! Did you see that aerial cutback? What a ride!”

  Robbie and Storm watched the figures, spellbound by their maneuvers. Fifteen minutes later, Ben’s teeth flashed white against his tan as he walked up the sand. He tossed water out of his hair and reached out a hand to a fellow surfer waiting on the beach. The young man clasped Ben in a hug.

  “He’s made the finals, no sweat,” the spectator said to Robbie. “Look at that grin. He and Gabe are neck and neck.”

  “What about Nahoa?” Robbie asked.

  “He’s going out now. It’s the last heat.” The fellow squinted into the sun. “Here, want to use my glasses?”

  He handed Robbie a set of binoculars, which Robbie stared through for a few moments, then handed to Storm. The four men in the final heat were lining up.

  “Nahoa’s top seed for this meet, isn’t he?” Storm asked, and handed the glasses back to the spectator.

  “Yeah, you know him?”

  “He’s her cousin,” Robbie said.

  “Cool.” The guy stared through the binocs for several minutes. “He’s a real athlete. Has a reputation for doing what he needs to do to get his points.”

  Robbie looked at Storm, who shrugged. The comment sounded like a compliment, but she wasn’t sure.

  “Here, take a look. Each surfer is allowed ten rides
per heat, so he’ll be out there soon.” The guy handed the binoculars to Robbie again.

  “How’re the heats judged?” Storm asked.

  “Kind of like diving or gymnastics. Each wave a surfer rides is scored from zero to ten, then the highest and lowest scores are eliminated so the judges get an arithmetic mean.”

  “You know a lot about this.”

  The young man smiled. “I’m working on it. I compete, but I really want to be a judge.”

  Robbie jerked the binoculars a few inches to his left, which attracted both Storm’s and the commentator’s attention. He watched several moments without even appearing to blink. One of the surfers, in black shorts and a black rash guard, finished a nice backhand cutback and headed for the leading curl of the wave.

  “Is Nahoa wearing the red and white shorts?” she asked Robbie.

  “Yeah, you can tell it’s Nahoa because he’s goofy, remember? His right foot is forward.”

  Their new friend looked over at Robbie. “Hey, you’re right. This is a right-hand break, though, which puts him at a slight disadvantage.”

  Robbie looked at him with concern, then back through the binoculars. “He hasn’t gone yet. I think he’s waiting for the guy on the wave.” Robbie pointed without bothering to lower the glasses, then gasped.

  Storm could see what happened without the binoculars. The black-clad surfer had misjudged the leading edge of the fourteen foot wave, and the curl slapped him from his board as if he were a mosquito. The guy bounced twice before the wave closed out on him and swallowed him in its salty spume.

  Spectators murmured nervously and stood on tiptoe to catch sight of a tiny person on the vast plain of foam. Storm held her breath. “You see him yet?”

  Robbie kept the glasses to his eyes and merely gave his head a quick shake.

  “Lemme take a look, okay?” The spectator reached for his glasses. Storm’s hands were balled so tightly that her nails dug into her palms. It seemed like minutes before the young man said, “There he is. Probably in the green room for a while.”