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My Kind of Town Don Chapman |
No beer today
>> Kona
It was a warm morning, and the blue captain's jacket, white wig and white gloves made Daren perspire. But he couldn't take them off. They were his safety. He tried to avoid eye contact -- not that it was even possible with the dark, wrap-around shades that covered half his face. He saw several friends and acquaintances, and they looked past him as if he wasn't there.
His memorial service had turned into a Kona happening, and Daren was amazed at how many people he didn't know who were here. And he was pleased to see news cameras from several TV stations covering his funeral. That meant he was somebody.
A vendor walked by selling ice cold beer from a cooler-on-wheels, and he reached into his pocket for money, and suddenly realized he had zero cash. He hadn't needed money for the several days he'd been at sea.
He'd thought about money, the millions of dollars that would soon be coming his way, but not about the need for walking-around dough. Some place aboard Wet Spot the two crewmen he'd killed must have left some cash. He'd check. Right now, that cold beer looked impossibly good.
Kaiala Kenney, who sometimes fished with him, bought a beer from the vendor. He looked at the old man in the blue blazer, raised the bottle in a toast and turned away.
The attention his demise was getting was a pleasant diversion for the chaos in his head. The radio call he'd received just before leaving Wet Spot had, once again, forced a change of plans.
The Asian voice was desperate, almost whining. And when he'd said "You're it, Paul! We got no backup! Where the hell are you?!" Daren knew he was the boss, even if he didn't know what the deal was. So when he replied to the call, he played it straight and honest -- the greatest hoax requires an element of truth to succeed.
"This isn't Paul," Daren said. "Paul got sick, his appendix burst, he's in the hospital lucky to be alive, so he asked me take over. We go way back."
"Who are you?"
Good question. Who was he now that Daren Guy was officially dead? "Who're you?"
"Sushi. Sushi Leclaire."
"Paul was a little vague on the details, said you could fill me in."
Sushi did, telling him that he had a dozen beautiful, young Filipinas on board a Japanese fishing boat, and Paul was supposed to have met them yesterday, and now the captain of the boat was threatening to throw them all overboard because he had to go.
In a flash a plan was hatched, one that would allow Daren to dispose of Wet Spot, punish Sonya for her betrayal, claim his millions and have a little fun along the way.
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Don Chapman is editor of MidWeek. His serialized novel runs daily in the Star-Bulletin. He can be e-mailed at dchapman@midweek.com
