My Kind of Town
>> Ala Moana Beach Park Dankeshoen
Gomes lived in the real world, and liked it. This goddess business was a little hard to take. And yet he knew what he and Dr. Laurie Tang had seen when Gomes twisted open the hatch on the WWII-vintage mini-submarine that surfaced at the Diamond head end of the park minutes ago --lifting Laurie out of the water in the last yards of her swim. And now the old gentleman who appeared out of nowhere was telling him that the big, brown, naked woman they saw inside the sub, kissing the head of the lone occupant, who turned out to be a skeleton, was Ho'ola, goddess of life -- rescuer, healer, saver, preserver.
"I'm sorry to interrupt," Laurie said, handing the cell phone back to Gomes, "but my presence is required at work." Work being at the Queen's ER. "But we're not through with my questions." Gomes, the tough detective again. Later, Laurie wouldn't know what came over her, wouldn't have any logical explanation at all, because she'd never done anything so bold before. It wasn't her style. But there she was, blurting "We could talk over dinner tonight. I'm cooking."
It was not, Gomes noted, a question. "Let me grab my notepad out of the car so I get your address. Mr. Ahuna, could you come along too. I'd like to get your number as well."
Watching from behind a row of monkeypod trees, Sen. Donovan Matsuda-Yee-Dela Cruz-Bishop-Kamaka felt mixed emotions. On the one hand, he was glad that Laurie and Gomes appeared to be leaving, so Donovan could see Gomes' car and get his license number. On the other hand, he seethed at the way Laurie and Gomes were walking. Too close. Laurie touching Gomes arm as she spoke.
"This," Laurie said as Gomes stuck a key in the trunk, "is your car?"
A Barracuda, its color had generously been called by one of Gomes' CID brethren "metallic stomach-flu green."
"Classic," Jimmy Ahuna said.
"Let me get your information first," Gomes said, pulling a notepad from the trunk. Laurie saw a pistol in a holster in the trunk. The reality of what Gomes did for a leaving made her shiver.
"No sense I give you my number," Jimmy said. "After this I'm going with Ho'ola, to live in her valley. My wife died two years ago, we never had any kids, no need I stay here. But do me one favor, eh? Call Froggie Matsuo, my old friend from the shipyard. Tell him he needs to find a new second baseman for our makule team. Oh ..." Jimmy pulled a set of keys from the pockets of his faded corduroy Stubbies. "... and tell Froggie he can have my collection of Wayne Newton records."
Don Chapman is editor of MidWeek.
His serialized novel runs daily in the Star-Bulletin
with weekly summaries on Sunday.
He can be emailed at dchapman@midweek.com