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My Kind of Town Don Chapman |
Eye contact, mostly
>>Kona
"How are we doing here?" A cocktail waitress wearing a mini sailor suit and cap had snuck up behind them. "Two more?"
"Three," Jasmine Kanaka said enthusiastically. "Oh, Cruz, you have to try one of these smoothies. They're so ono !"
"Try the lychee one!" Holly said and sucked the last remnants of her drink through a straw with a gurgling sound. "It's really good."
Cruz, as usual, was hoping for something a little stronger now that his column had been filed, but said: "Sure, lychee."
It wouldn't hurt to lay off alcohol for one day. He'd set a good example for the niece. A Hawaiian trio -- ukulele, slack-key guitar and upright bass -- slid gently into the opening chords of Kona Moon as Cruz adjusted the reclining back of the chair next to Jasmine, took off his shirt and lay down.
"God, you're white!" Jasmine teased. "Talk about shark bait. What do you do besides work?"
"Not enough," he said, turning to make eye contact, glad that since his eyes didn't stay on Jasmine's eyes he had extra dark sunglasses. God, she was stunning, as beautiful and sexy as any woman he'd ever seen not in a magazine. Maybe eye contact wasn't such a good thing.
He turned to catch more sun. "How long have you girls been here?"
"This will be our third smoothie," Jasmine practically cooed as the waitress returned with their drinks. Jasmine and Holly sat back and waited for Cruz to try it.
Cruz sipped the lychee smoothie and his eyes got wide. "Wow! You weren't kidding, this is great!"
It had been a long day and Cruz was thirsty. He gulped down most of the drink until brain-freeze set in, and called the waitress back. "I'd like another one of these -- sooner the better."
Jasmine and Holly giggled and sipped on their drinks. "I've got to mention this in my annual column on the best things in Hawaii."
"Don't forget to mention who turned you on to it," Jasmine said.
Right, Cruz thought to himself and tried to focus on eye contact, "turned on" is exactly right.
Sonya Chan climbed up the polished brass ladder to the deck of the yacht Wet Spot, which she'd known as Pet Shop. "Hello, anybody home?" The old man appeared in the shadows of the cabin.
Sonya stepped eagerly toward him, but he held up a white-gloved hand. "I'm afraid you must keep a certain distance."
Daren didn't want to be tempted, either to kiss or to kill. He moved to the wheel, hit a switch that fired up the yacht's motor, another that raised the anchor.
"Thank you for being prompt," he said in that hoarse whisper. "If you're to see Daren, we must hurry."
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
