Mele Kalikimaka Mr Walker (13 page)

He ended up buying a whole lot of T-shirts he didn't need, joggers, sunglasses, caps and jackets from both the Disney store and Warner Bros World and a whole heap of other stuff. In the end he was loaded up like a Russian babushka coming back from a food queue so he went back to the car and stashed the lot in the boot. Bloody hell, what have I done? he thought as he slammed down the boot lid. I'll never get it on the plane and I've another five days to go yet. Shopping was thirsty work, however, and now it was time for a beer.

The dining area was on the same level as where Les had seen the hula girls. It was just a huge square area full of blue and white chairs in the middle surrounded by dozens of takeaway food shops selling mainly Asian food. The decor was white columns and dark green tiles on the floor with kind of blue sails hanging from the ceiling in amongst all the red and green Christmas decorations. Despite all the cooking smells Les wasn't that hungry; between the heat and stuffing himself with truffles and coffee at Andrea's house his appetite was dulled. But not his thirst. One entrance to the food area that faced the ocean side of the mall had a spaghetti shop on one corner that sold beer. Les bought a can of Coors, found a seat and settled back to watch the punters.

There were plenty of whites and blacks, but mainly they were Japanese or Chinese Hawaiians, and no one was starving. One bloke in shorts, along with his wife in a blue muu-muu, waddled past and both had backsides big enough to sell advertising on. Most of the men wore shorts, T-shirts and Elmer Fudd caps; the women favoured ankle-length floral dresses with pearl or shell necklaces. Some women, mainly the Japanese, had faces flatter than the bottom of an iron. Others had round, fat little faces and fat little hips that reminded Norton of goldfish or budgerigars. They also had this odd, knees bent, shuffling way of walking. The ones sitting around him seemed to be doing what Americans seem to do best — stuff themselves with food after drowning it in a hundred different sauces. Les couldn't say much for the perv: there weren't many good sorts at all. But it was interesting enough and there were things to laugh at and before Norton knew it he'd knocked over five cans of Coors and he was getting a bit pie-eyed. Shit! I got to drive back to the hotel, he remembered, as he squeezed the last few drops out of can number five. I'm likely to get behind the wheel of that Mustang and think I'm Evel Knievel. Les didn't feel like another cup of coffee, but a walk in the park before the sun went down might freshen him up a bit. He dropped the last can in the nearest bin, went back down the stairs and when there was a break in the traffic, jogged a little unsteadily across the road.

The park was a lot bigger than Les had first noticed — about one and a half kilometres long and a good half a kilometre wide. A two-way road with a low sea wall ran round the ocean, which appeared to be a lagoon
on one side with a marina full of yachts on the left, and a headland dotted with tall palm trees ran out to the ocean on the right. Further down to the right were more palm trees and a beach sheltered by a shallow coral reef. The park itself was full of odd-shaped trees and reminded Les a little of the Domain near the art gallery in Sydney. A lagoon full of tiny fish meandered through the middle, running beneath two small bridges. One bridge was narrow cream-coloured concrete with a green railing and ran towards the sea. The other was wider cream-coloured concrete formed into two small arches pinched in the middle and scalloped on the outside. It was built facing a bus stop about fifty metres in from the main road and looked quite pretty standing beneath the shade of several trees spreading up from the surrounding greenery. There were hardly any people around as Les strolled about the numerous trees getting some fresh air. He stopped near the second bridge to watch a school of small fish making ripples in the shallow canal as they fossicked around for food and thought he wouldn't mind coming back to the park one day to take a jog around it then go for a swim and have a feed across the road at the mall. He was surprised there weren't more people about taking advantage of the park, it looked that pleasant. He had one more look around then strolled back to the car.

The drive back to the hotel in the heavy traffic all going on the wrong side of the road was a bit of a challenge for Norton, especially with five cans of beer under his belt. But he got there okay. The only thing was, as well as making him feel a bit drowsy, the beers had also put the edge back on his appetite. After he'd
dropped the car off with the attendant, then unpacked what he'd bought back in his room, Norton decided to attack the Carvery again; it was handy, the food was good and plenty of it and Les was feeling too lazy now to walk anywhere. He had a quick shower to freshen up, changed into a clean T-shirt and caught the lift to the lobby with a couple of pods of unsmiling Japanese gnomes.

There was about the same number of diners as before spread round the Carvery. Les slipped into a little bit of terrine and salad to get going. Then had a plate of roast beef and vegetables with a sour cream and mustard sauce, then tried some braised pork dish with a sweet chili sauce — all washed down with orange-passionfruit juice. This sat fairly well with Les. But to make sure, he had several small, crisp bread rolls and coffee, plus two fat slices of chocolate devil's food cake. After that, Norton wasn't going anywhere. He rarely went out on a Monday night anyway and figured Monday night in Waikiki, even at Christmas, would be like Monday night anywhere. A good night to stay home and watch TV.

Maybe it was a bit of jet lag or something catching up with him, but back in his room Les found himself yawning constantly and looking forward to putting his head down. He switched the TV on with the sound down, made himself a rather large Bacardi and Grape Crush and switched on the radio. With some documentary about volcanoes on the box and ‘Duke of Earl' by Gene Chandler wobbling out of the little ghetto blaster, Norton sat down, mulled over the day's events and some of the things Andrea had said to him. Especially the fifty thousand dollars she'd offered on the sly to some of
the local heavies if they brought the nut who was killing her girls back to her, either dead or alive. Not a bad little earner, as Arthur Daley might say.

Several drinks later Les had resigned himself to the fact that there was as much chance of him finding out who Mr Walker was by next Saturday night as there was of Fred Nile leading the Gay Mardi Gras up Oxford Street, dressed as Dr Frankenfurter out of the
Rocky Horror Show.
But there was something about these killings that kept playing on Norton like an itch he couldn't scratch. For a start, he had suspects. The first bloke he belted fitted the description of the one suspect Mick had. He was more than likely a marine and a morose big prick like that would be just the kind of nut who would enjoy killing women. He'd be a typical seppo fruitcake with sexual hangups and the coincidence of Les belting him the first night he was in town could be some weird twist of fate. A bit of ‘Twilight Zone'. Les hummed to himself, Dah-dah-dah-dah, Dah-dah-dah-dah. Then he had suspect number two. It would take a monster to inflict those wounds on the girls. What was standing behind the gate at Andrea's house? Also, he was a driver and bodyguard. The girls would trust him enough to let him get close to them, even into their apartments. Then what did Andrea say, half meaning it, that it was probably a cop and Mick covering up for him? It was a possibility. Some frustrated cop couldn't get to Andrea, so he kills her hookers instead. What about this partner of Mick's who was off sick? Even Mick himself. Andrea treated him like shit, as did the HPD, to a certain extent. And Mick got these mad bursts of energy. Les shook his head as he sipped his
drink and stared absently at the TV. Buggered if I know, he mused. And I'm buggered if I know what I'm doing putting my head into this in the first place. I'm here on a holiday. Then Les thought it might be an idea to ring Mick before either he got too tired, too drunk or plain forgot. He got Mick on his mobile parked somewhere near Diamond Head.

‘Mick. How's it goin', mate?'

‘Hey, Les. How are you doin', buddy?'

‘Not bad. What are you up to?'

‘Nothing much. Looking for a bloke who likes to visit the area now and again and take things from people that don't belong to him. They're sometimes referred to as burglars.'

Mick said that things were pretty much the same on his beat, only worse. His partner was still off sick, some other cops were off on their Christmas vacation and he was back in uniform cruising around, filling in for some other cops who were in Waikiki on the lookout for these soccer hooligans who had beaten up some marines the night before. But things were generally pretty quiet on his beat and Mick was glad Les had rung to break the monotony.

‘Well, I might just have something for you, Mick, to liven things up a bit,' said Norton. ‘What are you doing at nine o'clock this Wednesday morning?'

Mick thought for a moment. ‘Nothing much. I can pretty much work my own hours after Tuesday.'

‘How would you like to join Andriana Hazlewood and myself for breakfast at the Kalamani Hotel?'

‘What the…? What are you talking about?'

‘I've sweetened it up for you. She wants to meet you.'
Les could sense the change in tone in Mick's voice and he could picture the look on the cop's face when he finished. ‘So that's the story, Mick. She's an old mate of mine. I used to take her out back home. Wait till you meet her, though. I think you'll be pleasantly surprised.' Les crossed his fingers a little at the last few words. If Andrea got a roll on she just might tear strips off Mick.

‘Surprised?' Mick paused. ‘I'm a bit more than bloody surprised. This is unbelievable. Fuckin' hell!'

‘Don't worry, Mick,'chuckled Les. ‘It's all sweet, son. And I got a feeling there could be a good result all round.'

They talked a little longer, with Mick still scratching his head. He would have come over to see Les then, but he couldn't get away. Mick said he'd see Les in the morning, but Les said he was busy all day and maybe the night too. But he'd ring Mick some time during the day or he'd catch him at work again in the night.

‘So if I don't get a chance to catch up with you tomorrow, I'll see you for sure on Wednesday morning.'

‘For sure. Hey, Les. I have to thank you, mate.'

‘Don't thank me yet, Mick. Ms Hazlewood said you're paying the bill. See you Wednesday.'

Norton hung up and resumed staring at the silent TV as ‘The Rain The Park and Other Things' by the Cowsills jigged out of the radio. Well, there you go, he smiled, taking another sip of Bacardi, then yawning. That's all sorted out. Now what's on this silly fuckin' TV before I put my head down? I'm knackered. He switched off the radio and turned the volume up slightly on the television set.

There appeared to be about ten channels on the box and all of them dreadful. Four were still showing documentaries about Hawaii and volcanoes. The rest were all US news and talkback shows crammed full of advertisements, and if the hosts talked any slower they would have stopped altogether. Lori Bishop and Chuck someone or other. With names like that Les gave them the immediate flick. Then it was some fat, greenie-bashing redneck called Rush Limbaugh, who looked like a runner-up in a pie-eating contest. Andy Anderson from Chicago in a pair of fireman's braces. In the middle of this was a Barry Manilow concert. Les flipped another channel and got some black in a white jacket called Arsenio Hall. The whole show was nothing but hype and bullshit, with the audience carrying on when he arrived on stage like it was the second coming of Christ. At least Arsenio lives up to the first syllable in his name, mused Les, as he flicked to another channel and got a wog in a white shirt, this time called Joe Piscopo, who arrived on stage to almost drown in more hype and bullshit. ‘Thank you for comin' down! Allll-riigghhhtt! Yeah!' The shows were pumped full of that much inane garbage they made ‘Tonight Live' with Steve Vizard look like ‘Four Corners'. Les flicked to the Conan O'Brien show, which was all cynical, smartarse New York comedians telling gags that went over Norton's head. Les flicked back to the droning documentaries for a few seconds then with a resounding ‘Get fucked!' turned the TV off. Les looked at the radio. No, he couldn't for the moment handle any more Fats Domino, Percy Sledge or Ben E. King and the Drifters. Maybe it was a little jet lag catching up, but what Les wanted was a
good night's sleep. Plus he had company arriving in the morning.

He yawned his way through cleaning his teeth, turned off the lights and crawled into bed with a sheet over him. It had been a pretty good day. And tomorrow might even be better. I wonder just what this ‘company' is, he smiled to himself. It could be anything. And knowing bloody Andrea, you can bet there'll be some sort of a catch. Probably Monroe's big brother and he's a drag queen. Anyway… Les gave out one cavernous yawn and before long he was snoring peacefully.

After a good night's sleep, Les woke up around seven, feeling on top of the world. Outside, the sun wasn't fully up and there were a few clouds around, but there was no sign of rain and it looked like being another nice day. He did a few stretches, had some orange juice and cereal then got into some old gear, grabbed his towel and goggles and caught the lift to the foyer. There weren't that many people in the lobby and outside just the usual early morning traffic: delivery trucks, taxis, et cetera, along with the usual joggers panting up and down Kalakau Avenue. There were a few surfers out on the reefs but no one at all in the open-air pool. The wind was a little brisk and the water cool after sitting there all night, but Les soon eased himself in and knocked over a lazy eight laps, mulling different things over in his head as he watched a few small fish darting around on the sandy, slightly muddy bottom. After some more stretches and about fifty chin-ups on a wooden beam supporting one of the shelters, he had a cold shower and went back to his room. The cereal earlier was okay, but after all that exercise Norton was now starving
hungry. He still wasn't sure who or what the company was going to be or whether they'd feel like eating. No matter what, Les wasn't waiting. Still in his old gear Les caught the lift back down to the Carvery, where the cooking smells on the way up told him they were serving breakfast.