My Kind of Town
>> Makiki Heights
"So who's inside?" the newly arrived Detective Sherlock Gomes asked the Star-Bulletin duo who beat him to the scene.
"The guy everybody's looking for," Cruz MacKenzie said. "The senator."
Gomes whistled softly, then caught himself. His Hawaiian tutu on his mother's side always taught him it was bad luck to whistle after dark. It disturbs the Hawaiian spirits. Gomes crossed himself. "You mean Sen. Donovan Matsuda-Yee-Dela Cruz-Bishop-Kamaka?"
"One and only."
Gomes had to stop himself from whistling again. Serena Kawainui was driving the senator's car -- drunk, loaded on ice and stark naked -- when it crashed off the Keeaumoku Overpass and landed upside down on the first base line at Cartwright Field.
The detective knocked on the door twice, hard.
"I told you to get the f--- out of here!" the senator screamed from inside.
"It's the police, senator. Open up."
They heard footsteps, cursing, more footsteps, a toilet flushing.
>> Maunalua Bay
Walking back to her cousin Quinn's truck, Lily Ah Sun stumbled on a rock and Quinn caught her.
But there in the comfort of his arms, Lily buried her face in his chest as her hands ran up the V from his narrow waist past rock-hard lats to broad shoulders, and back down his muscled back, and pulled his hips to her.
His hands drew gentle swirls on her white silk suit jacket, from her shoulders to her waist, and back up again, his breathing deep, matching hers.
But she felt him straighten, start to pull away.
"Oh, Quinn," she breathed, "don't let me go."
Quinn was sober, but his head was spinning, had been all night since he picked up his drunk cousin to give her a ride home. Heck, his head had been spinning since he pulled her over for speeding this morning and, before he realized it was his long-lost cousin, had fallen for her. And now he didn't want to let her go, but he needed air, pulled back just enough to take a deep breath. And there he was face to face with the woman of his dreams.
And her face was moving closer to his, she was standing on tip-toes, her lips were parting, and he was pulling her closer.
Like the half-blossoms of the naupaka plant at their feet, two halves were about to become whole.
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