My Kind of Town
>> Makiki Heights Dances with demons
"Look at it like this, senator. You just got yourself an unofficial but very personal parole officer," HPD Detective Sherlock Gomes said, pulling a mini-camera from a pants pocket. "Go stand over there."
Sen. Donovan Matsuda-Yee-Dela Cruz-Bishop-Kamaka obeyed, and Gomes took several photos of the Democrats' best hope in 2002 and the glass pipe on the corner table, then pulled a plastic baggie from another pocket. Using his handkerchief, he placed the pipe in the bag, zipped it closed.
"Remember, senator, this has nothing to do with you," Gomes said. "It's because I'm eternally indebted to your late father. So here's our deal, and I'm going to be strict."
In politics, the senator always tried to operate from a position of strength. But at the moment, caught with an ice pipe on the corner table and loaded to the gills, he didn't have much choice. "OK."
"I have photos of you and this pipe, which I'm sure has your fingerprints on it, and which I am taking with me. If you fail to live up to any part of our deal, I'll arrest your ass. Got that?"
"Uh-huh." Uh-oh was more like it.
"Day after tomorrow, you will be on a flight to Portland, where I am going to book you a room at the Michael Villareal Rehab Center. You will stay there until my friends there say you're ready to leave. When you return, I am going to be your personal parole officer. You will submit to periodic, random drug testing at my personal physician's office. You fall off the wagon once, senator, and your okole is in jail."
On second thought, the senator thought, jail might be better than having to confront his demons.
"But you get yourself cleaned up, straighten yourself out and stay clean, this stays between me and you."
He could still be governor. If the price he had to pay was facing his demons, Sen. Donovan Matsuda-Yee-Dela Cruz-Bishop-Kamaka was willing to try.
"I'll call you tomorrow with your flight information, and I will be your ride to the airport. Pack a sweater. Oregon can be chilly even in the summer."
>> Portlock
Wili opened the back door of the black SUV.
"Watchu doing?" said his brother Tai, the driver.
Wili walked across the street, lifted the hood of the gray car they'd been tailing all day, disconnected the battery cable.
"Our friend Mickey going have one tough time getting away now," said their cousin Seth in the passenger seat.
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