One Man's Paradise

by Douglas Corleone

  “As a matter of fact, he is. He’s working a double shift, so right now he’s on an hour break. But he’ll be here the rest of the afternoon and all evening.”

  “Thank you, Irene. I’ll call back.”

  I snap the phone shut, then reopen it to check for missed calls. When I close it again, I look up and see a line of cars stopped at the traffic light. I slam on my brakes, and the Jeep skids fifteen feet to a halt, no more than two inches from a Land Rover stopped in front of me. Goddamn legislature.

  After twenty-five minutes of driving around, I find parking in front of the zoo, a mile away from the Waikiki Winds. At least Honolulu resembles Manhattan in some ways. I turn onto Kuhio Avenue and go against the tide of tourists. After a couple of blocks, I stop at an athletic-wear store called Niketown.

  I first head over to the sneakers and immediately spot a shoe resembling the pair on Joey’s feet in the video taken from the Hawaiian Sands hotel. The cross-training shoes are sparkling white with the silver Nike Swoosh insignia. They are endorsed by a superstar professional athlete, who recently got kicked off his team for running his big, fat mouth, the only thing on him that is terribly out of shape. I pick the shoe up, check the price tag, and wince: $169. Plus tax.

  I have the inventory of what was found in Joey’s hotel room, and the sneakers aren’t on it. I checked his feet last week, and Joey definitely isn’t wearing them in jail. So where the hell are they? Wherever they are, it can’t be good for the defense, since they are already immortalized on video. Even if they are never recovered, the case will be made to the jury: Who would discard a $170 pair of shoes unless he had something to hide? I put the shoe back on its shelf. I’m appalled at the price, but I do take some pleasure in that I earned myself the cost of a pair of these shoes out of the Gianforte retainer in the time it took me to find a parking space.

  I purchase for myself a stopwatch, a pair of sunglasses, and a Los Angeles Dodgers baseball cap. I step outside and choose one of the countless ABC Stores littering Waikiki. I go inside and purchase a pack of Kools, the state cigarette of Hawaii.

  When I reach the Waikiki Winds, I go to the rear of the hotel. I pull out my new stopwatch and place it around my neck. I put on my sunglasses and pull the Dodgers cap low across my eyes. I take a deep breath, then take off in a sprint.

  I run past joggers and bicyclists. I am hit in the grill with barbecue smoke as I run past the park. Less than two minutes into my run, my legs feel like rubber and my chest begins to ache. Exhaustion and bikini-clad women conspire to slow me down, but I push on. I run past palm trees and unlit tiki torches, past statues of surfers adorned with fresh flower leis. I am stared at by swimmers and sunbathers as I eventually reach the spot of beach where Shannon was killed.

  I pull out the stopwatch and check the time. Seven minutes and twenty-eight seconds at a full sprint. I rest with my head down and my hands on my knees. I feel as if I might die as I try to catch my breath. So this is why my para legal bought me a gym membership last Christmas. Maybe I shouldn’t have regifted the membership to my receptionist. Chasing ambulances may not be the best idea for me after all. Hell, after this, I may need a ride in the back of one. Shit. The return trip would take days if I tried to run again at full sprint.

  Palani is not the killer. Unless he is also secretly the Flash.

  As I walk back to the Waikiki Winds, I drip with sweat. The tropical sun beats down on me like an angry, old woman chasing a scared, little mouse with a broom. When I get close to the hotel, I remove the stopwatch from around my neck and place it in my pocket. I pull out the package of Kools and pack it the way I’ve seen done so many times at bars. I rip open the package and pull a lone cigarette out.

  I adjust my cap and sunglasses and place the unlit butt between my lips. It’s what I’d imagine shit might taste like. Fortunately, I see J. J. Fitzpatrick standing at the hotel’s entrance looking bored.

  I make my way over to him, trying not to gag from the cigarette in my mouth.

  “You gotta light?” I ask him.

  “Sure,” he says, digging into his pocket.

  J.J.’s face is covered in freckles, something not readily discernible from the surveillance video. He is dressed in a full gray, long-sleeved uniform, something I’d imagine causes him a great deal of discomfort standing hours on end under the hot Hawaiian sun.

  J.J. lights me up, and I almost puke. I didn’t really think this through.

  “Are you a Dodgers fan?” he asks.

  “Hell yeah,” I lie.

  I bought the hat and sunglasses to help hide my face from the hotel’s video surveillance cameras. The hat also served to soak up the sweat from my seven-and-a-half-minute bout with death that I called a run. Now it’s serving a third purpose.

  I try to recall the Dodgers’ roster from the dozen or so times I watched them play my New York Mets this past season.

  “They need some starting pitching,” I guess. What team can’t use some strong arms to add to their rotation?

  The conversation goes from the Dodgers to the Lakers to the Oakland Raiders, and I can tell he’s pleased to have someone with whom he can shoot the shit and pass the time. Guests of the hotel constantly interrupt by asking him for directions and restaurant recommendations, making it difficult for me to segue from sports to cold-blooded killing.

  A band of Japanese tourists asks J.J. to take their picture, and I decide that when he is done, I’ll ask him to join me for a beer at the Bleu Sharq after he gets through with work.

  The sound of screeching tires causes me to turn around. That’s when I see him, coming at me from behind. Palani’s eyes target me like a sniper setting his sight.

  “Ey!” he shouts at me. “What the fuck you doing here?”

  J.J. looks back toward me, confused.

  “I just—”

  “You just what?” Palani yells.

  The Japanese tourists look on in wonder as Palani grabs me by the collar of my T, lifting me a half inch off the ground. His head moves in as he eyes me down, knocking the Dodgers cap off my head. So much for my brilliant disguise.

  “You ask more questions? You talk stink, haole?” he shouts.

  Before I can answer, he throws me backward onto the ground. I land hard on the cement, my back bearing the brunt of the fall. He hovers over me as I twist my body to rise. As I try to get to my feet, Palani hits me squarely in the left eye. My head slams backward and bounces off the cement. He drops down on top of me and lands another strike, this one to my jaw.

  My vision blurs and I begin to lose consciousness. Through the white fog washing over me, I can make out three men pulling Palani off my chest. I hear his voice as if through a phone. It tails off as he curses me, warns me away. Away from him. Away from his friends. Away from his job.

  I feel nauseous as I spit some blood onto the pavement beside me. I can already feel the knot forming at the back of my skull. The pain washes over me like a twenty-foot wave up North Shore. I try to smile but it hurts too damn much. If I can get him to do this to me at trial, if I can cause him to lose his temper on the stand, the jury might just suspend disbelief and think him the killer of Shannon Douglas after all. I may not need to prove he could run back and forth to the beach in less than fifteen minutes. I may not need to prove he’s the Flash. I may not need to show that he’s capable of any spectacular athletic feats at all.

  Then I see what lies at Palani’s feet. As he looks back at me where I lie bloodied on the ground, I’m finally able, despite the pain, to manage a smile.

  I need not prove he could run back and forth in fifteen minutes. I need not prove he’s the Flash. I need not prove he’s capable of any spectacular athletic feats at all.

  The fucker drives a moped.

  CHAPTER 25

  Less than two hours after my ass-kicking, I find myself on the road to Kailua. I am sore, light-headed, and more than a little concussed. Yet somehow I am certain Nikki can provide me more comfort than the entire staff at the Queen’s Med
ical Center.

  I use my time on the road to recount the suspects. That way, I can bill the Gianfortes for my travels. There is Palani Kanno and J. J. Fitzpatrick, Tony Bitch-Tits and Lazy Eye Sal. And, of course, there is Professor Jim Catus. I have learned that the Hawaiian word for “teacher” is kumu. Ironically, it is also the Hawaiian word for “lover.” Sure, that tidbit might be a bit extraneous, but since I may eventually use it in my opening statement at trial, the time I took to find it out is billable all the same.

  The New Jersey Mafia is watching me, and a local doorman wants my head. Yet I am in a delightful mood. You see, after having my head pounded into the cement, I stopped in to see Flan at his office downtown. I was none too comforted to see that he keeps a copy of the Complete Idiot’s Guide to Private Investigating faceup on his desk. Nevertheless, I told him what happened, expecting him to urge me to a hospital. But he did no such thing. Instead he pulled from his desk drawer a bottle of prescription pills. He opened the bottle and emptied a half dozen Vicodin into his hand. He turned them over to me with instructions to take one pill every six hours that I experience pain. He has been taking them ever since his accident in New Orleans. They are heavy-duty, he told me. Be careful how many you take.

  Well, I’m not one to take much care. So I ate half of them in the elevator heading back downstairs to my Jeep. It’s now forty-five minutes later, and I’m so giddy, I’m inclined to gather Flan and Nikki together for a party at Pearl Harbor. We can call Jake and Hoshi and invite them both, too. Hell, we’ll ring the Waikiki Winds and see if Palani and J.J. would like to join us. And while we’re at it, why not Tony Bitch-Tits and Lazy Eye Sal?

  As I pull into Nikki’s driveway, I hear shouting coming from inside her cottage, and I’m suddenly aware that I’m arriving unannounced. I shut off the engine and jump out of my Jeep, eyeing the red front door and trying to imagine what’s transpiring behind it. My first thought stings, though it’s entirely unfamiliar to me: what if it’s another guy?

  Just as I reach the welcome mat the door swings open and a young Hawaiian man pushes past me, nearly knocking me over. “Out my fucking way, haole,” he says, heading toward the street in a hurry.

  I turn back toward the door and see Nikki, soaking wet, wearing a thin, white robe, clearly angry but not sobbing.

  “What happened to your face?” she cries.

  My head swings back toward the street, my eyes following the man who just barreled past me.

  “My brother,” she says, then steps aside and motions me in.

  A wave of relief rushes through me as I step inside.

  I thought about what to tell her during my drive here. I haven’t told her much of anything about Joey’s case, and she’s been kind enough not to prod. So I have decided to repay that kindness with yet another lie.

  “Road rage,” I tell her, pointing to my bruised eye.

  She tells me to wait in the small foyer as she runs into the kitchen. She brings ice from the freezer and a pink towel from the linen closet and applies them gently to my face. She sprinkles me with kisses, warm and wet, and, I must say, much more effective than the ice.

  Nikki brings me to her room, this time illuminated by a lamp. She motions me to the bed and apologizes for the room’s disarray.

  “It’s a sign of genius,” I tell her.

  She seems unconvinced. She works furiously to return clothes to her closet, ledgers and loose papers to their drawers. She sweeps away hair and beauty items, mementos, and carefully cropped photographs, undoubtedly of lovers past.

  As she continues to tidy, her robe comes open, and it’s all I can do to stay seated on the bed. “My mother,” she says, “rest her soul, used to keep everything so neat and clean. When she first started using ice, she became compulsive about cleanliness. After a few hits off the pipe, she would tidy and scrub for hours on end. Then as the addiction grew worse, she stopped doing everything. Except getting high.”

  Nikki looks so amazing, I’m not listening to a word she says.

  “What was that scene with your brother?” I ask, hoping I won’t discover four slashed tires when I leave.

  “Nothing,” she says, avoiding my eyes. “He hasn’t come home the last few nights. He says he’s only selling, but I’m pretty sure he’s using. He seems wired whenever I see him. And he’s growing more and more paranoid.”

  Finally finished tidying, Nikki takes a seat next to me on the bed. I push aside her wet, jet-black hair so that my lips might find her neck. She smells like a sweet spring day. Any worries I had about how the Vicodin would affect me downstairs quickly diminish as my left hand reaches into her robe. We fall back on the bed, our bodies melting together like wax. And in the quiet of the Kailua night, we make love with the lights on, not once but twice.

  Nikki falls asleep at my side, and I wait a half hour before awakening her with my kiss good-night.

  “Stay,” she purrs. “Please stay the night.”

  “I wish I could, Nikki. But I have a long day ahead of me tomorrow. I’m meeting Jake and Flan at nine in the morning to go over the Gianforte case. I requested an initial pretrial conference to discuss some discovery issues, and it’s been scheduled for this Thursday. We have to get all of our ducks in a row before then.”

  “Just stay,” she begs. “You can leave early in the morning.”

  “Sorry, Nikki, but traffic into Honolulu during rush hour is murder.”

  CHAPTER 26

  It is difficult to become completely lost on an island of merely six hundred square miles. Yet somehow I have managed to do just that on my way home from Nikki’s cottage in Kailua. I am searching, so far in vain, for signs for the Pali Highway, but none are in sight. The narrow two-lane road I am cruising on is illuminated by nothing but the headlights of my Jeep, and I am growing more and more anxious and frustrated as time passes. To make matters worse, not a single decent song is playing on the radio at this late hour.

  As I curse at myself for getting lost, another pair of headlights become visible in my rearview mirror. I slow my Jeep, hoping the other vehicle will pass me. At least I’ll have someone to follow, hopefully back to what passes for civilization here on the islands. Only the vehicle behind me seems to slow down, too. Then, on the roof of the car, a flashing blue light begins spinning like mad.

  A mixed blessing, I suppose.

  I pull my Jeep to the side of the road, and the other vehicle pulls up behind. In my rearview mirror, I can make out two men exiting from either side of an unmarked car, a dark blue midsize sedan. Both men are dressed in suits, and one of them carries a flashlight.

  I pull my wallet from my back pocket and find my Hawaii driver’s license, registration, and insurance. I know the drill. When I turn to roll my window farther down, the flashlight glares in my face.

  “Step out of the vehicle.”

  Before I can move, my door is opened for me, and a firm hand grasps me by the left arm, tugging me out of the Jeep. I stumble and nearly fall as my feet hit the gravel.

  “What the fuck?” I say.

  “Keep your mouth shut!”

  I struggle as I’m pulled from one side and pushed on the other toward the hood of the dark blue sedan. One of them grabs me by the back of my hair, just above the knot on my skull, and slams my face onto the hood, causing a loud thump. My nose stings with pain and my eyes immediately tear. I see blood dripping on the hood and know that it’s mine. Fear courses through me. I am suddenly aware of just how dark and secluded this roadway really is.

  My right arm is twisted even farther behind my back, and I yelp in pain. I’ve changed my mind about police brutality. I am so completely and utterly against it. It is cowardly and morally reprehensible. I see the error in the conclusions I came to at the Whale Watcher Bar & Grill.

  “We’re going to do you a tremendous favor, Mr. Corvelli,” says a deep voice hovering just above my right ear. “We’re going to narrow down your investigation into the murder of Shannon Douglas.”

  My right ar
m is at its limit. Something must be broken or torn inside. Blood continues to spew from my nose onto the hood. I am feeling faint.

  “You can stop looking at Lopardi and Antonazzo beginning tonight,” continues the voice. “This will allow you to focus your attention on more viable suspects. In the end, you’ll thank us for it. We’re helping you avoid another debacle like Brandon Glenn.”

  The mere mention of Brandon Glenn gets my adrenaline pumping. I spit some blood on their hood and speak.

  “Are you gentlemen associates of Mr. Lopardi and Mr. Antonazzo?”

  “No,” says the voice with a sinister chuckle. “We’re a slightly higher species. We’re with the Bureau.”

  My first feeling is one of relief, however slight. Milt Cashman’s inquiries must have generated some buzz within the Bureau. Perhaps the late Ben Franklin isn’t as loyal to Milt as he once was. Whatever the case, the Feds have entered the fray. And I want to know why.

  “What’s your interest in the Gianforte case?” I manage.

  The grip on my right arm is slightly released.

  “We have an open investigation into the Fiordano syndicate, and you’re jeopardizing it. Not only that, you’re putting agents’ lives at risk.”

  So that is what this is. An interagency struggle. The Feds are close to taking down Senior, maybe even Louis Fiordano himself. They don’t want the Honolulu Police Department barging in and mucking it all up.

  “Lopardi and Antonazzo can be taken down for the Douglas murder,” I say. “Once they’re in custody, you go to work on getting them to flip. If they’re facing life, one of them will sing, and you’ll have your target, whoever it is.”

  “We can’t do that.”

  “Why the hell not?”

  “Because Lopardi and Antonazzo didn’t commit the Douglas murder, Counselor.”

  “How the hell do you know?” I say.

  “Because they have alibis.”

  “Who? Each other?”

  “No,” he says. “Their alibis are a little stronger than that.”