The Green Room

by Deborah Turrell Atkinson

  But Storm had a hard time accepting the old stories when they tried to explain away violence. And though she couldn’t identify what bothered her, there were some threads to this one that she needed to think through.

  Storm looked up at Buster. “The guy that saw the ka'ane. He still around?”

  “He teaches at my dojo.”

  “Could I talk to him?”

  “Sure, we have a class at seven tomorrow morning.” He swiveled on his stool to face her. “Come a little early. Once we get started, we don’t want any distractions. It’s an advanced class.”

  Storm stood up and tried to offer Mo'o money for the coffee. He pushed her dollars back at her, but she picked up a tube of sunscreen and bar of Sticky Bumps surf wax and insisted on making a purchase.

  Outside, the bright sun made her squint and her stomach, which burned from too much strong coffee, growled loudly. It was the first time all day she’d thought of food, and it was two o’clock in the afternoon.

  There wasn’t much to eat at the cottage, and the restaurant that Stephanie managed was just down the street. She might as well check on her client, make sure the ex was behaving, and see if Stephanie had any information for her.

  The hostess led Storm to a small table in the corner of the dining room.

  “Is Stephanie around?”

  The woman set a glass of ice water in front of Storm. “I’ll check. She might still be here.”

  A few minutes later, Stephanie peered from behind the kitchen door. When she saw Storm, she walked over quickly and sat down. Her swollen and red-rimmed eyes startled Storm, and her first thought was that Barstow had caused her distress. So Stephanie’s first words were somewhat of a relief, though they concerned an issue that sat heavily on Storm’s heart.

  “Did you hear about Nahoa?”

  Storm nodded. Her own eyes burned. “News travels fast.”

  “He had so much to live for.” Stephanie buried her face in her hands. “I’m starting to hate surfing. If anything happened to Ben, I couldn’t survive it.”

  The hostess passed by, leading a young couple to a nearby table. The lunch crowd was thinning, but a number of parties lingered to finish ice cream desserts and coffee in air-conditioned comfort.

  “Nahoa apparently had some enemies,” Storm said.

  Stephanie’s eyes shot wide open. “What do you mean?”

  “Did you know him well?”

  “I…not really. Ben looked up to him, of course. He was a talented young man.”

  “Hello.” The young woman that had just been seated stood beside their table, cracking a wad of chewing gum. “It’s good to see you again. How’s—”

  “Ben?” Stephanie asked. “He’s very well, thanks.”

  A confused look, surpassed quickly by a sly one, passed over the girl’s face. “Oh. That’s good.” She hesitated a moment, then walked over to her own table.

  “These young women,” Stephanie whispered to Storm, “they follow the surfers around. You know, like groupies.”

  “I suppose,” Storm said, and glanced toward the girl in question. The young woman looked more like a Brigham Young student than a surf groupie. She looked in Stephanie’s direction with a little smile, as if she had a secret.

  Stephanie waved her hand as if to shoo away a mosquito, then covered her eyes. Her face crumpled with tears.

  Storm reached out to cover her hand. “You should go home.”

  Stephanie sniffed. “I might leave early. This is so upsetting, and I think I’m fighting a cold.” She sighed and looked up at Storm. “I’m supposed to have put together the names of some of Marty’s work associates for you.”

  “It would help. I’d like to get the papers served while Marty’s still in town.”

  “I’ve left some messages with people who should call me back. Will Saturday be okay?”

  “That’ll work,” Storm said. “I’ll call you.”

  Stephanie got up slowly and exited the restaurant with dragging feet. Storm’s lunch arrived soon after, and she found herself eating as if she were starving. She ate every crumb of her grilled mahimahi sandwich, and it wasn’t until she faced down the last of the spiced curly fries on her plate that she pondered whether Sunny might be up to talking, or commiserating, with her.

  When she got up to leave, she felt the young woman’s eyes on her. Storm paid, walked through the door, then paused among the umbrella-topped tables. The girl looked like she wanted to ask a question. Nor did she look like a surf groupie.

  Storm went back into the restaurant and approached the table. “My name’s Storm. Are you a friend of Ben’s?”

  The young woman smiled, curiosity lighting her eyes. “I’m Susan. I could have sworn he had a Hawaiian name.” She grinned. “And I highly doubt that he was her son.”

  Storm opened her mouth, then closed it again. “You mind if I sit down for a minute?” She dragged a chair over from an adjacent table. “Where did you see him?”

  “I’m a desk clerk at the Kahuku Point Hotel and Resort.”

  “Was his name Nahoa?”

  “That’s it. Nahoa Pi'ilani. He was the one who always checked in.”

  “Holy shit,” Storm breathed out. “They checked in together?”

  “Sure, they’d come in mid-afternoon and no one would see them until the next day. They even got room service.” Her grin widened. “We thought maybe they’d have a wedding on the grounds.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Storm leaned toward the young woman, who looked somewhat satisfied about spilling the beans. Susan apparently didn’t know yet what had happened to Nahoa. “When did you last see them?”

  “It’s been a while. I’d say three or four months ago.”

  Storm slowly stood up, her mind whirling. “Thanks.”

  Storm made her way to the parking lot in a daze, but the jolt of her car’s hot upholstery on the back of her legs brought her back to the present. Okay, so what if they’d had an affair three or four months ago? If you counted the fact that Stephanie had been long separated from Marty Barstow, neither was cheating on another person. And age differences had been ignored by lovers long before Stephanie and Nahoa. But she bet there was a handful of people who would find the duo offensive, and Ben, if he knew, would probably top the list.

  Was Stephanie the woman who’d started phoning Nahoa again? If Susan had been correct about the last time the two of them had checked into the hotel, the timing was right. Then again, with his reputation, it could be someone else.

  Storm stopped at a traffic light and squinted into the sunlight. If Susan’s timetable was accurate, then at least it sounded as if Nahoa had been faithful to Sunny. With all the unhappiness suffered by the people who loved him, she felt good about this fact.

  Several vehicles sat in front of Sunny’s house, and Storm was glad to see Sunny’s van among them. When Storm tapped on the door to the house, it was Dede who opened it.

  “How’s she doing?” Storm asked.

  Dede shrugged. “One moment, she’s okay. The next, she’s a basket case.” Dede’s eyes filled with tears. “What a goddammed, fucking waste.”

  “Yeah.” It was all Storm could manage.

  “You okay?” Dede’s voice was kind.

  Storm shrugged. “I can’t stop thinking about it. I wonder if I could have done something.”

  “What?” Dede reached out and touched Storm’s arm. “You couldn’t have done anything—who could?”

  “I knew the lei o manō was a threat.”

  “Now you’re sounding like Sunny. You two need to talk some sense into each other.”

  Dede led Storm into the kitchen, where Sunny sat, slumped, at the kitchen table, her hands wrapped around a mug of something that steamed. Her face was only about six inches from the surface of what looked like tea, and Goober sat across from her, with his hands gently encircling her forearms.

  Sunny looked up. “Hey.”

  �
�Hey back. Hi, Goober.”

  Goober stood up and put an arm around Storm’s shoulders. “I’m so sorry. He was family to you, and you were close.” He offered his chair to her.

  “Thanks.” Storm sat. Goober’s comment about her being close to Nahoa made her miserable. They hadn’t been, and now she felt the loss of years. When his father died, Rochelle moved Nahoa and his sister, Storm’s best friend, to Kaua'i. It was the island farthest from the Big Island, and Storm lost track of them. Nahoa had been the one to get in touch by sending a client her way.

  “You talked to your family yet?” Goober asked.

  Storm’s stomach plummeted. “No. I’ll make some calls later today.” She’d call Aunt Maile. At least the burden of phoning Rochelle Pi'ilani would fall on someone else. She couldn’t stand the idea of bringing that family more grief.

  “Have you seen Ben?” Sunny asked Goober.

  “Not much. He’s been hanging with his dad lately.” Goober shuffled his bare feet. “I’d better get going. I’ve got a class at five.”

  Dede had been leaning against a countertop with Jenna, who put a fresh tea bag in Sunny’s mug and poured hot water from the tea kettle.

  “Thanks for coming by,” Jenna said. She walked Goober out of the kitchen and to the front door, then came back a few minutes later.

  “It was nice of him to come by,” she said, and raised one eyebrow at Dede, as if looking for support.

  “Right.” Dede faced Sunny and poured a bottle of beer into a glass. “It’s because of you. You know he wouldn’t have helped Nahoa if he’d seen him floating by, face down.”

  “Shut up, you two.” Sunny’s tone lacked conviction, though.

  Storm looked between Sunny, Jenna, and Dede. “He doesn’t seem like your type,” she said to Sunny. Jenna and Dede laughed out loud, and even Sunny smiled.

  “That’s not it,” Sunny said.

  “Hah,” Dede snorted. “You’re blind, woman.”

  “Not. It’s because we—okay, I—tried to help him out. I let him crash here. He doesn’t really have anyplace to stay.” She looked reproachfully at her friends.

  The other two women snickered. “The last time, we had to have the couch—”

  “Fumigated,” Sunny finished, smiling again.

  Dede threw back her head and guffawed. “It got crabs.”

  “Ule ukus,” Jenna shouted, and could barely squeal her next words. “We all got ’em. Everyone who sat there—Nahoa, Ben, even our neighbor.”

  “Not on our heads, either.” This revelation set Dede into gales of laugher, and she gasped between words. “Mrs. Stern is eighty-two. Poor thing didn’t know what they were.”

  At this point, Sunny joined in the laughter. “Jenna had to tell her.”

  This sent all three women into spasms. It was infectious, maybe comic relief from the sadness of the day, but it felt wonderful. Storm threw back her head, and Sunny’s eyes streamed.

  “Look, the guy’s homeless. I feel sorry for him,” she said.

  Jenna, howling, slid down the front of the cabinet to sit, splay-legged, on the floor. She could barely get her breath. Dede pounded on the countertop and spilled her beer on Jenna’s head, which set them all off again.

  “He didn’t look too bad today,” Jenna conceded, while she licked beer from the back of her hand. “Okay, I’ll admit. Sometimes he’s not a bad guy. When he takes a shower, that is.”

  “He was actually wearing clothes this time.” Dede handed a cold one down to Jenna. “Here, it tastes better in a bottle.”

  Sunny grinned and wiped away tears. “You guys are wonderful. No, you’re awful. I can’t decide.”

  They all laughed again.

  Chapter Nineteen

  O’Reilly wore an expensive pair of leather flip-flops, which Barstow told him made him look like a surfer-wannabe. Like a middle-class yuppie-slash-dot-commer from California.

  Fuck Barstow. So what if he was a middle-class surfer-wannabe. He had a job to do. Fucking Barstow was his employee, for Christsake. And this sand was burning the shit out of the tops of his feet. Christ, it was high time to get this show on the road.

  Gabe Watson stood right next to the lifeguard stand, a big, high wood edifice. A serious structure on a beach legendary for some of the best surf in the world. Three PWCs sat on the sand next to it, big honking jet skis that could rescue or tow a surfer, racing the monster waves.

  Waimea Bay. A big swell was predicted and this is where it would happen. Tomorrow, if they could get the out-of-town surfers certified for operating the personal watercraft. O’Reilly eyed the machines and stifled a smirk of delight. Fucking Kawasakis, Yamahas, and one of their big sponsors, WhiteOut. Engines like the biggest motorcycles on the road. Impressive.

  He needed to get Gordon out here to take some shots before the meet started. They’d look about the size of a water bug once they were in the ocean, sliding up a wall of water the size of the state capitol.

  Watson watched them approach, his tattooed arms folded across his chest. He wore the infamous blue lifeguard shorts, which settled low on a set of abs that probably made babes cream themselves. O’Reilly wondered briefly if he’d be able to develop a set of those, then shoved the fantasy aside. Money was a better magnet.

  Fucking Watson. He wished he didn’t have to depend on him at this juncture of the game. The sonofabitch had an agenda, but at least he was where he said he’d be. And everyone had an agenda, didn’t they?

  Barstow beat O’Reilly to the first words. “What can you do for us?”

  O’Reilly felt a twinge of irritation at Barstow’s confrontational manner. Watson didn’t have to do anything for them, except that he wanted a place in the Intrepid’s lineup. But O’Reilly knew he and Barstow didn’t have much wiggle room. There wouldn’t be an Intrepid unless they could get the fourteen foreign contestants licensed. They were big names, and they needed to get certified today, or early tomorrow morning at the absolute latest.

  Watson raised one eyebrow. “The law went into effect a couple months ago. All tow surfers operating a personal watercraft in the waters of Hawai'i need to have a state license.” He sounded like he was reading the manual.

  O’Reilly spoke up. “We’ve got seven pairs. How long will that take?”

  “You want to start the first round tomorrow, right?” Watson asked with a smug smile.

  Sadistic bastard, O’Reilly thought.

  “Tomorrow, late afternoon,” Barstow growled, and caught O’Reilly’s eye.

  O’Reilly knew a stink eye when he saw one. Barstow wanted him to shut the fuck up.

  But O’Reilly couldn’t contain himself. “How long does it take to get a license?”

  “About six hours.” Watson smiled again. “Per person.”

  This time, Barstow didn’t bother to glare at O’Reilly. He moved so that Watson’s eyes followed him. They turned in their own circle, away from where O’Reilly had his burning feet buried in the sand.

  “How many people are certified to do this licensing?” Barstow’s voice was low. O’Reilly could barely hear him, but he didn’t budge.

  “Five of us. Two on O'ahu, two from Maui, and one from the Big Island.” Watson’s voice was equally low. It was a dance, a minuet of offer and counter-offer.

  “There’s a place in the lineup.”

  “Who would I be partnered with?”

  “My son.”

  Watson’s eyes narrowed. “Could be worse.”

  “Or Kimo Hitashi.”

  O’Reilly’s eyebrows shot up. Barstow was gutsy, he had to hand him that. Goober had told them about the fist fight after Hitashi edged out Watson to win the Sunset Triple Pro last week. Hitashi had had eight stitches above his eye and he’d vowed to kill Watson if he ever got within ten feet of him. Tow-in partners had to trust each other with their lives.

  “How are we going to get sixty-four hours of training into,” Watson shrugged, “the next ten hours of ava
ilable time?”

  O’Reilly could only watch, his blood pressure rising and falling with Watson’s thrusts and Barstow’s parries.

  “What do the other instructors want?”

  A smile flickered at one corner of Watson’s mouth. “Ten grand. Each.”

  O’Reilly couldn’t watch any longer. He was starting to feel dizzy. It was a hyperventilation problem, from anxiety. He’d had it before. Jesus, this whole show could come down around his ears. He’d be bankrupt, disgraced. He walked away, sank into the sand out of earshot, and forced himself to take even, shallow breaths.

  It seemed like hours before Barstow wandered toward him. O’Reilly watched his casual, meandering steps across the deep, soft sand and stifled the urge to lock his hands around the man’s neck and scream at him for getting off on the wrong foot. Goading the stupid bastard from the start, when he knew what was at stake. What the fuck was he thinking of?

  O’Reilly clenched his fists and shuddered with the effort of another calming breath. “So what happened?” he said between clenched teeth.

  “Twenty-five hundred.”

  “Huh?”

  “We pay each instructor twenty-five hundred.”

  “Including Watson?”

  “Yeah, and he gets into the lineup. With Ben.”

  O’Reilly exhaled. He’d been thinking fifty grand. Twelve thousand five sounded like a gift. Hell, they could make that up with a minor sponsor.

  “Way to go.”

  “You didn’t trust me.”

  “Yeah, I did. Really. I just got nervous.” O’Reilly clapped him on the back. “You saw me walk away, leave you alone with him. I knew you could do it, buddy.”

  “Right.” Barstow stood up. “I’ve got to hand it to you for one idea. Giving Goober the guest room in exchange for information was worth the trouble.”