One Man's Paradise

by Douglas Corleone

  I swerve in and out between parked cars, ducking my head as much as I can. The scene is surreal and I fear I’ll faint, my legs already threatening to give out on me. I dart across the street, heading toward a house, leaving myself wide-open for the shots.

  I hear them first. Two rounds like cannons. A split second of silence, then two more. My knees buckle, and to the ground I fall, my chin striking the pavement, my teeth damn near biting through my tongue.

  Facedown on the pavement, the taste of blood in my mouth, I wait for the pain I know will inevitably come. I slowly feel around my chest for the exit wounds. I’m frozen on the blacktop, my knees bloodied, and my right wrist fractured from the fall. The bullets must still be inside me. I cannot move; yet here I am, sitting prey.

  That’s when I realize that the second two shots came from the opposite direction.

  I look backward to find Nikki, kneeling over her brother under the light of a streetlamp, weeping at his bloodied body.

  I look forward to find a familiar figure, standing stone still, eyeing me over the barrel of a smoking gun.

  Then, like a mirage, the lone figure vanishes behind some houses, and I pull myself up from the ground. I remove my jacket to see that the bullets never struck me, and I breathe out for perhaps the very first time tonight.

  I take the painful ten steps toward Nikki, all the while eyeing the weapon Alika dropped to the ground. With my sore right leg, I kick it across the street, where it ricochets harmlessly off the curb.

  Nikki is hysterical, shaking and screaming at her brother to wake up. I look at his face and know immediately he will not. His eyes are open wide, seeing nothing. His mouth is full of blood. And where his heart once beat are two gaping holes.

  “Give me your cell phone,” I say in her ear.

  She rocks back and forth, speaking gibberish to herself.

  “Give it to me!” I yell.

  She pulls the cell phone from her belt and drops it to the ground.

  I pick it up and dial 911.

  “There’s a man dead,” I say into the phone. I give the emergency operator my name and the address where we can be found. She tries to keep me talking, tries to get as much information from me as she can. She asks me many questions, some of which I answer, others I decline.

  Sirens sound in minutes, and before I snap the phone shut, I answer one final query.

  “No,” I say into the cell, “I did not see the shooter.”

  CHAPTER 44

  Some criminals have compelling reasons to confess their crimes. Other criminals simply have to confess their crimes, whether it is to the police, to their lawyer, to their shrink, to their spouse, or even to themselves in the form of a diary. Confessions somehow make sins easier on the soul. And easier on the American system of justice. In this case, Nikki made things easier on me by confessing to the murder of Shannon Douglas in a hysterical rant to police at the scene of her brother’s death. And, of course, Nikki’s detailed handwritten journal confirmed her sordid story.

  My Hawaiian hula girl is now in jail awaiting sentencing after pleading guilty to second-degree murder. With the overcrowding in Hawaii’s prisons, she will likely be shipped to a prison on the mainland, where she will be locked away for at least the next couple of decades of her life.

  Nikki was not the first girl that lied to me about being pregnant with my child, but she was the first to do so in an effort to keep me from turning her in for criminal homicide. For an instant, I believed her. Then I remembered how Palani had told me that his former girlfriend, whom I now know to be Nikki, also told him he had knocked her up. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me. Or some shit like that.

  It would be easy to simply say that Nikki was a rejected girl, acting in a jealous rage. But it was much more than that. Her ohana was torn apart by an evil haole, who involved her father in the drug trade that got him sent away to prison. That same haole was responsible for addicting her mother to ice, which led to her psychosis and ultimate suicide. Nikki was also losing Alika, the only ohana she had left, to the dangerous underworld of ice, when Palani rejected her and moved quickly on to another haole, a beautiful, young law student named Shannon Douglas.

  Haoles stole the Hawaiians’ land, Nikki once told me, then they stole her family. She was not about to let one steal her first and only love. Nikki warned Shannon of this while Palani was in the bathroom smoking a joint at the Bleu Sharq. Nikki took Shannon outside for several minutes, threatening her. But Shannon refused to listen, and for that she was killed.

  The murder of Shannon Douglas was, indeed, a crime of passion, and a sloppy one at that. Still, had Alika not regularly ransacked Nikki’s room and stolen the diamond ring, he would still be alive today. Nikole Kapua would have got away with murder. And I would be married to a killer.

  Because Nikki did love me. Of that much I am certain.

  Dapper Don Watanabe stood tall in a Louis Vuitton suit in open court and apologized to Joey after moving to dismiss all charges. Afterward, he sincerely thanked me for my service to the community in helping to catch a killer. He called me an honorable adversary. I can’t say I agree with that, but I can say that Donovan Watanabe is the classiest and most admirable prosecutor I have ever come up against.

  Joey’s ultimate account, as unbelievable as it sounded at the time, was mostly truthful. However, his keeping from me crucial information nearly cost him his future. From his being at the scene of the crime to the two-carat diamond ring he gave to his girl, Joey just didn’t see these tidbits as vital. Joey said he has seen enough of the courtroom to last him a lifetime. And I think the world is much better off that Joey has decided for certain that he won’t be returning to law school.

  Joey thanked me in an eight-page, heartfelt letter. He informed me that although Hawaii is a beautiful place, he is unlikely to ever set foot on the islands again. Not even on his honeymoon, whenever the hell that might be. Though he tells me he’s presently seeing Cindy DuFrain.

  Joey’s parents, Senior and Gina, thanked me personally at my office. I didn’t have to shake their hands, but each insisted on a hug. Senior reasoned that since his son really wasn’t guilty, he shouldn’t have to pay for the defense. Gina told him to shut the fuck up and to give me another hug.

  Paolo Nicoletti initially came to the island, like Lopardi and Antonazzo, to keep an eye on Joey. He flew back here for the trial to offer moral support in his own shadowy way. He rather liked Shannon for his nephew, and he followed her that night to see if he could talk to her and perhaps help her and Joey patch things up. Meanwhile, Lopardi and Antonazzo were supposed to have their eyes on Joey, not on strippers and bottles of Scotch. Once Nicoletti saw Shannon dancing with Palani, he became disgusted, bumped into him, and left.

  I can live with never seeing Paolo “Small Paul” Nicoletti again. Though, if I did, I’d like to ask him if his confrontation with Nikki during the trial ever truly happened. I suspect that Nikki, who encountered Nicoletti at the aquarium, used what she heard me say over the phone at the Ala Moana Center to make the whole thing up. I suppose I’ll just never know.

  The Feds that pulled me over and jacked me up against their car weren’t Feds at all. They were hired guns, ex-cops on the Fiordano payroll whose mission was to help me stay focused on finding the real killer and avoid bringing attention to the Fiordano criminal enterprise.

  Shannon Douglas was, indeed, working for the FBI, but not in the capacity we had thought. She actually worked as an intern in the counterterrorism division, serving as an ambassador to the Department of Homeland Security, aiding in the exchange of sensitive information.

  Professor Jim Catus was asked for his resignation by the law school after the administration became aware of his flying off to meet a student for a sexual tryst and instead spending a night with a $600 prostitute. The administration may never have got wind of it had I not anonymously sent the dean of the law school a transcript of the entire trial with the relevant sections about Catus highli
ghted in yellow.

  Coincidentally, the Waikiki Winds hotel also received highlighted portions of the trial transcript relevant to Palani Kanno. The trial transcript prompted management to conduct an unannounced drug screening, and Palani and J. J. Fitzpatrick were subsequently relieved of their duties. I now have little doubt that Palani’s attack on me was also motivated by jealousy over my dating Nikki. But, little did he know when he was pummeling me, I’m one vengeful son of a bitch.

  Neither Flan nor I ever heard again from Carlie Douglas, but Joey received a letter from her apologizing for all the terrible things she’d said about him in the press. Joey responded with a defamation lawsuit. Evidently, he doesn’t let things go that easily himself.

  The media portrayed me as a hero, and the articles and television spots have served as a catalyst for my now booming practice. I thanked every reporter politely and gave them each a full interview, with the exception of Gretchen Hurst. I politely told her to go fuck herself. Instead she flew back to the mainland to further exploit for ratings the family of a new missing girl.

  Milt Cashman showed up with his new bride on Oahu last week. His fifth wife, a twenty-four-year-old fashion model, attempted to pass me one of her private cell phone numbers during dinner at Duke’s, when Milt got up from the table to use the restroom. I, of course, declined it. When Milt asked me what I thought of his new bride, I told him that I thought she was beautiful.

  With my practice booming, I had the pleasure of offering Flan a full-time position as an investigator with my firm. He readily accepted and promised to request permission before bedding down any witnesses in the future.

  Unable to handle my new, overflowing caseload alone, I asked Jake Harper to be my partner. He accepted my offer and thus the law firm of Harper & Corvelli was born.

  Jake also made a resolution not to drink . . .

  . . . with anyone who isn’t serious about drinking. That’s working out just fine, since his new girlfriend, Alison Kelly, takes her drinking seriously. Together, they can be found at Margaritaville, dancing the night away, on any evening when Jake doesn’t have court the next morning.

  I am alone, but I find it easier to live with myself these days. I often read Joey’s letter, thanking me more for catching Shannon’s killer than for helping set him free. I learned that I delight in making a difference in people’s lives. So I took the money I set aside for Nikki’s engagement ring and the trip to Kauai and made donations to some worthy charities in the name of Brandon Glenn. Brandon cannot live on, but I can make certain that his name forever does.

  If geckos are truly harbingers of good luck as people say, then I must be the luckiest son of a bitch on the face of the earth. My apartment is lousy with them. Skies and I watch them slither around as if they own the place. So, together, we have decided to move to a small resort community called Ko Olina on the leeward side of Oahu.

  Now with Skies in my lap, I read Joey’s letter again. He writes, I suppose the old saying holds true. One man’s paradise is another man’s prison. You know how I feel about Hawaii, and I know how you feel about New York, so I fear we may never see each other again.

  Petting Skies with one hand, I fold the letter and tuck it neatly in my drawer, wondering whether geography means as much to me now as it did before.

  My cell phone vibrates in my pocket and I reach for it, flip open the clamshell, and put it to my ear without checking the caller ID. “Spea—” I take a deep breath. “Aloha,” I say.

  It’s Hoshi. She wants to know if I’ll be in the office at all today.

  “Maybe later,” I tell her. “Maybe not.”

  I set the phone down on my desk and shield my eyes against the sun seeping through the blinds. As much as I try to avoid it, my mind often wanders back to the night I was nearly killed.

  Alika Kapua was killed lawfully in defense of my life. Still, the shooter that gunned him down has never come forward. I have no illusions. But for that gunman, I would not be alive today. I would not be hiking up Diamond Head crater and watching the sun rise and set. I would not be walking in the park watching the birds, or driving leisurely in my Jeep admiring the coast. I would not be relaxing on the beach or taking long jogs in the sand. But for that gunman, I would not be swimming alongside giant sea turtles in the azure Pacific, drinking in the sun and jumping over waves, dreaming of tomorrow’s infinite possibilities.

  Okay, so I don’t really do any of those things. But I sure as shit am happy to be alive.

  EPILOGUE

  I am lying facedown on Kailua Beach on the windward side of Oahu when I hear a familiar voice from no more than three or four yards away.

  “Aloha, Mistah C!”

  “Aloha, Turi,” I say, picking myself off the sand.

  Turi sits on the beach next to me. As he looks out at the sea and Flat Island, he displays a chubby smile upon his chubby face. It’s the first time I’ve seen him in months.

  “I never got to tell you, Turi.”

  “What’s that, Mistah C?”

  “Mahalo.”

  “Oh, that,” he says. “That was nothing. I never liked that moke anyway.”

  “Well, Turi, I owe you my life. If there’s anything I can ever—”

  “I know, I know, Mistah C. We got each other’s backs. That’s what friends are for, brah.”

  I nod, not much unlike a grateful bobblehead doll. Thanks to some professional surfing on the Internet, I now have a bobblehead doll of a Hawaiian hula girl sitting upon my desk. Only instead of her head, she bobs her hips. Very sexy.

  “I saw you in the neighborhood that night,” Turi says, “and I figure I better keep my eye on you. Can’t have nothing bad happen to my lawyer, eh?”

  “Good thing for me it was your neighborhood, Turi.”

  “What did I tell you when we first met, Mistah C? It’s my island, brah. Now that over there”—he points to Flat Island—“I tell you what, that’s yours.”

  “Mahalo again, Turi,” I say, happy yet somehow unable to mirror his smile.

  “Don’t look so sad, brah. C’mon, smile, Mistah C. The sun is shining. The birds are singing. The waves are hitting da shore. The ’aina, the land, it’s ours.”

  I nod my head but say nothing.

  “C’mon, smile, Mistah C. It’s one fucking beautiful day, yeah?”