My Kind of Town
>>H-1, Ewa-bound The Sunday digest
The shriek of a siren startled Lily out of her autopilot reverie and she jumped in her leather seat. The seatbelt tugged her Anne Namba white silk suit taut against soft brown skin lightly scented of gardenia blossoms.
Smelling good was her business, and business was very good. But business had her so lost in thought, Lily hadn't noticed the flashing blue light and the big cop on a motorcycle in her rearview mirror. For how long?
Thus the first installment of My Kind of Town began on March 19. Here's a synopsis of the story since then:
Thinking about her plan to reorganize the Honolulu Soap Co. now that her father is talking about retirement so consumes Lily's consciousness that she also doesn't notice the faded gray sedan with the tinted windows that has been tailing her since the driver saw her jogging along Lunalilo Home Road yesterday and - with Lily's lavender sweats clinging to her moistly - from a distance follows her home.
When the HPD solo bike officer motions to Lily to take the Wilder Exit, she does and finally parks in the Arco/7-Eleven lot at the intersection of Wilder, Clement, Metcalf and Farrington streets. The faded gray sedan follows unnoticed. The young driver with a short-cut T showing off his beer-gut stretch marks - unless he's six-months pregnant - smiles darkly.
The key to his success is women who don't pay attention.
Meanwhile, Tai, Wili and Seth are driving around in Tai's new black SUV looking for a guy driving a piece-of-bleep gray car - who ripped off Seth's teen-age daughter Kimmee in a drug scam.
"Relax, Cuz," Wili says. "We get 'em back, one way or other." At last they spot him - pretending to check the air pressure in the faded gray sedan's tires while watching a cop give a ticket to a babe in a teal BMW.
Lily has her driver's license ready when the young cop appears at her window. But she is not ready for how good looking he is, how muscular. Her heart flutters as it never has.
The cop starts to scold her for doing 70 in a 50, but one look at her and for the first time in his life he knows what it is to have your breath taken away. And they share a gaze that lingers ... well past propriety. But a glance at her license is like ice water in the face. "Long time, cousin," he says.
Looking at the name stitched in gold on his blue uniform, Lily is stunned to see they share the same last name: Ah Sun. This is the first time cousins Lily and Quinn have seen each other since they were both 6, when their fathers quit speaking 21 years ago.
At the state capitol, it's been two days since Grace Ah Sun (Lily's mother) last heard from her boss, Sen. Donovan Matsuda-Yee-Dela Cruz-Bishop-Kamaka.
In the middle of the session. His demons are back at a very bad time, taking him off the face of the Earth.
Then a radio report about an accident involving a yellow Town Car announces that the senator has apparently come back to Earth.
At Eden Off Kuhio, Lance Ah Sun (Lily's youngest brother) is finally coming to terms with who he is and what he wants in life. For starters, he wants a big wedding. But one thing at a time. "Do you mean it?" Greg asks hopefully.
And Lance replies: "Yes, I want you to come with me to my big brother Laird's graduation. It's a family occasion. That's why I want you there."
Back in traffic, Quinn follows Lily down Wilder. The gray sedan is right behind. The black SUV follows. Best parade since St. Paddy's Day.
Quinn's radio crackles and the dispatcher's dispassionate voice rings in his helmet earphone: "Officers in the vicinity of Cartwright Field, proceed immediately. Radio cell caller says a car just went off the Keeaumoku Overpass."
Quinn is the first police officer on the scene and immediately recognizes the yellow Town Car. The owner is merely the Democrats' best hope of keeping a resident in Washington Place beyond next year.
But what is it doing upside down on the first base line?
>> Tomorrow: Family secrets
Don Chapman is editor of MidWeek.
His serialized novel runs daily in the Star-Bulletin.
He can be emailed at dchapman@midweek.com