Surfing Detective 02 - Wipeout

by Hughes, Chip

  Maya kissed me as her roving grey-green eyes glanced over my shoulder and found one of the bubbling spas. “Want to make love in the spa?”

  “Later.”

  Her slender fingers ran down the buttons of my aloha shirt, past swaying palms and hula dancers.

  “Later.” I said again, though she was getting good at distracting me. “Listen, if Sun’s man drops back, we can slip into the darkness and then run to the golf clubhouse. Up there on the rise.” I pointed. “Follow the cart path and stay behind the trees so no one can see you.”

  “You’re no fun.” Maya pinched my behind.

  “Have you forgotten why we’re here?” I reached into my khakis and pulled out one of the two penlights. “Take this. But don’t turn it on, if you can avoid it.”

  Behind us, our tail lit a cigarette and slowly edged away. Since we’d been at the Lodge, Sun’s men had appeared to be working in solo shifts, perhaps hoping not to arouse suspicion about their un-resort-like attire and conduct.

  “Let’s move,” I whispered. We split off and jogged through the maze of gardens and up the cart path toward the first fairway.

  Behind the clubhouse we finally met up, both of us puffing. When the blood stopped pounding in my ears, I listened to reassure myself we hadn’t been followed and then, clasping her warm hand, led Maya quietly into the dark woods.

  Snapping on our penlights, we huffed up a foothill trail through a grove of ironwoods and pines. In less than half mile of meandering, the trail intersected the road to Shipwreck Beach.

  Six miles stood between the Lodge at Koele and Shipwreck Beach. Six miles. Sun would be watching our Jeep, so that was out. But it was a nice evening for a hike. The air was cool, even a bit chilly at this elevation, and luckily the blustery Trades had died down.

  We stepped along the sloping highway, alone under the stars. Any approaching vehicle would give us plenty of warning to conceal ourselves, for headlights and a motor’s hum would carry a long way in this silent night. The terrain looked less desolate by night than by day, a dark country road winding down an endless grade. We could have been in any rural spot, except for the lights of Lahaina flickering across the channel.

  The moon soon rose above the sea, painting Maui’s distant twin mounds pale amber. The highway took on an eerie glow. I hoped Maya would complain of sore feet—so I could too. But she kept on, her hips swaying rhythmically in front of me.

  I glanced behind us, looking for two pairs of Jeep headlights. I glanced behind us again and again. No sign of Mr. Sun.

  It was past midnight when we finally reached Shipwreck Beach. A low tide offered more sand for our throbbing feet to tread on than the narrow strip of the morning. Bleached remnants of sea creatures scattered about glowed like ghouls in the moonlight.

  Our every stride brought more cans, containers, and debris to sift through—Miller Genuine Draft, Kikkoman soy sauce, a lonely flipper, Tide detergent, a rusty fire extinguisher, frayed rope—in search of our sunscreen bottle.

  “What kind of sunscreen are we looking for?”

  “Coppertone,” Maya said. “Bronze bottle. Number 8.” She paused. “. . . Oh, yeah, Corky said to look by a rusty freight container washed ashore near the stranded ship.”

  She tells me this now? Could she really be that much of an airhead? I stepped gingerly among the debris. Or was this a wild goose chase after all, with Maya in the lead?

  As we hiked the beach toward the wrecked ship, behind us, about a quarter mile back, I spotted two flashlights combing the sand like search beacons. They could have belonged to fishermen, but I doubted it.

  “Guess who?” I pointed to the roving lights.

  Maya didn’t even hear me. Her mouth had dropped open.

  Before us loomed the moonlit ship, its rotting, ghostlike corpse still unburied by the sea. Heavy swells were battering it and exploding like skyrockets in the moon’s glow. I got chicken-skin.

  Opposite the distant ship sat the freight container on the beach, sprayed by the shore break. The rust-orange container had apparently plunged from a freighter, spilled its cargo, and washed ashore. One of its two doors had been ripped off and lay twenty yards away in the sand.

  I glanced down the dark beach. The roving beams kept coming. Now human figures crossed in front of the beams, picking their way through the debris as they walked. “Where’s the map?” I asked again.

  Maya shone her penlight inside the rusty freight container. Crabs with big menacing claws scuttled every which way through the dark and shallow sloshing seawater. Their powerful pincers and beady eyes seemed to threaten intruders: “Don’t even think about it setting foot in here!”

  Only those twin searchlights closing in on us could possibly prompt me into that container.

  No need. Maya evidently knew right where to look. Under the lip of the doorsill—high above the crabs and sheltered from wind and sea, there it was: a bronze bottle. Coppertone 8.

  Nineteen

  “Unscrew the cap.”

  Maya’s eyes met mine, and something in them glinted like a devious child’s. She twisted off the cap.

  I shone my penlight on a rolled piece of paper inside the neck of the bottle. It looked dry and clean. A pencil or car key or small finger could, with patience, fish it out.

  “That’s Corky’s map.” Maya peered at the rolled paper and smiled strangely.

  “Screw on the cap and let’s go.”

  “Go? Don’t you want to see it?”

  I pointed down the beach at the wandering beams, growing larger every minute. “Let’s move.”

  “Where?”

  “Hiking trails head mauka every mile or so along the beach. They’re full of kiawe thickets and out of our way, but they may be our only way.”

  Maya nodded and we took off down the beach, away from the lights.

  About a mile beyond the wrecked ship, we came to a sandy trail twisting up several miles toward Lanai’s City. It didn’t make sense to go back to the room now, where Sun’s men would be waiting for us. It’d be better to push ahead and try to get off this island. It was now two a.m. We had miles to go before dawn. And the twin beams kept coming.

  We took the make trail.

  Hours later, in the distance, we saw a faint flickering. Lana‘i City. The moon in the west was setting over the tranquil sea, while the eastern sky behind us was turning the color of a blushing peach. Morning.

  No more roving beams. No head lamps. Had we shaken them?

  The twinkling village lights stretched out before us in a luminous grid. Cottage windows of early risers glowed pale yellow against the brighter checkerboard of streetlights. We headed for one of those cottages, the home of Angel Figuiera.

  Tin-roofed plantation dwellings with postage stamp-sized lawns lined ‘Ilima Street in colors that, even under glaring street lights, looked wild: lemon yellow, cinnamon red, cornflower blue. Evidence of family life abounded: boogie boards, bicycles with training wheels, barbecues, toy Jeeps, Igloo coolers. A puppy whined. A lone rooster crowed. Hard to believe that among this reassuring domesticity a drug lord might be lurking.

  Most cottages didn’t have legible numbers, but from the few that did, we seemed to be moving in the right direction. There it was—“537” affixed to a lavender cottage with a rust-freckled GMC truck occupying the lawn.

  Five in the morning is a strange time to knock at someone’s door. We had little choice.

  A short, wiry old man appeared in a white chef’s apron contrasting his wrinkled, raisin-brown skin. He must have lived seventy years, maybe more, under the tropic sun. Despite his weathered appearance, Angel Figuiera’s lively eyes sparkled like an excited boy’s.

  “Mr. Figuiera? I’m a friend of Rad from O‘ahu—Kai Cooke.”

  “Eh, Kai, Catalina been tol’ me you call.” Out came his sunny smile and his pidgin.

  “Sorry we come so early.” I shifted to pidgin too. “Dis my frien’ Maya. We get some kine pilikia. Can help us out, or what?”

&n
bsp; “Shoots . . . .” The old man smiled.

  “We need catch da first boat to Lahaina from Manele Bay dis morning, so dat . . . ,” I hesitated, “so dat nobody see us.“

  “No need explain. You n’ Maya come wit’ me to Manele Bay Hotel. I work dere.“

  “You go to work soon?”

  “Yeah, right now in da truck.” He waved toward the GMC. “Climb in da back, in da shell. Nobody see you in dere.”

  I was grateful for local-style hospitality. No need to explain motive, however bizarre, even shady. After our nightlong hike, I had little energy to spin a yarn about what we’d been through, or what we might face ahead. Sometimes mysteries are best left that way.

  Angel’s pickup rattled through the few blocks of Lana‘i City, then turned down Highway 44, the two lane blacktop also known as “Manele Road” that ran about five unswerving miles, then began to weave as it approached the cliffs of Manele Bay.

  “Da boat to Maui no leave ‘til eight in da morning,” Angel said through the sliding window between the cab and the shell.

  “Dat’s O.K.,” I said.

  “Da harbor jus’ one short walk from Manele Bay,” Angel explained. “You like come to da hotel?”

  “You sure no problem?” I asked.

  “Nah, I take you through da kitchen. I’m one Preparation Chef,” Angel said in formal English, pronouncing each syllable of his title carefully. “I prepare da pineapples and papaya and mango for da guests’ breakfas’—lunch too. I experience’ wit’ pineapple,” Angel laughed. “T’irty years in da pineapple fields—I pick ‘em. Now in da resort, I slice ‘em. I da ‘pineapple man.’”

  As Angel approached the cliffs, Maya gazed longing at Manele Bay, dead ahead in the gauzy twilight.

  “Over dere, dat’s da resort where I work now,” Angel said. “Job mo’ easier, mo’ bettah pay. Go figgah.“

  The Manele Bay Hotel spread its meandering Mediterranean-tiled wings around the sheltered bay where dolphins are known to play and malahinis bake in the tropic sun. Unlike the cool Lodge at Koele, this oceanfront resort embraced the typically sun-splashed beach.

  But there wasn’t much sun at quarter past five, just a pink glow heightening in the east. Nearly three hours to cool our heels. The more time we gave Sun to find us, the more chance he would. But what was the likelihood of Frank O. Sun thinking to look for us in a resort kitchen? Zilch, I hoped.

  Angel punched in at 5:28 AM, then we followed him through a maze of hallways to the huge kitchen, where he donned a chef’s cap embroidered with the resort’s name in royal blue. At stainless preparation tables sous chefs were already at work slicing tangy tropic fruits for the breakfast buffet: kiwi, mango, pineapple, papaya—while mingled whiffs of cinnamon, coconut, and buttery oats suggested that the pastry chefs had started work even earlier.

  My stomach growled. I saw Maya eyeing a tray of fragrant muffins. Since we had just hiked through the night without food, I suspected she was as ravenous as I. Angel must have seen the look of hunger in our eyes.

  “Dis way,” he smiled warmly. “Da employees’ dining room.”

  Angel led us a short distance from the kitchen to a room where resort workers were eating a very early breakfast. A smaller sampling of the hotel’s guest fare was laid out in a buffet line.

  “OK wit’ da boss if we eat?” I wondered out loud.

  “He don’ mine,” Angel winked. “He don’ know and he don’ mine. Or he put it on my tab, no worry.”

  Maya and I filed through the buffet line heaping on fruits of every variety, elegant pastries, and, for me, scrambled eggs and breakfast meats. We filled our plates, then dug in, as if only hours earlier I hadn’t forked over two bills for dinner at the Lodge’s swanky restaurant.

  After breakfast Maya found an unnoticed corner of the employees’ lounge to snooze in, and I kept watch on a secluded terrace overlooking bright blue bay. To ensure we didn’t miss our ferry, I set my alarm watch for seven thirty. Even if I had dared to, I was too wired to sleep. I kept turning over our options for escape once we reached Maui. None of them perfect.

  When I stepped back into the employees’ lounge to wake Maya, she was gone. As my watch ticked toward eight I wondered if she and the sunscreen bottle had flown. I tried not to worry. Her disappearances were becoming routine.

  A few minutes later she casually strolled into the lounge.

  “Where have you been?” I asked the obvious with all the enthusiasm of a soldier after a twelve-mile forced march.

  “Reliving beautiful memories of Mangle Bay,” she replied. “Corky and I—”

  “Do you still have the map?”

  “Why wouldn’t I?” She opened her purse and fished out the bronze sunscreen bottle.

  “OK, let’s go.” I led her to the employees’ dressing rooms where—with the blessing of Angel, if not his boss—we changed into a couple of unattended wait-staff uniforms: royal blue aloha shirts, slacks, and embossed baseball caps. Maya slipped the sunscreen bottle into pocket of her aloha shirt, where the staff customarily kept their order pads and pens, then twined up her long hair under the blue cap. I practiced slouching in my new outfit, so I might be taken for a tired waiter on whom onlookers would spare no more than a casual glance. With my sore feet, working up a shuffling gait was no problem.

  We tracked down Angel again, thanked him for the food and clothes, and asked about getting a ride to the ferry.

  “No worry,” he said, smiling his aloha smile. He led us up a spiral staircase to the resort’s marble-columned entrance. From there a van whisked us to Manele harbor like two hotel workers heading for a weekend getaway on Maui.

  The Lahaina-Lana‘i ferry idled into the harbor as we arrived. About the size of a city bus, the boldly red-white-and-blue-striped vessel floated high in the water and had two decks spacious enough to accommodate more than the few passengers waiting with us to board. The lower deck was enclosed by dark glass; the upper (behind the wheelhouse) was open to the morning sun. At the stern, four gapping pipes rumbled with the throaty authority of twin diesels.

  This appeared to be no “chug-chug” ferry. But a ferry that could get up and move. The twenty-five mile trip between Lana‘i and Lahaina was scheduled to take only forty minutes. The fast clip would suit me just fine. The sooner we got away from the “Pineapple Isle,” the better.

  The ferry docked and the engines shut down. I scanned the other passengers who boarded with us—not a large crowd, and none of them looking the type to run drugs. Maya and I took comfy velour seats on the lower deck. Soft fusion jazz—Kenny G’s mellow sax—wafted through the air-conditioned cabin. I thought of Tommy. The pseudo-soothing ambiance inside the ferry was at odds with the increasing tension I felt every minute we remained docked at Lana‘i harbor. I looked up into the wheelhouse, where the captain’s digital clock said “7:58.” I took a deep breath.

  One minute later the twin diesels started up with a roar, then settled into syncopated hum. The steward removed the boarding plank. Maya put her head on my shoulder. “It’s almost like being on vacation,” she said.

  “Almost,” I replied, unconvinced. She was sure taking this mad dash for our lives in stride.

  I scanned tiny Manele Harbor, a lava rock breakwater sheltering a half dozen sailboats and small fishing vessels, but saw no evidence of Frank O. Sun or his well-dressed lieutenants. Not on the breakwater. Not on any nearby boat.

  Then up on the distant rise, I caught sight of a Jeep weaving down toward us in a hurry. No, two Jeeps. Moving fast.

  Maya clutched the sunscreen bottle in the pocket of her aloha shirt. As the ferry chugged toward the harbor’s mouth, the two Jeeps stormed into the parking lot. A man in dark glasses and suit jumped from one of the Jeeps and waved his arms. He shouted something at the boat. I couldn’t hear his words over the throbbing motors.

  “Captain,” the steward shouted up to the wheelhouse, “More passengers?”

  I looked at Maya. She looked at me. Neither of us said a word. />
  Twenty

  The steward shouted again. “Take the passengers aboard?”

  The cabin clock read “8:01.” The captain cranked the wheel toward the open sea and revved the twin diesels. In a cloud of salt spray and billowing exhaust, the ferry roared from Manele Harbor.

  As we began climbing swells outside the breakwater, the two Jeeps became mere specks behind us. Soon the ferry swung around the rocky southern tip of Lana’i and into the channel to West Maui. Lahaina was not yet visible, only the green cane fields scaling the mountain behind it. The drone of the diesels, the bow rising and falling over the swells, and my lack of sleep would normally have made me doze off. But not today. My mind was racing.

  Before we hit Maui we needed a plan. How to get back to O‘ahu?

  We could try to evade Sun by boarding a flight from Kahului to Kaua‘i or Moloka‘i or the Big Island, then connecting to O‘ahu. Wandering Kahului Airport, however, could be risky. Or we could drive to remote, tiny Hana Airport in East Maui where Sun surely wouldn’t go. But the trip would set us back half a day. Our best bet was to try the commuter airport at Kapalua—just up the road from Lahaina. Island Hopper flew Twin Otters from Kapalua almost hourly. Even if Sun pursued us there, we would most likely take off before he arrived.

  As the ferry cruised across the channel, we were surrounded by islands: Lana‘i fading behind us, brooding Kaho‘olawe on our right, cliffy Moloka‘i on our left, and cloud-wreathed Maui dead ahead.