My Kind of Town
The Honolulu Soap Co.:
Sunday digest>> Manoa
"I just can't believe it," the widow Rayna Chang said. "My yardman is a terrorist?"
"Where're his quarters?" FBI agent Steve Metz said.
"He lives in a loft above the maintenance garage."
The G-man motioned for Rayna and her blind date David Fulton to return to the living area, reaching for his phone.
"Al," they heard him say. "Check the garage out back ..."
Rayna turned to David.
"I'm sorry," she began. "You must think ..."
"I think this must be very traumatic for you. I don't know what I can do to help, but ..."
"Just being here," she blurted. "Thank you." Rayna realized what she had missed the past two years since Henry died. She missed having a man.
FBI agent Al Waters hurried. A terrorist could be fleeing.
But what if the suspect had booby-trapped the garage?
"Mr. Omandam?" he called from outside. No reply.
The door to the garage had been left open. Heart thumping, Waters stepped inside with his Glock .40 drawn. Saying a silent prayer, he bounded up the stairs, found the loft empty.
"He's gone, Steve," Waters said into his phone. "Better search the neighborhood."
Good idea, but too late. Achmed al-Hazir had already shed his identity as Paul Omandam, slipped through the fence behind the garage into the Yamamoto's yard and with half of a Snickers bar bribed their black lab not to bark. The Yamamotos weren't home and Achmed, now carrying a passport, green card and drivers license that identified him as Ignacio Del Rosario, hurried across the yard to the side gate.
Closing the gate behind him, he walked quickly but casually out to the street, pondering his next move.
"Allah akbar," he whispered as the lights of TheBus approached. God truly is great.
And so the missing link in the terrorist bombing at Pearl Harbor slipped away into the night wearing a bomb around his waist. He checked into the Marine Surf, paying with the dollars Muhammed Resurreccion and Infitada Inc. had provided for just this kind of emergency.
From his room on the 12th floor, he looked out at the lights of Honolulu, heard his stomach rumble. There was an Italian restaurant downstairs, Matteo's. He would consider his future over a plate of spaghetti.
When Metz was gone, Rayna turned to David. "I'm afraid I'm not making a very good first impression this evening."
"Well, this is one of the more memorable evenings of my life," the handsome widower said. "And it's still early."
She glanced at her watch. Barely 8:30.
"I did promise you dinner, if you're still in the mood."
"My appetite has deserted me for the moment, but I could use a glass of wine."
"That's two of us." He nodded toward the door. "Shall we?"
"Where did you have in mind?" she said as he opened the passenger door of his Lexus.
"Matteo's, if that's alright."
"I haven't been there in years." Rayna didn't mention that her late husband Henry had loved the osso buco.
"Once again, that's two of us." David didn't mention that his late wife Tish had loved the Caesar salad. "Matteo's, then?"
"Excellent choice."
>> Waikiki
If there was a better-traveled food than spaghetti, Achmed al-Hazir didn't know what it was. His family back in the Philippines served spaghetti on special occasions. A Sicilian cook at the Infitada Inc. training camp in Iraq served spaghetti once a week. So when the waiter brought the menu and started to tell him the specials, Achmed put up a hand.
"Spaghetti."
The waiter gave him an approving nod. "If I do say so, sir, the chef makes the best spaghetti in Honolulu."
The waiter was right, Matteo's did serve the best spaghetti Achmed ever tasted. He savored each bite as if it might be his last. He was all alone, the only member of their group not in custody after the failed bomb attack at Pearl Harbor.
With his passport and the dollars Muhammed and Infitada Inc. had given him, Achmed could go almost anywhere in the world. Almost. Returning to Mindanao was not an option. The National Police would be looking for him. Traveling anywhere would be a risk for days, maybe weeks. U.S. agents would be looking for him.
Of course he could visit the Federal Building tomorrow. It was the only other Hawaii target that Muhammed Resurreccion discussed with him other than the Arizona Memorial.
Feeling the bomb around his waist tighten as his belly filled with spaghetti, Achmed reached under his shirt, checked to see that the "safety" was on, loosened the belt.
Leaving Matteo's, Achmed was still too agitated to go to his room, and turned through the garage to go out for a stroll. Walking down the steep driveway to Kuhio Avenue, Achmed jumped out of the way as a white Lexus pulled in -- and came eye to eye with his recent employer Mrs. Chang.
Achmed started to run. He turned right on Kuhio, looking for a place to die. Looking for someone to take with him. Looking for a way to leave this life a martyr.
He didn't have far to look. A trolley carrying -- according to a banner draped across the side -- people attending the big electronics convention stopped for the red light at Kuhio. Behind it was a police car. Perfect.
Achmed walked casually but purposefully. Nearing the crosswalk, he took an angle that would put him between the trolley and the cop car. That's when the screaming started.
"Terrorist!" Mrs. Chang shrieked. "Stop him!"
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