Livin' Lahaina Loca Page 7

“Honest? You live here on Maui and you never go out? I took you for a long boarder or maybe a windsurfer.”

  I laughed. “Nope. I’m pretty much a land-based life form.”

  “Well, you’re doing great. This isn’t the easiest crossing. We’ve got pretty solid seas today but it can really slam you around if you don’t watch the weather. We’ll be in the lee of Moloka’i here in a bit. Until then, you’d probably be better off down in the cabin.”

  I went back down the steps, gripping the handrail as the catamaran charged up a ten-foot swell. By then, Chico had jumped down from tending the sail and was busy getting soft drinks out of the refrigerator. He handed me a cold can.

  “Mahalo.” I’d been so busy getting my sea legs I hadn’t really observed Chico. His arms were heavily tattooed from shoulder to wrist. A thick green sea serpent wrapped around his left ankle and up his calf ending in a fierce-looking dragon’s head above his knee. Chico was barefoot, with khaki shorts and a white cotton strap-shirt completing the ensemble. No doubt there was more ink on his chest and back, but I couldn’t see through the shirt.

  “What’s with the tattoos?” I said. “It seems everybody I know is sporting some kind of body art.”

  He smiled and nodded. “It’s a sailor thing. All us sailors do it.”

  “Yeah, but it’s not just sailors. Everywhere I look it’s something—an ankle charm, a tramp stamp, whatever. Every high school girl on the island has some kind of goofy tat—a sea horse or a flower. I heard your cabin girl’s sick from getting a dirty tattoo. So what’s with all the ink?”

  “It’s cool. Makes you special. Like this,” he pointed to a dolphin leaping out of a wave on his brawny bicep. “This is for my dad, ya know? He loved dolphins. When he died, I had this put on me to remember him by.”

  “You wouldn’t remember your father otherwise?”

  He shrugged and shot me a grin.

  Ono waved for Chico to take the wheel.

  “Gotta go,” said Chico. “You better hang on, it’s gonna get kinda rough.”

  After an hour about a dozen dolphins showed up. They surrounded the catamaran in a churning mass, racing alongside so close to the front of the hull I thought we’d mow them down.

  “How do they do that?” I said. “They seem to know which way we’re going to go. They turn just in time to avoid getting run over. You ever see them get hurt?”

  “Trust me,” said Ono. “These guys are way smarter than we are. They swim all day, play around with the tourist boats and munch on little fish. You don’t see any of them slumped in front of a computer screen or nailing roof tiles in the blazing sun. Maintaining a safe course is pretty much their only concern.”

  At the mention of the word concern, Crystal Wilson’s disappearance flashed in my mind. I wasn’t buying Wong’s Halloween prank theory, and Keith and Nicole’s indifference—coupled with the memory of the hair lying across my back seat—had me spooked. The further we got away from Maui, the more I became convinced I should do something. But what?

  For five more hours we zipped across the water; the waves slapping the hull, and then sending a blast of sea spray onto the deck. I spent most of the time outside gripping the rail, but at lunchtime I made my way down to the cabin. I pulled a sack of sandwiches out of the refrigerator to offer the guys.

  Ono was back at the wheel and Chico was alongside the mast, tightening a winch. “Hey, Chico,” said Ono, “when you get done there, would you mind checking how we’re doing for booze and mixers? We may need to go shopping in town.”

  Chico jumped down and banged through the cabin cupboards, counting bottles.

  “We’re low on gin and we could use a gallon of guava juice for the mai tais. Besides that, it looks pretty good.”

  “So, speaking of booze,” I asked Ono when I handed him his sandwich, “will I be mixing drinks? I’m kind of rusty. I worked as a waitress a few years ago, but mostly it was just serving. My manager claimed the bar lost money whenever they let me pour.”

  “No worries,” said Ono. “Chico’s the bartender. You just have to see that everyone’s having a good time and make sure the food platters are full. You’ll be Tomika’s ‘girl Friday.’ Your main job is to make her look good and make sure the party goes off without a hitch.”

  “Right up my alley.”

  ***

  At about four-thirty the island of O’ahu was dead ahead. The bumpy part of the ride was behind us as the water changed from fierce chop to smaller rolling waves.

  “See that point over there?” Ono pointed out a spit of land, topped with a steep cliff. “That’s our heading. Just beyond it, we’ll tack north-northeast and slip right into Ala Wai Harbor. Should be docking there in about an hour.”

  My hands clenched. I didn’t want the ride to be over; or maybe it was that I was nervous about meeting Tomika. Whatever it was, I had to take a few deep breaths and talk myself down from feeling panicky.

  We pulled into Ala Wai Harbor and I was shocked by the condition of the water. Garbage and litter floated freely among the boats and there was a wide ribbon of oil sheen twisting in and out of the moored boats.

  “Ick, this place is filthy,” I said.

  “Yeah, they’ve been vowing to clean up this harbor for years now. They make an effort in starts and fits, but it just never seems to get done. It’s fed by the Ala Wai Canal, which goes through town, picking up wastewater and garbage—even though it’s illegal to dump stuff in the canal—and by the time the water gets here it’s pretty foul. Also, there are a lot more vessels coming in and out of here than in Lahaina, so the harbor gets dirty from all the traffic.”

  We motored into a mooring marked ‘Honolulu Yacht Club’ and Chico jumped out and tied us up.

  “How does this work?” I said to Ono. “Do we have permission to dock here?”

  “Sure do. This is Tomika’s slip. She pays a fortune to lease both this one and the one in Lahaina. But don’t worry about her, you can bet she’s not missing any meals to pay her moorage fees.” He winked at me, and I had the prickly feeling I was colluding with a gigolo.

  “Well, lucky her. What should we do to get ready for tomorrow’s party?”

  “You mean right now?” said Ono.

  I nodded.

  “Nothing. Chico will run to the liquor store and get the stuff we need, and the caterers will come aboard about an hour before we sail tomorrow night. You’re pretty much off the clock until then.”

  “Okay, good. One more question: how do I get into town from here? Do busses come down this way?”

  He looked puzzled. “I suppose they do. But Tomika will send her driver. You don’t need to worry about getting around town.”

  I went below deck and picked up my overnight bag. I’d packed light—a couple changes of underwear, a Hawaiian-print sundress to wear at the party, and my make-up. My idea of full-blown make-up is mascara, blush and lip gloss. Just like the catamaran, I’m pretty much ‘what you see is what you get.’

  We slipped on our sandals and hopped onto the dock. Ono pulled a few bills out of his wallet and handed them to Chico.

  “Be back here by four tomorrow. If I don’t see your pupuka face by four fifteen, you’ll find yourself swimming back to Maui,” he said. He grinned and slapped Chico on the back.

  “Don’t worry, man,” said Chico. “I never been late on you yet.”

  We walked out of the harbor and when we reached the street I was hit by the wall of sound that characterizes Honolulu. ‘Honolulu’ means ‘sheltered harbor’ but I think it should mean ‘tall and loud’ because that’s what it is. I gazed at the forest of soaring skyscrapers that seemed to have doubled since I was in college here only six years ago. In Manoa, the neighborhood where the University of Hawaii is located, it’s still pretty much low-rise. But Ono and I were on Ala Moana Boulevard, looking right into the heart of the bustling city. I felt like a country hick in my wrinkled khaki shorts and tee-shirt.

  “Any ideas on where I should go tonight?” I said
.

  “You want to go out? Like to a show or something?”

  “No, I’m planning on turning in early. Today was way more fresh air and excitement than I’m used to. I need to find a reasonably-priced hotel.”

  Ono stopped and turned to face me. “You’re not planning on staying at Tomika’s? She’s looking forward to meeting you.”

  Okay, this was getting awkward.

  “I didn’t know I was invited,” I said. “I thought you and Tomika might want to be alone.”

  “Heck no, we see each other plenty. She’s fussing over having another girl around. She’s hired a fancy restaurant to make us dinner tonight and she’s hoping you’ll go shopping with her tomorrow at Ala Moana Center.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me? I didn’t pack enough clothes to go shopping.”

  “Only a woman could say something like that. Don’t you go shopping to get clothes? It’s like a guy saying I don’t have any fish in my freezer so I can’t go fishing.”

  “No, you don’t understand. You can’t go…oh, never mind.” By this time, a sleek white town car had pulled to the curb.

  “Looks like our ride’s here,” said Ono. “You mind riding in back? I usually ride shotgun with the driver.”

  The driver turned out to be a three-hundred pound local man in a billowing aloha shirt that probably could’ve sheltered a family of four.

  “Eh, brudda,” the driver said, coming around the front of the car to fist-bump with Ono. “Lemme put your junk in the trunk.”

  Ono handed over his small valise and my overnight bag. While the driver was busy unlocking the trunk and stowing our gear, I cupped my hands against the dark tinted back windows and peered inside. I jumped a little when I made eye contact with a tiny face peering back at me.

  “Oh! Sorry.” I sounded as if I’d stepped on someone’s foot.

  “Hey, Tomika,” Ono said, as he pulled the rear door open. “Sweet of you to come down here to get us.”

  Tomika slipped from the back seat and stood on the curb. She was only a bit taller than she’d been sitting down. She looked older than Ono—perhaps late fifties or even early sixties—but I sure as heck wasn’t going to comment on their May/December romance.

  She and Ono hugged long and hard. If I hadn’t been a tad jealous of their obvious love for each other, I’d have found the scene touching.

  “Tomika,” said Ono when he finally pulled away, “this is my cabin girl for this weekend, Pali.” He beamed as if he’d won me in a contest.

  “Aloha, Pali.” Tomika extended her hand, and gave mine a little squeeze. “It’s my pleasure to have you visit my home. Your name, it means ‘cliff’ or ‘steep hill’ in Hawaiian. Do you know why your mother named you this?”

  I wasn’t about to go into the origin of my name—especially since it’s a made-up name, not my birth name. “It’s actually just a nickname from childhood. It also means ‘difficult’ as I’m sure you know.”

  “Ah, that is correct. I’ve known quite a few keiki who could have rightfully been named ‘Pali’.”

  We got in and the driver ran around the car closing all the doors. Aside from four wheels and a roof, the plushy town car had nothing in common with my Geo. First of all, it smelled like Lemon Pledge, rather than a load of dirty laundry. Everything, from the electric windows to the multiple stereo speakers murmuring cool jazz, seemed in tiptop shape. The silky leather seats felt so comfy I was tempted to lean back and grab a few winks.

  “Ono tells me you’re a wedding coordinator. That must be exciting.”

  “It is, most of the time. Sometimes it’s frustrating. People, especially brides and their mothers, think everything must be perfect. As if a flawless wedding day will make up for every slight, every disappointment, every loss they will face throughout their marriage. If the least little thing goes wrong, some of them come completely unglued.”

  “Ah, but it’s supposed to be a celebration of love. A time for family and friends. In my experience some of my most charming memories are of things that didn’t go quite as planned. That’s the beauty of life, don’t you agree?”

  “Yes, but try telling that to a bride whose silk gown gets soaked by a rogue wave during the pre-wedding photo shoot.”

  “Well, regardless of the circumstances, I’m sure you do a wonderful job. And to always be working around happy people—people in love—you are truly blessed.”

  The lady put Pollyanna to shame. They ought to bottle her so I could take a snort every time I had to handle a hissy fit over flawed dyed-to-match shoes, or I had to referee a mother versus stepmother catfight over the seating chart for the reception dinner.

  “Mostly it’s a great job,” I said. “But there are days when all I want to do is go home and spend a quiet evening with my own best man: Jack Daniels.”

  Tomika stiffened and pointedly turned to look out the window at the buildings flashing by. Call me paranoid, but I could’ve sworn the temperature in the car dropped fifteen degrees.

  CHAPTER 9

  Tomika Fujioka’s condo was on the forty-first floor of a gleaming sky-blue high rise adjacent to the Ala Moana Center. I’m not keen on elevators, having ridden in them only a few times in my life, and zipping up four hundred feet in a matter of seconds didn’t sit well with my empty stomach. But once we got inside her condo, the view from the floor-to-ceiling windows made the ride almost worth it. I guess if you’re stuck living in a big city, this is definitely the way to go.

  “It’s spectacular,” I said. She’d probably heard that more than a few times before, but there really wasn’t another way to say it.

  “Some gorgeous view, huh?” said Ono. “I’m not much for city-dwelling, but I make an exception for Honolulu. Look at that endless horizon. And the lights at night will knock you out.”

  Tomika came in carrying a black lacquer tray with a pitcher of fruit juice and a plate of exquisite French macaroons, those perfect little pastel cookies that look fake but melt in your mouth. I held myself back to avoid looking like a lion on a hyena carcass, but after I counted to ten, I snatched up a pale pink one.

  “Aren’t these just the sweetest little treats?” Tomika said, admiring the lemon-yellow cookie in her hand. Meanwhile, I was brushing the crumbs off my lips from the pink one that was by now merely a fond memory.

  “Oh, come on,” said Ono. “Those are sissy cookies. I was hoping you’d get some of those chocolate chip ones from that shop in Ala Moana. You know, the ones as big as hubcaps with the nuts and the hunks of chocolate.”

  “Ah, my brawny sailor-man,” said Tomika. “Don’t worry. I’ve got some of those for you in the refrigerator. I was hoping to first tempt your palate with these lovely French works of art.”

  “I don’t want art,” he said. “I want food.” He got up and strode into the kitchen—a polished oasis of black granite and stainless steel—as if he owned the place.

  I heard the refrigerator door open. “Anyone else want a real American cookie?”

  We both declined.

  He came back with an enormous cookie in his hand, and plopped down on the sofa next to Tomika. They looked at each other with such tenderness I averted my eyes.

  “It’s wonderful to have you back here,” she said, patting his thigh.

  “Great to be here. The crossing was pretty good. Kinda choppy going around Moloka’i, but that’s to be expected. It took us a little over twelve hours.”

  “Oh, I meant to ask you,” said Tomika, “are you ready for the party, or do you need Bub to take you down in the morning to get things set up?”

  “Nope, we’re good. I told Pali you wanted to do a little shopping with her tomorrow, and if it’s all right with you, I’m going to stick around here and watch some football.”

  “That’s a good plan,” she said. She rose from the sofa and started toward the kitchen, but then she turned and looked at me. “You’re not allergic to seafood, are you, Pali? I ordered some nice lobsters to be sent up.”

  “I love lo
bster. It’s a real treat for us on Maui; we don’t get it that often. Did you find some Australian lobsters at the market?”

  “No, they’re fine, but they’re usually rather small. For company I like to buy the fresh Maine lobsters. More meaty.”

  “Well, you know what I like even more than lobster?” said Ono.

  “Yes, dearest, and so I’m having them send up some ahi poke along with the lobsters.”

  Personally, I’m not a poke fan. It’s nearly sacrilegious to admit, because it’s practically Hawaii’s official state food, but raw fish in any form: poke, sushi, sashimi, you name it, makes me want to spit it out on the floor.

  “Oh, and I hope you like asparagus,” Tomika went on, “I ordered some that they fly in from California. Very tender, and the cook dresses it with a lovely hollandaise sauce.”

  It pretty much went that way for the rest of the night. The china was Limoges, the glassware was Waterford crystal, and Tomika toted dish after lavish dish from the kitchen until I was worried I might have to unbutton my shorts in order to stand up. She didn’t offer wine, but after twelve hours of wind-whipped sailing followed by the stress of being in her foo-foo big city digs, I would’ve declined anyway. By the time she served the coconut crème brulee I was only a blink away from dozing off.

  Ono said he’d clear the table and she took him up on his offer. We adjourned to the living room to admire the twinkling lights of the city and finish our coffee. When Ono returned, he took a seat next to Tomika, and draped his arm across her shoulder.

  She smiled at Ono, then me. “Pali, I’m giving you the front guest room. It has a beautiful view of the harbor. And you, my dear,” she laid her hand flat against Ono’s cheek and held his gaze, “will sleep in your usual place; right where I can keep my eye on you.”

  ***

  The next morning I woke up early. I lay in the soft bed wondering about proper guest etiquette for making coffee in someone else’s home. Is it rude to sneak into the kitchen and rustle through her cabinets? Or is it considered polite to step up and not leave everything to Tomika?

  After fifteen minutes of debating the issue, my need for caffeine settled it. I tiptoed to the kitchen in my tee-shirt and panties and quietly opened doors and drawers looking for coffee and filters. All I found were whole beans, which meant grinding, which meant waking up Tomika and Ono. I abandoned that idea and was slinking back down the hallway when Ono popped out of the bathroom. I gasped and pulled at the hem of my tee-shirt in an attempt to cover myself up.