My Kind of Town
>> Foodland -- Aina Haina Troubled waters
Lily Ah Sun suddenly understood why some guys have these huge trucks that require a step ladder to get into. There was something better than a step ladder. Strong arms. And her heart began to race, remembering how she felt when Quinn had lifted her up into the cab back at the Honolulu Iron Works. Your first cousin isn't supposed to make you feel like that. But Lily was drunk, so she had an excuse.
"Just like before," Quinn said.
Except that this time she faced him as Quinn placed his big, strong hands around her waist, fingers nearly encircling her, and gently lifted her down like she was a child. She placed her hands on his broad shoulders. And for a moment their lips were inches apart and Lily was tempted to ... No, she couldn't.
But when her feet touched the ground and Quinn let go and stepped back like a gentleman, she kind of stumbled on purpose. And in an instant she was in his arms.
"Easy," he said.
"Let me just hold on to you," Lily said, meaning every word.
And so as they walked inside to buy Popsicles for her maid's sick daughter, Lily clung to Quinn's big, muscular arms, pressing a breast into his side, her sheer white silk Anne Namba suit hiding no secrets. Quinn was cold sober, but his head was spinning.
>> Portlock
Mickey stripped, took a swig of the white wine he'd found in the refrigerator and a puff on the ice pipe, and stepped into the pool, which actually came into the master bedroom, a little cove out of sight of the rest of the yard, protected by a jungle garden. What a cool place this chick Lily had. He'd been tailing her for two days and was now waiting for her to come home to him. Which should be any time. He took the .22 pistol from the pocket of his shorts, lay the shorts on the tile floor, set the gun on top so it was handy and plunged into the pool.
In the back yard, Rosalita Ressurreccion, was taking down the sheets and pillow slips she'd washed earlier. Miss Lily loved her sheets to be fresh-air dried.
"Mama! I'm hot!" Her little daughter, home from school today with a fever and sore throat, called from their cottage behind the big house.
"Mama's coming, Elizabeth." She left the sheets on the line a little longer and so missed the telltale wakes that troubled the surface of the swimming pool as Mickey bobbed up and down. Sometimes what you don't know really can hurt you.
Don Chapman is editor of MidWeek.
His serialized novel runs daily in the Star-Bulletin.
He can be emailed at dchapman@midweek.com