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My Kind of Town Don Chapman |
Living proof
>> Off the Big Island
As the Coast Guard plane flew off into the sunset, Sonya Chan urgently dragged the old man down to the privacy of the cabin, knowing he wasn't really that old.
For proof, she didn't need to remove the shades, captain's cap, blue blazer, white slacks and Top Siders. All she had to do was kiss him. Daren was the second best kisser she'd ever known (behind Cruz), and he kissed her back now with passion and familiarity and joy.
She kissed with eyes closed, afraid to open them in case she was wrong, and frantically pulled off the cap and tossed it aside, and then the white hair -- it was a wig! -- and she opened her eyes, removed his shades. "Daren!"
Tears and kisses and parts of words and sobs all running together, she pulled off the blue blazer and the shirt and the white slacks, and then her T-shirt was coming off. Tears and kisses and parts of words and sobs all running together, he was shedding his angry resolve and they were making love. He was officially back from the dead.
Afterward, they clung together in silence for a long while. But not long enough for Daren.
"What happened, Daren? Why didn't you call me? Where's Paul and the other guy? Why did you change the boat's name? Why do you want to be dead?"
He wasn't ready for all of that. He had to rethink everything, because she'd seemed so sincere in her grief when he was dead, and now so sincere in his return. "Let's sleep, there will be answers in the morning."
AS SONYA LAY sleeping beside him, head on his shoulder, Daren thought back to the Coast Guard plane. They had to be searching for him. Well, not him, but this boat. And if they found it, there would be questions about why the boat had been renamed, and what happened to the two original crewmen, and what was a dead guy doing at the wheel?
Sonya rolled over, freeing his arm. He slid off the bed, grabbed some shorts, went up on the deck, checked the auto-pilot and his watch. They'd be making their rendezvous after sunrise. And it made him nervous.
He was new to this business. He'd had plenty of chances to make money from illegal activities -- running pakalolo, fireworks, pirated CDs, even milk during the Heptachlor crisis. But he'd always stuck to the straight and legal -- fishing, whale-watching, scuba charters. Making an honest living was his badge of honor. Now he and Sonya were on their way to pick up Sushi Leclair and 12 women, illegal aliens. Trafficking in humans, the news called such activity.
Daren welcomed the fall of darkness as never before, feeling secure in its temporary cover.
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Don Chapman is editor of MidWeek. His serialized novel runs daily in the Star-Bulletin. He can be e-mailed at dchapman@midweek.com
