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My Kind of Town Don Chapman |
Creepy guy
>> Kona
Tradewinds had returned and the morning was immaculately sunny and clear. Cruz MacKenzie made his way through the crowd toward Kona Kai Fishing Supply, where Mrs. Tamura was doing a brisk business in coffee, soda and beer sales. In Kona, a beer in the a.m. is no big thing, especially for those recovering from the bite of Bite Night and preparing for a wake. But Cruz bought a one-liter bottle of local Kohe Water, and nodded and smiled at Mrs. Tamura as he paid.
"T'anks, eh," she said, as if it was painful. "I mean, I nevah been in the newspaper before. My gran'keeds t'ink I'm famous now that you printed what I said." She almost blushed.
"No, thank you for your help. You were crucial."
"Ohhhhh," she said, flummoxed by flattery. She waved Cruz away and turned to the next customer in line.
Cruz stood in the doorway surveying the crowd that was quickly gathering for the memorial service. As he stepped outside he ran into Willie K, literally. Willie's guitar case rammed Cruz's knee.
"Eh, Cruz! I never seen you. Sorry, bruddah. Howzit?"
"OK, Willie," Cruz said, rubbing his knee. "You playing over here?"
"I'm supposed to be singing right now, but the traffic is horrendous, brah!"
"You knew Daren Guy?"
He nodded solemnly. "My cousin Kaiala fished with him sometimes. Daren was a bruddah. Anyways, got to go, Cruz. Catchou later."
Willie hurried away. Moments later, as Cruz tried to find a place in the shade, he heard Willie's voice singing Kui Lee's "I'll Remember You," turning it into a slow blues, from a microphone that had been set up beneath the banyan tree where Cruz had composed a column. Off to the side in four blue plastic folding chairs, Sonya sat with a Lutheran minister, a Hawaiian priest and a fellow in a tan business suit whom Cruz didn't recognize, but was betting Perry Brown, the attorney.
Sonya wore a black mini-suit and a black pillbox hat with a veil. Cruz couldn't get anywhere near her because of the crowd. She stared numbly ahead, not really focusing on anyone or anything but her grief, which she was now forced to share publicly. Her gaze drifted Cruz's way. He waved, caught her attention. She subtly shrugged, tapped her watch.
The rest of the world had come back to her. Sonya recognized faces. She knew the place. She'd sat in the shade of this tree drinking beer with Daren and these same fishermen friends.
As the service began with the Hawaiian priest, dressed in a tapa cloak, chanting and sprinkling water from a koa bowl with a ti leaf, she noticed the old man from Wet Spot staring at her and turned away. What a creepy guy.
See the Columnists section for some past articles.
Don Chapman is editor of MidWeek. His serialized novel runs daily in the Star-Bulletin. He can be e-mailed at dchapman@midweek.com
