***
Michael Horn arrived at his office at 6:00 a.m. He handled four client conferences, two meetings with the administrative staff, and reviewed countless claims at the large insurance office that carried his name. He then spent another four hours reviewing the new government regulations that were going to make him crazy at best or put him out of business at worst. His concerns were a well-kept secret because nothing ever seemed to rattle Michael Horn. Some saw him as robotic and apathetic but the truth was quite the opposite. Michael Horn was a man of such deep feelings that if he did not simply get on with business he would dissolve into a puddle of doubt and fear, he would be paralyzed by the sheer enormity of the battle life had thrown at him, a battle no one at work knew he waged.
At the end of the day, he left the office and drove through downtown Cleveland to his favorite burger joint. There he picked up dinner and resisted the urge to dig into the french fries as he drove home. Once there, he took off his suit jacket, draped it neatly on the back of the dining room chair, loosened his tie and made space for his dinner on the table that was littered with files and papers, pictures and maps, legal briefs and bills. The house was quiet as a tomb because no one lived there anymore but him. His wife had left over a year ago taking their twelve-year old son with her. Intellectually, Michael understood that his fight was not hers. He also understood things like honor and ethics and morals and the rights of the individual. He couldn’t understand why her righteousness had limits. She thought he was titling at windmills; he believed he must slay Goliath. She insisted all he needed was to give in to his grief and all would be better.
Michael told her she was wrong.
She told him goodbye.
He took a bite of his burger. It was excellent as always. Just enough meat, a tease of pickles, and the secret sauce that he was sure was nothing more than Thousand Island dressing. Still, he liked the idea that somewhere there was a safe that protected the recipe for secret sauce. He took a french fry, ate it, and then reached for the television remote. He should have wiped his hands first. His wife hated grease on the remote. Then again, his wife would have hated that he moved the television into the dining room. Then again, his wife didn’t live there any longer so he stopped worrying about the remote as the news came on.
… the head of the NSA has once again been called upon by congress to explain why more than eighteen million citizen communications have been monitored on a regular basis for years. This disclosure comes on the heels of the administrations vehement denials –
The phone rang before Michael could enjoy the latest rounds of denials by the government on any given subject. You probably couldn’t get a straight answer if you asked them what day it was but they wanted to know every time you took a leak. He waited for the answering machine to pick up. He had no desire to fight with his wife, or decline an offer to buy new siding, or address an office crisis that his managers were hired to deal with. Michael took another bite of his burger and smiled. A pickle. The pickle bites made him the happiest. The answering machine engaged and his wife’s voice announced they were not at home.
“Well, half of us aren’t,” Michael muttered and made a mental note to change the announcement. The machine beeped. There was a hiccup and then he heard:
“Michael. It’s Sheila. Do you have
The Post
from a few days ago? Look at page–”
Michael Horn forgot the burger, his fries, and his greasy fingers and picked up the phone.
“Sheila. Don’t hang up.”
“I’m glad you’re there,” she said. “Are you still getting
The Post
?”
“I am. I just haven’t looked at it lately. I’ve been busy. Hold on.” He put her on speaker as he rummaged through the newspapers that were stacked on the chair at the far end of the table. “Can you hear me?”
“Yes. Find the tenth.”
“Got it,” he called.
“Page thirty-six. It’s buried; only a few lines. Headline is: Robert Lee Suicide.” Sheila said.
“I’ve got it.” Michael switched on the overhead light and shook out the paper and read:
“The Metropolitan Police Department responded to a nine-one-one call on Wednesday night when a resident of The Robert Lee Hotel jumped to his death. Officer Morgan of the Capitol Police was also on scene. He confirmed that earlier in the day the victim had been detained after disrupting a Senate hearing presided over by Senator Ambrose Patriota. The man, Ian Francis, was an expert in forensic neurology who, at one time, worked for the Department of Defense. One witness, Josie Bates of Hermosa Beach, California, was questioned at the scene and released. Anyone with information regarding relatives of Ian Francis is asked to call Officer Morgan.”
“That’s it,” Sheila said.
“Thanks. Anything else?”
“No, Ernie’s home soon. You know how he feels about this,” Sheila said. “He’s so worried we’re going to get in trouble especially with the NSA stuff going on.”
“He shouldn’t worry. We’re small fish,” Michael assured her.
“That’s what I tell him, but you know how it is. Can you believe it? Ian Francis, the little twerp. I thought he was in hell a long time ago,” Sheila said.
“He is now.”
There wasn’t much more to say after that. Michael heard the click on the other end of the line. He tossed aside the newspaper and sat down in front of the larger of the two computers he had at the end of the table. He typed out a note to the lawyers telling them about the death notice but held off asking them to research. It was costing a fortune to see this thing through and Michael could do the preliminaries as well as they could. He would hand it over when he had as much information as he could get.
“We’re closing in, grandpa. Yes, we are. This is just too good.”
Michael was grinning when he stood up and gave his grandfather’s picture a wink. Then his smile faded. He was talking to a dead man while he stood in an empty house.
***
“Anuhea! Cool and Fragrant. That’s what her name means. No people on earth have names like the Hawaiians do. Pure poetry.”
Stephen Kyle pointed to a young girl lounging on a rattan sofa petting a Siamese cat. She looked at Josie with beautiful dark eyes that registered no surprise at either her presence or her appearance.
“Aloha.” The girl said. The cat purred.
Like a dust devil, all whirling motion, kicking up dirt and sand along his narrow path, Stephen went on to the next woman.
“And this is Aolani. Her name means heavenly cloud. Their mother named them well.” An identical girl sat at a table reading. She looked up and graced Stephen with a lovely smile and raised her head so that he could plant a kiss in the middle of her brow.
“Aolani is studying to be a nurse. And a fine one you’ll be. Who wouldn’t want a heavenly cloud by their bedside? Who, I ask you? We must find a Hawaiian name for you, Josie.”
“I think I’ll stick with the name I’ve got–” Josie began, fully intending to cut this hospitality short but the man wasn’t done.
“Ah, and there’s Malia. That means beloved. Not by me, of course,” Stephen guffawed. “Far too young, even though she adores me. Don’t you, dear thing?”
“You betcha,” Malia said just before she disappeared into the back of the house.
“She’s not Hawaiian, you know.” Stephen offered this aside confidentially.
“The Brooklyn accent was a dead giveaway,” Josie assured him.
“A good ear you have. Puerto Rican. Her real name is Maria, but you put a grass skirt on her and crown of flowers and she’s Malia, beloved of the gods of Hawaii, arrived on this earth on the back of the great turtle or some such. Drink?”
Josie smiled because it was hard not to. She had slept in the back of the truck despite, or because of, Stephen Kyle’s singing. It had taken her a few minutes to ground herself after she woke up. Now here she was, a guest of an English Mad Hatter in a tropical rabbit hole. Still, there were worse places to be than this house and were it not for Stephen Kyle she would be walking the road from Hana.
“There’s a bathroom over there for you to wash up. You’ll feel so much better if you do. Glad you’re dried out. Anuhea.” Stephen called to the reclining girl who looked at him with a smile. “Could you get Josie here a shirt from the cabinet and see if you can find a pair of flip-flops from the shipment that was going over to the Royal Lahaina?” To Josie: “I’m thinking you wear a nine? Yes?”
“Yes, I’d be grateful for the flip-flops, but I’m good with my shirt. I’ll change when I get to the hotel.”
“Suit yourself, darling. Off you go.”
Ten minutes later she was back and renewed. The flip-flops outside the bathroom door were orange with pineapple shaped jewels on top. She put her muddied sandals and purse by the front door. When she got back, the girls were where she had left them and Stephen was behind a Tiki bar. The wood was dark and the front was covered in rattan. Josie had seen one like it at a vintage shop on Pacific Coast Highway and the store was asking a pretty penny for it. This one was longer and in better condition.
“This is amazing.” She slid onto a bar stool and ran her hand along the smooth, dark wood.
“Koa wood; the most precious of all precious woods; the revered tree of the gods. It’s ancient. The tree is protected now. This was a doorway in King Kamaiama’s palace. I came to it by a trade from the man who was the son of the man who carved the piece out of an ancient tree. What will you have?”
“Do you have a beer?” she asked, marveling at how long he could speak without a breath.
“We have whatever your heart desires.”
Stephen grabbed two glasses, uniquely fashioned with thick rounded bottoms, an air bubble floating inside. Next came a glass decanter blown by the same artist. He popped the stopper and Josie smelled the distinctive scent of Scotch whiskey. He poured and pushed one glass toward Josie.
“Fine stuff.”
She was about to decline when he reached below the bar and came up with an ice-cold bottle of beer, twisted the cap and set it in front of her. That was followed by a can of Macadamia nuts.
“There you have it. What you want: a beer. What you don’t think you want but you really should want: my very best scotch. And what you need: sustenance.” He drew up a stool opposite her, picked up his glass and toasted: “To your health and the health of every beautiful woman who walks the earth.”
Josie picked up the scotch and touched his glass. They grinned at one another. It was a better start than their first one. He took a drink, smacked his lips, and looked directly at her.
“Now, in all seriousness. Are you well, or do I need to call for a physician?” Stephen asked.
“I’m good, really. I’ll be a little sore tomorrow,” Josie answered. “And I do appreciate the help.”
“Least I could do.” He downed another generous portion of his drink. “I’ve got a tow going out to where you went over. We’ll get it all sorted out, but I’m not sure you should get back on the road. Wouldn’t want you to hit anyone else.” Before Josie could point out that she believed he hit her, Stephen called: “Anuhea. Aolani. Get your lovely arses in gear, darlings. The show starts early tonight. You must dance as never before.”
“It’s raining, Stephen,” Anuhea complained sweetly.
“It won’t be when the curtain goes up. Go on, now, sweeties.” He shooed them away, continuing his discourse seamlessly with Josie. “You get to know the weather patterns. I can tell to within ten minutes when it will clear. Not many can do that. And, you, where do you hail from?”
“Hermosa Beach. It’s a small town in Southern California.”
“Ah, I’m not a fan of Los Angeles, but I do like Big Sur. Lovely place.”
“You’ve never seen Hermosa. You wouldn’t even know it was close to L.A.,” Josie said and took a sip of her beer. “Look, I appreciate your hospitality and your help with the car, but I really need to get back to my hotel. It looks like you and your ladies have some plans tonight, so if you could call me a cab I’d appreciate it.”
“You’re here alone? No husband waiting for you?” Stephen raised a brow.
“Not with me. My fiancé is in California. “
“Pity you’re spoken for. He should have bought you a big diamond so the rest of us know you’re taken.”
“I’ll wait for the gold band.”
“Are you a darling angel from heaven? No diamonds and you’re still faithful to the bloke? I hope he knows how lucky he is.”
One of the girls stuck her head out from the hall and asked Stephen if they were working with the fire sticks that night. He answered in the negative and she disappeared once more.
“Do you let all your employees live with you?” Josie asked.
“I’d never let an employee live here! Those are my protégées who also happen to work for me. They are amazing girls and each of them needed just a little leg up.” He spoke fondly of the twins. “Their father worked for me. Fine man. When he passed away, he asked me to watch over them. No hardship since they are good girls and lovely as you can see. And Malia, my tough little bird? She had a sad life, but a great heart. I can afford to help out, so why not? Sadly, each will be off in their own good time.” He grinned at Josie. “Ah, I’m going on. What was it I had my mind set to do?”
“A cab?” Josie reminded him.
“Nonsense,” he answered. “We’ll drop you on the way. Where are you staying?”
“The Grand Wailea.”
“Perfect. We’re showing at the Four Seasons and that’s right next door. Meanwhile, Shall I entertain you with a little Keoloko hospitality?”
“I doubt I have a choice,” she laughed.
“Right you are,” Stephen answered.
Josie didn’t mind. There were worse places to be. When she had first stepped out of the truck and seen the overgrowth and the rickety fence, she had assumed she would find a modestly livable place but Stephen Kyle’s house was an island palace. Behind the bamboo stands and bushes, behind that rickety fence, was an exquisite home made of glass and wood, furnished comfortably and elegantly. There was art on the walls, statues in niches, books on the low table. It was clear that Stephen loved his house and that made Josie homesick for hers.