My Kind of Town
The Honolulu Soap Co.:
>> Waikiki Gold Coast
There had been no subtlety in the way Machiavelli Wang said it, and no question. "Donovan, this is Sal. He's going to take care of your problem with Sherlock Gomes."
So this was Sen. Donovan Matsuda-Yee-Dela Cruz-Bishop-Kamaka.
Salvatore Innuendo led them into the living area, turned up the stereo. "
"You got another one of those," the senator said, nodding toward Innuendo's glass of Pinot Grigio.
"Not a chance," Machiavelli interrupted. "While Sal is doing his job in the next few hours, my job will be to get you cleaned up. No more booze. Etcetera."
"Would the etcetera have anything to do with this visit?"
Machiavelli quickly filled him in. HPD Detective Gomes, investigating the crash of the senator's car, visited a Makiki Heights address listed on the state ID card of the young woman who was the lone occupant. Gomes found a hillside cottage, and the senator. As well as a glass pipe and small amounts of crystal methamphetamine and marijuana. And Gomes gave the senator a choice. Jail and all of the headlines or a visit to a drug rehab clinic in Portland. Gomes would pick up the senator at 9 a.m. and put him on the plane. And just 13 hours to go.
For Machiavelli, neither of Gomes' options was viable, especially not now that the mayor was out of the race for governor and Donovan was back in.
"Your Sherlock Gomes comes with a reputation," Innuendo said. "What can you tell me about him?"
Machiavelli gave him a home address and a description of his classic Barracuda. "And we know where he will be having dinner this evening. Earlier today Donovan's female companion, a Dr. Laurie Tang, informed him that she is now his former companion, and that she will be hosting Detective Gomes for dinner. This is his key to her condo, and the security pass card for the garage. Oh, and Gomes is known not to carry a weapon."
>> Queen's Medical Center
Lily punched in 411, asked for the Star-Bulletin number. "Is Dave Donnelly in, please?"
It turned out that Donnelly worked from his home, so all Lily could do was leave a message. Donnelly was trying to finish a column and catch a plane to San Francisco for the annual barstool reunion with his old pal Tom Horton. The message he received was vague - "call about Clarence 'Bobo' Ah Sun" - and he assumed old Bobo was back in town.
This could be a lead item. He returned the call immediately.
"So what's up with Bobo?"
"Thank you for getting back so quickly, Mr. Donnelly, but I was hoping you could tell me."
"I don't get it. You have the same last name. You're ohana."
"It sounds crazy, I know, but I'd never heard the name until I was doing some family research recently. His name appeared numerous times in the papers, and several of those were in your column."
"Bobo was quite a character. Always good fodder. You don't know what he's doing now?"
"No, the last information I have was in your column, in 1981. You quoted a postcard he'd sent, the Mark Twain line about his demise being greatly exaggerated."
"Sure, I remember. It was a big deal for a while when people thought he disappeared."
"The papers called him a 'popular entertainer.' Was he a star?"
"More like a Zulu-wannabe. Bobo would fill in for Al Harrington and Nephi Hannemann when they were vacationing."
"And after that postcard?"
"I can't exactly recall."
"Well, thank you for your time, Mr. Donnelly."
"And thank you for the item."
It wasn't a lead item. But it wasn't bad. He typed: "Just wondering - whatever happened to entertainer Bobo Ah Sun? Even family members are in the dark..."
>> Waikiki Gold Coast
When Machiavelli Wang and the senator had gone, Salvatore turned off the pot of marinara simmering on the stove. Dinner would have to wait. He hated to kill on a full stomach.
Innuendo entered the walk-in closet, slid aside several shirts, punched in the combination of the wall safe's digital lock. The steel door swung open, revealing his cache. He'd need something for long range, something for closer in, both with silencers. And a knife. And for good measure, a mini blowgun with a quiver of five poison darts. Overkill, to be sure. Sherlock Gomes would die just once.
>> 2002 Wilder
Fresh from the shower, Dr. Laurie Tang dabbed perfume in places she never had before.
He'd be here soon. She pulled on a casually clingy floral print dress with spaghetti straps and headed for the kitchen to start dinner. She wanted to spend some time just talking when Sherlock arrived, and a chance to look into his eyes.
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 firstname.lastname@example.org