05-O'ahu Lonesome Tonight?

  O’AHU LONESOME TONIGHT?

  By JoAnn Bassett

  Copyright © 2013 JoAnn Bassett

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written permission of the author.

  First published by JoAnn Bassett

  Green Valley, AZ 85614

  http://www.joannbassett.com

  This book is a work of fiction. Places, events, and situations in this book are purely fictional and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  For Kirsten and Jay Antobenedetto.

  Married in O’ahu on May 10th. Here’s to never being lonesome again.

  Ho’omaika’i!

  CHAPTER 1

  My brother’s plane was late. And not just a few minutes late; it was a whole lot late. Jeff was coming in from SFO, a five-and-a-half hour flight. It could take longer if they encountered stiff headwinds or bad turbulence. That would account for a half-hour; maybe even forty-five minutes. But the scheduled arrival time was ten-thirty and it was now five minutes to noon. Still no sign. The arrivals board hadn’t budged in the past hour; it showed the flight as ‘delayed.’ The blank-eyed gate agent at the Hawaiian Airlines podium might as well have been a robot. “We have no information at this time” she said. “As new information becomes available, it will be posted.”

  Is this how it went when a plane crashed? Did the airlines wait until their army of lawyers showed up before they ‘fessed up to the bad news?

  I should have seen it coming. This little vacation had come together too easily. We were going to meet in Honolulu in mid-September—slow season in Hawaii—for a week of sibling bonding. I’d be coming over from my home on Maui and he’d be flying in from San Francisco. We’d both gotten killer airfares and our flight schedules had synched up perfectly. Then my brother called to tell me we wouldn’t be paying Waikiki hotel prices after all. A former frat brother of his owned a penthouse apartment across the street from the Trump Hotel and he’d offered it to us for just the cost of the cleaning fee, around a hundred bucks total.

  I’m not good when things go too easy like that. It’s nothing new. I was an anxious kid from the get-go; always glancing over my shoulder or peering around corners expecting the worst. And recent history has only stoked my cynicism. The past year has been one long string of unfortunate events. So, even though I live in a place where hardly anybody wears shoes, I’m pretty much always waiting for the other shoe to drop. But having my brother’s flight lost somewhere over the Pacific was a heftier shoe than I’d expected.

  My name is Pali Moon, but maybe you already know that. You may also know I own a wedding planning shop in Pa’ia, Maui called “Let’s Get Maui’d.” I live upcountry, away from the beach, in a little place called Hali’imaile. The area used to be sugar cane and pineapple fields as far as the eye could see. A small army of planters, pickers and millworkers used to live in my neighborhood. Now the mills are shut down and machines do most of the field work. There’s still some sugar cane fields around, but Big Pineapple got moved to countries where ‘minimum wage’ has no local translation.

  I trotted over to Hawaiian Airlines’ Gate 52 for what must’ve been the tenth time in the past hour and a half. I was only one of three people there since all the other people waiting for this flight were out beyond the security area. Since Jeff’s flight was a jumbo with three or four hundred people onboard I could only imagine the bedlam happening outside the secure area.

  “Look,” I said to a woman wearing a purple Hawaiian Airlines shirt, “I’m not trying to make this anymore stressful for you than it is.”

  She shot me a look that said, then back off.

  “But I’m someone you can trust,” I went on. “I was a federal air marshal for a while, and I know how these things go.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “I’ve told you everything there is to tell,” she said.

  “That’s the official line, right? But I figure you know more than you’re saying. All I’m asking for is an update. Is the plane lost? Or did it have engine trouble and have to turn back or something?”

  She picked up the phone and made a call. She turned away so I couldn’t hear what she was saying.

  When she hung up, she put a sign on the counter that said, ‘This counter closed. Please use other counter” with an arrow pointing to the empty podium at the next gate. She plucked her purse from under the counter and strode away in a fast trot; like she’d just robbed an ATM and was headed for the getaway car.

  “Wait,” I said. I sprinted to catch up with her. “Hawaiian Airlines has a stellar safety rating. And the best on-time arrival record in the business.”

  She didn’t even turn around to thank me for the suck-up.

  I slowed and then stopped. There was nothing I could do but sit and wait.

  ***

  A couple of weeks earlier I’d left my shop on Baldwin Street and gone next door to the Gadda da Vida. The Gadda is like that story about the blind men and the elephant—it’s different things to different people. To the locals it’s a grocery store, with milk and eggs and disposable diapers—for both babies and grandma. To tourists it’s a place to grab a picnic lunch for the four-hour drive up the Hana Highway or to buy a boogie board for playing in the waves at Baldwin Beach. For pot heads and surfers the store stocks rolling papers and Sex Wax. But like most things in Hawaii, it’s not for the budget-conscious. If you want cheap, go to the Walmart in Kahului; if you want handy, check out the Gadda in Pai’a.

  My best friend, Farrah Milton, runs the Gadda da Vida and she has for nearly twenty years. That wouldn’t be surprising except the woman is the same age as I am, thirty-five. She inherited the store when her hippie parents died in a car accident while she was still in high school.

  “Hey, you busy?” I said as I came in. The tinkly bell on the door tried to drown me out but I was used to it and I adjusted my volume to compensate.

  “As a bee,” Farrah said. “But I’m not making honey; I’m making money!”

  “Really?” It was one of the few times I’d ever seen Farrah excited about how her business was doing. She’d more or less adopted her parent’s lifestyle along with the store and that included a counter-culture disdain for all things capitalist.

  “Yeah. I entered a contest from my magazine distributor and I won.”

  “What was the contest?”

  “Whoever peddled the most Go Hawaii magazines in August would win a prize. And I did it. I even beat out the ABC Stores and Walmart.”

  “How’s that possible?” I said. “You have way less customers than a Front Street ABC Store, and probably only a tenth of what they get down at the Walmart.”

  “Yeah, I know. But I’ve got a secret weapon. Guess what it is?”

  I waited for her to go on. Farrah and I have this thing about guessing games. She loves ‘em; I hate ‘em. Every now and then I go along, but this wasn’t one of those times.

  She looked hurt. “Don’t you want to know?”

  I nodded. It wasn’t a total surrender, but darn close.

  “I give a free copy to everybody who comes in.” She beamed as if she’d just cracked a safe blindfolded.

  “You give them away?”

  “Yeah. Think about it. Even if you only have like fifty customers a day you can win if you give everyone a magazine. It worked.”

  “But how much did you have to pay for all those magazines?”

  “Way less than the cost of the prize,” she said.

  Huh. I had to hand it to her. It was starting to make sense, in a Farrah sort of wa
y.

  “What’s the prize?”

  “An all-expenses-paid weekend at the Royal Hawaiian Hotel in Waikiki. I get an ocean view suite, and it includes Sunday brunch. I’ve heard their brunch is bitchin’. You know the Royal Hawaiian’s the hotel they call ‘The Pink Palace’.”

  “Oh, I know. Remember, I went to college over there. When the rich kids’ parents came to town that’s where they stayed.”

  “Well, now I’m going to be staying there—in a big ol’ suite.”

  “But how’re you getting to Waikiki?”

  “It comes with a plane ticket.”

  I shot her my ‘oh yeah?’ look.

  “I know. I’m gonna have to work on that.”

  Farrah had only used air transportation once—to come to my college graduation at the University of Hawaii in Manoa, an area mauka, or inland, from Waikiki. She’d been so traumatized by the experience I’d had to liquor her up with four mai tais at eight o’clock in the morning just to get her on the plane to come home. As you can imagine, it didn’t end well. It’s only a half-hour flight. The entire journey is like a dance step: slow, quick, quick, slow. The slow parts are the takeoff and landing, and the quicks are the actual time in the air.

  “Maybe you could plan your weekend so you go with me when I meet up with Jeff. It’s kind of short notice, though, only three weeks from now. You’ll need to check with the hotel and see if you can get in.”

  “I’ll call ‘em today. But I gotta think about it. Maybe the flying thing’s not gonna work out after all.”

  ***

  At one o’clock, the arrivals board at Gate 52 clicked over to show that Flight 38 from SFO would arrive at one-thirty. The gate agent took her place back at the podium and a clutch of attendants pushing a fleet of wheelchairs began lining up outside the jetway door.

  I felt my blood pressure slide down a few notches, but I still wasn’t breathing normally. Until a couple of months ago, Jeff was the only family member I had. Losing my brother would be like losing a limb. I’d never stop feeling the pain.

  I trotted to the counter and cleared my throat, loudly. When the agent looked up I said, “So, now can you tell me the cause of the delay?”

  “Fog.”

  “Here or there?”

  She looked over my shoulder at the floor to ceiling windows that looked out on the tarmac. “You see any fog out there?” she said.

  So much for aloha spirit.

  CHAPTER 2

  A week before I was supposed to meet up with my brother I had one more wedding to do. The wedding was scheduled for early Friday afternoon, the seventh of September. It was being held in the clubhouse of a private community on the south side of Lahaina. I’d coordinated events there before so I wouldn’t have to do ‘recon’ on the venue. But I still had vendors to call and arms to twist. One thing about living and working in America’s paradise is the laid-back lifestyle is all well and good when you’re relaxing from your stressful job back on the mainland. But it’s not so great when you’re putting on the most important event in a young couple’s life and the limo driver takes off to visit his new grandbaby on the Big Island or the caterer shows up with Korean short ribs when the bridal couple clearly ordered prime rib.

  I’m blessed that some of the more important wedding duties are shouldered by an understudy of sorts, my roommate Steve. Steve is a professional photographer and I use him for all my weddings. He’s meticulous, punctual, and he’s got a great eye. And, not only does he take fabulous photographs, but he’s also worked as a Hollywood hair stylist and make-up artist. And, as if that wasn’t enough, he’s a self-taught cook who can whip out meals comparable to the most celebrated local chef. Even though it’s un-PC to stereotype people, I’m thrilled my dear roommate fits central casting’s profile of a twenty-first century urbane gay man to a “T”.

  I got home that Monday night and Steve had dinner waiting.

  “What did I ever do to deserve you?” I said as we tucked into a crisp Caesar salad with homemade croutons.

  “Maybe in a former life you were a nun,” he said. “Like a Mother Teresa-type nun. Not one of those knuckle-busters like I had in grade school.”

  “I didn’t think Catholics believed in reincarnation.”

  “They don’t. So maybe you were a brave Hindu girl martyred in the fight for Indian independence from Britain.”

  “Well, whatever I was, good for me. This salad is fabulous.”

  “Speaking of fabulous,” he said. Steve and I have a kind of code. He loves the word ‘fabulous.’ If I want him to dish, I simply use ‘fabulous’ in a sentence and he’ll follow it up with something ‘fabulous’ of his own. “I got a callback from Go Hawaii magazine.”

  “A callback? For what?”

  “They’re hiring another staff photog. They want me to present my portfolio in person.”

  “But isn’t Go Hawaii based in Honolulu?” I said.

  “It is,” he said. “So I guess you won’t be the only one going over there next week.”

  “I’m already not the only one.” I told him about Farrah winning the Royal Hawaiian weekend from Go Hawaii.

  “Wow, kismet, right?” he said. “Is she taking anyone with her?”

  “I don’t think so, but I’m sure she only gets one room.”

  “But you said it’s a suite at the Royal Hawaiian. I’d rather be relegated to the floor of a suite at the Pink Palace than stretched out on a king-size Posturepedic in some dumpy dive out by the airport.”

  “You better call and ask her. Last time we talked she was sounding a little ‘iffy’ about flying.”

  Steve called Farrah right after dinner. After he hung up, he joined me in the living room. As I’d feared, Farrah told him she’d decided she just couldn’t handle the plane ride. But she was crushed she’d miss out on her weekend at the Royal Hawaiian.

  “Okay,” he said to me. “I didn’t say anything to her, but what about that guy friend of yours? You know, the hunk with the hull?”

  “Ono Kingston? He’s got a catamaran, but it’s a tourist boat. And it’s not his. He can’t just take a couple of days off and haul a friend of mine over to O’ahu. He’s got to ask permission. And it’s a long ride.”

  “So? Call and see if he’ll do it. Offer him something.” In Steve’s world, everything’s up for barter. He takes photos and gets paid in steaks. He does an emergency makeover of a local bride’s hair and a year later she hires him to take baby pictures of her newborn. I don’t know how he keeps track of it all, but he does.

  “What should I offer him?”

  Steve wiggled his eyebrows suggestively.

  “No. I already gave him the heave-ho. No way I’m going to trick him into thinking I’ve changed my mind.”

  “Then tell him the truth. Maybe Farrah could trade him her plane ticket for a ride over. Everybody needs to fly to a neighbor island at one time or another.”

  “Not Farrah,” I said.

  “Yeah, but Farrah’s in a league of her own. That poor girl never steps foot outside that funky store. Ever. It might be a little awkward with Ono, but she’s your best friend. Do it for her.”

  “Let me think about it.”

  “I know you,” he said. “Let me think about it means you’re gonna do it, right?”

  I nodded. He did know me. Unfortunately, he probably knew me a bit too well. But he was right. Farrah deserved a break and I needed to make an effort to help her get it.

  CHAPTER 3

  Early the next morning I called Ono Kingston. “Talk about a blast from the past,” he said. “You probably won’t believe this, but I was just talking about you.”

  “Oh?” I didn’t want to inquire further. Things had been left sort of chilly between us when I’d chosen my cop-turned-firefighter boyfriend, Hatch Decker, over Ono.

  “Yeah. Tomika called and asked me to bring the boat over to Honolulu next weekend. She asked how you were doing. Anyway, seems she offered a day sail up to her place at Ko Olina as a prize
in some charity fund-raiser. The person who bought it wants to do it next Sunday.”

  Okay, as Steve would say, ‘kismet.’ Tomika Fujioka owned the catamaran Ono skippered. When she said jump, Ono didn’t even ask how high? That’s not to say Tomika isn’t a nice lady. She’s a very nice lady, and generous to a fault. But beyond being merely boss and employee, Ono and Tomika have a bond forged by overcoming a shared demon. There was nothing either of them wouldn’t do for the other.

  I told Ono about Farrah’s dilemma and although he sounded a tad disappointed when I explained I wouldn’t be making the trip with them, he agreed to meet her and discuss it.

  Farrah was more wary.

  “I don’t know. Maybe the universe isn’t cool with me ditching work for four days,” she said. “I mean, I can probably get Beatrice to come in and work. She’s got eight cats now and she’s always needing more cat food. But I’ve never dug boats. I mean, what if we end up like ‘Gilligan’s Island’ or something?” Farrah lived in sort of a time warp of the sixties and seventies. She’d been named for her dad’s favorite actress on the original ‘Charlie’s Angels.’ And, since she worked until ten o’clock every night, the only TV she watched was late night reruns of her parents’ favorite shows—things like ‘I Dream of Jeannie,’ ‘Bewitched,’ and “The Addams Family.’

  “I think if the catamaran gets stuck anywhere between here and O’ahu it’s going to be on Moloka’i,” I said. “And, last I heard, they have cell phone service over there. So, as romantic as it sounds, you can forget about getting washed up on a deserted island with Thurston Howell the Third or the professor. Although, come to think of it, I’ll bet Ono could make a radio out of a coconut if he needed to.”

  “Is it safe?”

  “The sail to O’ahu? Of course it’s safe. I’ve done it.”

  “That doesn’t mean jack. You pay money to fight people. You, my dear girl, are not the best judge of ‘safe’.”

  “Farrah, I haven’t been in a martial arts tournament in more than a year. Not because it’s not safe, but because I’ve been kind of busy. But the federal government spent a lot of money training me to keep people safe. I’d never try to convince you to do something that would harm you.”