“See what they can see from where they are?” Arch asked back.
“They can’t see dick! They can’t even see us. The hill goes right up behind them,” Matisse answered, gleefully.
“Exactly! That’s what Ahi wanted us to see,” Arch said, slowly bringing his glasses down to rest on top of one of the moist rotten logs they were resting on. “We’ll come in from here tomorrow, and head right down into the valley before going up and around where the first platform must be. Then we go up.”
XV
Matisse drove the Pontiac at breakneck speed. The traffic moving away from Haiku, back on Kam Highway, was spotty and moving faster than the speed limit, as well.
“I don’t think it’s a good idea to stay at that house,” Matisse said, almost losing control of the swerving car in the middle of a sharp curve.
Arch watched a flock of wild chickens scatter, as the Bonneville came out of the curve, flattening out on it’s rocky old suspension, and seemingly making for the birds at ever increasing speed. Arch knew Matisse was right. The house was a bad idea. But running all the way over the Koolau Mountains just to stay in the rotten, clap board, shithole Matisse lived in, was too awful to consider. And despite the bond they had formed, by accepting Virginia’s bribe, Ahi had taken his offer of a place to sleep off the table.
“If she comes back, we’ll just sleep in the Lincoln,” Arch said loudly He had to raise his voice to be heard over the vortex of wind created by the convertible’s racing along a straight stretch of highway. As they flew by, Arch noted Crawford’s rest home, the two ancient concrete outbuildings falling, but still erect against the backdrop of the mountains.
“Why can’t we just get a room at the Turtle Bay Resort?” Matisse complained, as the rich flora of the resort’s grounds and golf course appeared just beyond the many ponds of Oahu’s only shrimp farm.
“I don’t know what’s left on the card, and we may need gas or whatever before this is done,” Arch replied. For the first time since leaving the service he wished that he was a team leader again, with a phony company’s cash budget of mission money, and an unlimited American Express card. Being retired, before he’d come back to Oahu, had begun to feel an awful lot like being poor while waiting to die.
The house was as they left it. The Lincoln was still parked on the access road, apparently undisturbed by whatever electronics the Agency had, or had not, put in it. Both men walked back toward Sunset Beach; winnowed their way through small groups of tourists who had collected to watch the famous sunset; and then approached the house from the back. As soon as they climbed over the huge berm of sand, built up to protect against the giant surf of winter, they saw that the glass double doors of the house still gaped open.
Arch drained a bottle of Pabst Blue Ribbon he found in the fridge, ate half a bag of Maui potato chips in seconds, and then collapsed on the convertible couch without opening it. He heard Matisse rummaging around, grousing about how their presence in the house was a big mistake, until he fell into a deep sleep. His last thoughts were about his injured hand. It no longer hurt, but how could he climb anything with its’ impaired capacity for grasping or holding.
A dream about Virginia shattered into tiny pieces as he was jerked awake. In a dream Arch left Virginia having breakfast at Pasqual’s on Don Gaspar in Santa Fe, only to awaken to Virginia six inches in front of his face.
“What?” Arch exclaimed, instinctively moving his shoulder out from under her intrusive right hand.
“What are you doing in my home?” She hissed at him, while stepping back a few paces.
“I told you,” Matisse informed Arch from the bottom of the stairs. “There’s nothing about the Haole that’s not bad news.”
“Get out!” Virginia stated, her voice scathing, one finger of her hand extended and pointing toward the garage exit.
Arch sat up groggy, still trying to come back from the wonderful breakfast he’d just left behind. He could almost taste the bite of green chili in his mouth, instead of the bite in Virginia’s tone.
“I thought you’d be with him,” Arch forced out, shaking his head to clear it. “We didn’t have any place on this side of the island to stay.”
“Oh,” Virginia replied, lowering her arm. She stared at him with an unbelieving expression on her face. She continued, “you didn’t seem to have any problem remembering he’s married before.”
It was Arch’s turn to say “oh.”
“Let’s go, we done here,” Matisse said, moving toward the garage door. “There will be no sleep in this place, not as long as this Haole Elvira is here.”
Virginia turned back to face him. “Island scum,” she hissed out.
“Haole bitch,” Matisse said right back.
“Alright, alright, are you two done? Arch asked. “This isn’t a school bus. It’s your place. We’ll go. We’re just been trying to help.” Arch stood up before turning back to smooth out the couch, pick up the empty beer bottle, and half empty chip bag.
“Help?” Virginia said, her tone one of shock. “ Help in your usual fashion. You just cost the Agency millions, and the Marine Corps a good chunk of its land. And it only took you a few days to accomplish that. Your usual help.”
“Seems somebody here is owed something, by just about everyone who’s taken over, including the U.S. Government and the United States Marine Corps.” Arch headed for the garage door with Matisse leading the way.
“I’ll be here tomorrow morning if you want to come back and see me,” Virginia said behind them, her tone softened, her words spoken low and slow.
Arch paused but did not stop. He gently closed the door behind him, not turning to look back. Back at the car, Matisse waited as Arch went through his pocket for the key fob.
“That’s one screwed up Haole chick,” he murmured, leaning over the cooling top of the black car.
“Oh shut it,” Arch replied disgustedly, getting into the Lincoln, starting it and turning the air conditioning fan knob to its highest setting. “Screw it,” he continued, “we’re not sleeping in this God forsaken car. The Turtle Bay has got to have one room left, and I know they’ve got a computer in the business center. I’ll transfer some money, if I have any money, into my credit car account. There’s no way we can do what we’ve got to do tomorrow, without any sleep or having to use an outdoor shower.”
Arch headed the Lincoln toward the Turtle Bay Resort, only realizing after a few miles that he was driving just like Matisse. He slowed the big cruiser until he came up upon a roadside fruit stand that always made him think of the great local tune called Sweet Old Lady of Waihole. He pulled coloration of its yellow spot, from where it’d lain ripening. Matisse picked up a couple of iced coconuts with the tops cut off. Back in the car he sucked noisily on his straw, holding the other one out to Arch, who was behind the wheel.
Both men exited the car under the portico at the resort entrance, sucking on their coconuts, and heading for the open-air check in counter. One of the bellmen asked Matisse if he or his partner had any luggage, causing the big Hawaiian to spill some of his coconut juice.
“We not Mahoos!” he yelled behind him with a twisted laugh.
“What’s a Mahoo?” Arch asked, absently, bellying up to the counter where another aging Hawaiian worked with an outmoded cash register that had an Apple monitor somehow attached to it.
“You just get mad. I think you have bad temper, but you don’t show it much,” Matisse answered, setting his coconut next to Arch’s on the counter.
The older Hawaiian finished working on the register, reached over, grabbed the coconuts, and tossed them into a trash basket.
Matisse glowered, while Arch took in a deep breath before speaking.
“We need a room. One room, two beds. We’re not Mahoos,” he informed the an older Hawaiian woman who was smiling in a seemingly friendly way, that didn’t come across as friendly at all.
“That’s good to know,” the woman replied, “I wouldn’t have guessed.”
&n
bsp; “The room, Kalani?” Arch asked, reading the woman’s nametag and ignoring her snide comment.
“Name’s not Kalani, just using her uniform, and yes, we have a room. Credit card and photo I.D.”, she finished, holding out her left hand.
“How fitting,” Arch said, reaching for his wallet. If the credit card didn’t work, they’d be back to sleeping in the Lincoln.
Thankfully the card went through successfully. The woman wearing Kalani’s uniform handed his stuff back, along with a small envelope with one plastic room key in it.
“Two keys,” Arch instructed, trying to keep his voice civil.
The room was way out on the end of the ocean wing of the resort. It faced away from the ocean, but gave a wonderful view of the Koolau Mountains. Their lower swales peppered back to Kuhuku with giant windmills being turned slowly by invisible, and unfelt, wind currents. They went down to the lobby, after cleaning up as best they could without a change of clothes. In the morning they could get into the black climbing outfits Arch had conned from the Marine supply sergeant. He was able to transfer five thousand dollars to the credit card by completely draining his retirement account. When the first of the following month came, no bills would be paid unless his fortune changed.
They went from the business center, down to the outdoor bar near the pool. Matisse ordered two beers. Arch asked for a cup of coffee before remembering that the bar at the Turtle Bay didn’t serve coffee. As he rose from his stool, Arch asked, “Why did you order two beers? You can’t drink two at once?”
“Case I run out of money,” Matisse answered, draining half of one of the bottles.
“But you don’t have any money,” Arch remarked, walking toward the pool. He headed toward some elevators where he’d seen employees, through an unmarked door in the hallway. He went through the door and ended up in a cafeteria. Employees were all over the place sitting at tables and talking. Nobody took notice of him standing there. Seeing a coffee machine he walked over, took a cup and poured. A woman behind the counter watched him, and then pointed toward a small refrigerator when he looked up at her questioningly. After adding half-and-half and a Splenda, he went back to the bar with his cup of coffee to rejoin Matisse, who still had the two bottles in front of him.
“At least you’re not drinking too much,” Arch said, taking his old seat. He looked at the tab before frowning. The tab had four beers credited to it.
“Thanks boss,” Matisse responded with a big smile. An achingly beautiful sunset finished delivering its lingering effects, and they decided to call it a night.
Arch needed no alarm to awaken early the next morning. He roused Matisse. They cleaned up as best they could, the resort having supplied toothbrushes and small tubes of paste without room service needing to called. Arch called down to the front desk to have the car brought around, and then went down and punched his information into the ATM near the lobby restrooms. He took out a hundred, leaving less than that in his account. “Kalani” wasn’t on duty so he had the front desk attendant make change. He wouldn’t have minded giving the carhop a twenty, but old habits die hard. Too big a tip, or none at all, would be remembered. A medium tip would always allow the tipper to slip under unintended surveillance.
“Where we change?” Matisse asked, getting into the passenger side of the car.
“Shark’s cove. There’s a public restroom, and nobody will notice our black rubber outfits with all the SCUBA divers that hang around there.
It took ten minutes to reach Shark’s Cove. Then another ten minutes to get changed and organize their gear before driving out on the Kam Highway to get to the Haiku area.
“We like Navy Seals,” Matisse said. “We look too cool,” he went on, tilting the rear view mirror to better see himself.
“I’ve never seen a three hundred pound Seal,” Arch replied, dryly. He drove the speed limit, thinking about the complete idiocy of the quest they were on. They were totally unequipped to deal with any trouble, whatsoever. They had no communications equipment, nor anyone they could communicate with if they needed to. And they had no idea what they were looking for, what they would find, or if they’d find anything at all. On top of that, Arch himself was too old, and Matisse was too fat. Any talk of conditioning would only end in humor, if such talk ever occurred.
Arch was only clear about one thing, though, both he and Matisse were committed to a cause. Being committed to a cause, any cause, was better than not having one at all.
Sleeping in the car at Sunset
Visions. The green ghosts, the warriors and the Army officer of WWII
The hike in
The climb and the gear
The revelation
The descent back down into the valley
XVI
Arch scrapped the idea of hiking in through the Waialua Forest. The topography was just too difficult. By the time he and Matisse were anywhere near the base of the stairs, mid-day would long have passed. Heeia Stream ran all the way from deep inside the Koolau valley and only broke through to the surface near the base of Heeia Pier. Arch and Matisse sat just outside the Heeia Pier store. Old man Chow’s kid, a man nobody could ever remember the name of, ran the place. The kid ran the place Hong Kong style. You could get anything you wanted at his store, if you had enough money and time. But the marine fuel concession he held really paid for the availability of the rest. Marine fuel was almost twice the price of regular gas, but in Hawaii any boat had to be run on it, instead of by the same gasoline put into cans at regular gas stations. The fact that half the price went directly into the concessionaire’s pocket was never discussed. Boater’s were used to the outrageousness of the arrangement, and the injustice at least meant that little places like Chow’s small dive were dotted around the shoreline of Oahu.
There was a continuous stream of all kinds of people entering and leaving chows. When it broke up a bit, Arch asked Matisse “Tell me what you know about the climb.” When Matisse didn’t reply, he followed up with “Can we do it?” Matisse continued to consume his spam and eggs served over a hot sticky mass of white rice, turned black by a liberal pouring of Aloha Soy Sauce.
“Not climb,” Matisse replied between bites, taking a swig of his four-dollar cup of Kona coffee. “Never climbed. But I heard from my brah,” Matisse continued, “No ladders, no rungs, just metal steps with railings if they’re still there. The whole thing is falling down, but ropes and equipment aren’t important, or at least that’s what my brahs used to say. Nobody talks about it anymore. I don’t know why.” Matisse went back to finishing up every last scrap of his breakfast.
Arch looked down at his injured hand with a sense of hope. He hadn’t been at all certain that he would be able to do the climbing. He looked up and out over the bay. From where Arch sat he could see Kaneohe Marine Base clearly. His eyes were drawn to a small island sitting half way between the base and the end of the pier. Arch was one of the few residents of Oahu who’d ever visited the island. Coconut Island. The island that would have become famous if the producers of the old television show Gilligan’s Island had continued filming there instead of only shooting the first three shows there. After those first episodes the show had bailed out and moved to a set in Los Angeles. Years earlier Arch used anthropology credentials to get out to the island, and had walked through the falling down sets still strewn about with fake rocks, and phony palm trees. The Department of Natural Resources denied all visits to regular citizens. Today nothing was likely left of the old Hollywood sets, as the University of Hawaii had taken it over to build a marine studies institute.
“Where we leave car?” Matisse asked.
“Isn’t the community college right down from H3 there?” Arch replied, still staring at the island offshore.
“Yeah, but the parking lot for the mental hospital is even closer. Nobody will notice us,” Matisse said.
Arch looked over at his companion to see if he was smiling, but Matisse seemed unaware of the humor buried inside his comment.
&nbs
p; “How far to the stairs?” he asked, once again examining his hand.
“Not far. The Kapunahala stream has a path right to it under the freeway, but we have to climb a little hill to get up to it.
“I thought you said you’ve never been there,” Arch responded in surprise.
“Nah, but my friends all have and they tell me. Kapunahala gets you in from one of the trolley platforms, and past the guards at the bottom.”
“Let’s go,” Arch replied with a slight groan. He was not looking forward to what lay before them.
Arch had parked the car with its trunk facing the outside of the pier so they could get at its contents without anyone noticing. They worked in silence, packing ropes, pitons, bottled water and some spam and pressed rice musubi chunks that Chow sold for a buck a piece.
“You really think we need these?” Matisse asked, holding up a set of the brand new and frightfully expensive night vision goggles.
“Just put it in. I don’t know. We may need all of this stuff or none of it. We won’t be coming back down for supplies. That I do know. You said trollies, what trollies?”
“They had to carry all the stuff up there during the big war. They built concrete platforms on the lower peaks, and then strung trolley cables to the top.”
“They still there?” Arch asked, standing up straight to adjust the straps of his backpack.
“Nah, they rusted away, but we can rest at the platforms on the way up,” Matisse offered.
They drove to Windward Community College and then took the access road that ran along a tree line to the left. There was no gate separating the college campus from the hospital grounds behind it. Matisse drove the car past the last big building where there was a small parking lot not far from the wide stream. He parked the Lincoln in the only available slot. It had a small sign indicating why it was vacant.
“Police and fire vehicles only,” Arch read, shaking his head in disgust.
“You a general,” Matisse explained, getting out of the car.
Down In The Valley Page 13
