My Kind of Town
The Honolulu Soap Co.:
Sunday digest>> Waterfront Plaza
Cruz MacKenzie, who had asked the question on Page One of today's Star-Bulletin -- "Where's Donovan?" -- sat down at his desk to provide the answer that would appear in tomorrow's editions. Booting up his iMac, Cruz thought how much he loved this kind of story. No commentary was required, just stick to the facts and play it straight. Of course, Johnny B. Goo's photo of Sen. Donovan Matsuda-Yee-Dela Cruz-Bishop-Kamaka, the Democrats' best hope in 2002, looking disheveled and wild-eyed, angrily throwing a frothing long-neck Bud bottle at Johnny B would provide all the commentary any reader might need. The red eyes were authentic, not caused by the flash.
>> 2002 Wilder
When the ringing phone roused Dr. Laurie Tang from a light sleep, it seemed she'd only been out a couple of minutes. Checking the clock, she was right. Seven minutes. "H'lo.""I'm sorry to disturb you," a deep, resonant male voice said. A local accent, hints of pidgin, but dignified. "This is Detective Sherlock Gomes."
"Detective Gomes, yes. I got your message and, honestly, I don't really know anything about Donovan. And you've just woken me up, and I have to work tomorrow. If you have any other questions, I'll be at Ala Moana Beach Park tomorrow morning to swim. Diamond Head end, 6:30."
"You're a swimmer?"
Good question, detective. "Yes."
"Shoots, that's perfect. I'm training for a triathlon. I'll see you then."
>> Portlock
Pointing the .22 pistol in the maid's face, pinning her chest and arms down with one big leg, Mickey had cut away everything but her panties and started on that, sliding the big knife blade down. Rosalita Resurreccion knew what he was going to do when he had her naked, and she knew what she must do. Filipinos may not be the biggest or the strongest people in the world, but there is no braver people. They fought off the Spanish, Americans and Japanese for their independence. It's a national trait of the Pinoy, courage, the willingness to fight and die for your kin, your kumpadres, your country. Rosalita might die, but she would not die a coward. And she would not allow herself to be raped. Death was better than that. At least then she would again be with her husband Jesus, the only man who had ever made love to her, and the only man who ever would.>> In the shimmering light of a tiki torch, Lily and Quinn Ah Sun looked into one another's eyes, remembering the kiss they had shared less than an hour ago at Maunalua Bay.
"Oh, Lily, you're ..." He stopped. "I started to say you're such a temptation. But it's more than that."
"Oh, I know, Quinn. I know." Lily was sobering up now from her afternoon of drinking, and thinking better. Still one thing remained the same. She had finally found the man of her dreams, but then he turned out to be her first cousin who she hadn't seen in 21 years. At that moment, she didn't care about social mores. She only wanted Quinn. Lily buried her face in his big, strong chest, felt one of his arms encircle her, felt a hand gently lifting her chin, looked up and saw his lips inches from her's.
That's when the screaming started from inside the house.
"Rosalita!" Lily cried.
Suddenly Quinn was crouching, reaching for his left ankle, pulling back a pistol Lily hadn't known was there, gruffly whispering "Go to Elizabeth, lock the cottage, stay there!" and sprinting back down the path.
>> Rosalita heard the rip of fabric, felt her panties falling away, heard Mickey gasp, felt him touch her there, heard herself begin to scream and scream and saw the blow coming but could not avoid it as Mickey backhanded her cheek with the pistol, opening a gash. He dropped the butcher knife, threw a meaty hand over her mouth, put the barrel of the gun to her temple, barked, "I said you'd live if you were quiet, b----! What the f--- are you doing?!"
Rosalita twisted her head, bit down hard on his pinky finger and knuckle, and Mickey wailed in pain. He tried to jerk his hand away, but she hung on like a pitbull -- until he hit her again and everything went black.
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