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My Kind of Town Don Chapman |
Gut-sucking practice
>> Kona
On one hand, Cruz MacKenzie didn't really like the idea of randomly hunting down animals that have at least as much right to the ocean as humans do. On the other, he didn't like the idea of going for a swim and turning into Purina Shark Chow. So, although he was a columnist and paid to express opinions, he played this one straight down the middle, sticking to facts and what other people said.
The final graph quoted a marine biologist at the Waikiki Aquarium: "The ocean is like any other ecosystem," she said. "You take a lot of tiger sharks out of the system, other things will take their place."
As the LapFlex e-mailed his column, Cruz glanced again at the note Jasmine had left saying "we" were waiting at the pool and signed "Love!" and decorated with a heart-shaped smiley face flower. The computer beeped, indicating the column was been successfully sent.
Cruz changed into some shorts, practiced sucking in his gut and tried to push away the very un-uncle urges that were currently kicking the bejesus out of logic, reason and propriety.
>> Daren's costume worked once, it might work again, but he wouldn't want to push his luck. He'd walked right past Pete and Muggy and stood beside Kealoha and Yamamoto as they agreed it was too damn bad what had happened to Daren Guy, and none of them recognized him. He was glad he hadn't seen Mano, he didn't miss anything. But even Sonya, of all people, who knew him better than anyone, hadn't recognized him. But he hadn't had to do much talking or answer questions or be anybody other than an old guy in a blue blazer and captain's cap, and not for very long.
The lovely Ms. Chan puzzled him. Her grief had seemed so real, not at all what he expected from a woman who had conspired with his would-be killers. He heard the dinghy motor approaching across the water, walked up to the deck. And there she was, sea breeze in her face. She wore tan shorts and a white Tshirt that clung to her and dipped low, revealing plenty of cleavage. And now she was shutting down the motor, gliding up to the Wet Spot, and she was close enough to reach out and touch. Part of him wanted to hold and kiss and make love to her. Part of him wanted to kill her.
The name painted on the yacht's stern was Wet Spot, but Sonya knew better even before she was tying up to it. The pink hanky the old man had given her was the first clue. Now that she was stepping aboard, Sonya knew that she'd been aboard before. Aboard, and bedded.
If Daren were here, she would again.
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
