Mele Kalikimaka Mr Walker (5 page)

The roaring, throbbing sound filled the room. What the? Norton was confused; he had half an idea where he was, but not what was going on. The Japanese aren't
bombing Hawaii, are they? That was Xmas 1941. The rumbling, throbbing roar got louder and the whole building seemed to be shaking. Les wiped his eyes, got out of bed and drew back the curtains overlooking Kalakau Avenue. Although there were great banks of clouds belting across the sky it was warm and sunny enough and the million dollar view right up to Diamond Head and beyond was worth every cent. Filling up the entire street below were hundreds upon hundreds, possibly over a thousand, monstrous Harley-Davidson motorbikes, straddled by equally huge bikies, a great number of whom were carrying pillion passengers. At the moment they were stopped for some reason and the roaring and revving of the huge chrome and black metal machines had to be heard to be believed. Shit! I don't know what this is, thought Les, but I gotta go down and have a look. He climbed into a pair of shorts and a T-shirt, threw his camera and towel into his overnight bag and hurried for the lift, arriving in the foyer after picking up several Japanese tourists with cameras on the way down.

The foyer was thick with Japanese in jogging gear standing around the wooden tables Les had seen the night before. All the signs were in Japanese except one banner that said ‘Saucony Welcomes Runners to the Honolulu Marathon'. Les strode past them straight out into the street, where he put on his sunglasses and joined the crowds of people lining the footpaths. The countless throbbing machines were still stopped and the noise at street level was almost deafening. Some bikies had their club colours on, most wore black leather, some wore bandanas and pigtails like a lot of fat Willie Nelsons.
There were quite a number of women bike riders and a sprinkling of motorbike cops. Just about every bike had a doll or a teddy bear perched either over the handlebars or on the pillion seat. Even with the coloured dolls the scene still had an air of sinisterness or menace about it and it wasn't some half-baked imitation back home, this was the real thing. A living, breathing army of monstrous fat seppos on their Harleys.

Les got his camera and joined another army of Japanese whose cameras were blasting off rolls of film as if their lives depended on it. They all had the super expensive models and Les only had his new instamatic, but with the zoom lens Les felt sure he was getting some great photos — especially of one redhead straddled across a monster blue Harley. She was all in black and silver with buckskins and had a bandana with an American flag design around her forehead and a pair of mirror sunglasses perched on top. Tied to her pillion seat was a huge, fluffy pink and yellow Sesame Street doll. Les stood around burning off almost a roll of film till the bikies thinned out to a draggle of pinko, commie faggots on Hondas and Suzukis bringing up the rear. They slunk past and Les crossed the road to have a swim and a look around.

Almost in front of his hotel was a big, open-air swimming pool. A stormwater drain and footpath formed one wall which ran out to sea, a few metres at the front of which a bunch of noisy, happy kids were catching small waves on boogie boards. There was more beach after this then what looked like a boarded-up public pool under repair, a hotel on the water and a huge park split by a road that ran up to Diamond Head. Skinny
palm trees and different tropical trees dotted the park and shallow reefs ran out into the blue ocean over which small swells gently broke into the offshore wind. To the right was another smaller pool, then more beach, a public amenities and a caged-off area next to the police station Les had seen the night before which was packed with monstrous old Malibu surfboards. The beach narrowed here to a path that led past more highrise hotels built to the water's edge and in the distance a low mountain range sloped down to the sea. Surfboards and skis dotted the reefs and every now and again an outrigger canoe or a catamaran full of tourists would cruise through the congestion blowing an airhorn. Along the footpath were concrete shelters full of elderly locals playing cards and chess and amongst them sat a number of scrumbo backpackers eating food out of tins. The main road now swarmed with stretch limousines and the usual chrome-drenched American land yachts. The footpath swarmed with mainland American tourists in the worst check outfits imaginable. But the crowd was mainly Japanese, walking or jogging in brightly coloured running outfits, determined to have a good time on their annual five days' holiday, no matter how miserable the exercise made them or how much they had to bust their arses to do it. Judging by their little round beetroot-red faces, Norton tipped they'd all finish up the happiest tourists either in the local cardiac ward or the morgue.

Les walked down onto the sand, past a cluster of old, open-air showers that were just nozzles pouring out water, stripped down to his Speedos, and leaving his bag next to an orange lifeguard tower waded out into the biggest pool and dived in. The water was warm,
the day reasonably sunny, but the strong offshore wind seemed to keep the temperature down. Les ended up doing six laps, having to stop now and again to avoid squashing several bunches of Japanese squawking and laughing as they floundered around splashing water over each other, before getting out and doing a few stretches near the railings by the showers. One thing Les did know when he dried off, he was getting peckish and couldn't possibly wait till ten-thirty when he and Mick were meeting for breakfast. Something light would go well.

There was an ABC store directly across the road; Les crossed over and walked in. It was nicely air-conditioned and sold everything from booze to batteries, and all at rock-bottom prices — if you were Kerry Packer. Les bought some papaya, a carton of orange juice and a chicken sandwich from the fridge, then walked up to McDonald's to get a takeaway coffee. Norton couldn't believe McDonald's. The staff were all Japanese-Hawaiians, about two feet high, with heads that round they made Bert Newton's look like a butter box. Seated around the tables, stuffing themselves with french fries swimming with ketchup and yammering away at the tops of their voices, were the horriblest fattest excuses for human beings Les had ever seen. They looked and sounded like some alien vegetable creatures from Mars or beyond. Christ, shuddered Norton. I hope this isn't the way Australia's heading. He shook his head almost in disbelief, got some tiny containers of milk and sugar and retreated to his room.

The papaya and chicken sandwich were okay; the coffee was probably what killed Les Darcy and Phar Lap. Les decided to eat out on his balcony, catch a
bit of breeze and listen to the small ghetto blaster he'd brought with him. The music was much of a muchness and Les was thinking of throwing on a tape when a song finished and some DJ said, ‘You're listening to AM Stereo 83. KIKI. The oldies channel.' Next thing Johnny Rivers' ‘Mountain of Love' came burbling out the speakers. Oh, bugger it, this'll do, shrugged Les. He ate his sandwich and drank in the view. When he'd finished, Les took the radio inside, got cleaned up and sorted out his gear. He was putting some iodine on his knuckles to Aretha Franklin warbling ‘Chain of Fools' when the phone rang.

‘Is that you, Mick?'

‘No,' came a voice at the other end. ‘It's Duke Kaha-namoku. You want to come surfing?'

‘Yeah, righto,' chuckled Les. ‘Just give me five minutes to get my boardshorts and find some wax and I'll be right down. How are you, Mick?'

‘Fine, Les. How's yourself? The trip all right?'

‘Good as gold. Where are you?'

‘In the lobby by the elevators.'

‘Okay. I'll be down in a couple of minutes. Unless you want to come up.'

‘I'll wait here for you. It's nice and cool.'

‘Righto, Mick. See you in a couple of minutes.'

Les got into a pair of Levi shorts and a white Mambo T-shirt, turned off the radio and walked down to the lift, finishing up with about half a dozen Japanese girls on the way down, the tallest of whom would have come up to Mickey Mouse's knee. Mick was standing near the fountain wearing shorts and a blue floral shirt. Apart from needing a haircut, he hadn't changed since Les
had seen him in Australia, although as he walked over smiling there appeared to be a shadowy tiredness edged in with the laughlines around his eyes.

‘Les. How are you, mate?' he said, emphasising the ‘mate' as he offered his hand.

‘Not too bad — mate,' replied Les, doing the same. ‘Good to see you again, Mick.'

‘You too, Les.' They shook hands and checked each other out for a moment. ‘So you cracked it for a freebie to Hawaii?' said Mick, remembering the things Norton had told him on the phone. ‘What's the room like?'

‘Pretty good. Got a top view.'

‘Where did you say your mate Warren was?'

‘On the big island, wherever that is. Staying with some friends or something.'

‘And you're on your Pat Malone?'

‘Yeah. It's a bummer. Apart from one ugly big walloper, I don't know a soul. Except for this surfie who's gonna ring me and pick up a camera case. He's covering some surfing contest over the north shore.'

‘You should take a ride over there and check out the other beaches. This is just touristville round here.'

‘Yeah,' agreed Les. ‘I didn't know whether I'd landed in Surfers Paradise or Tokyo.'

Mick pointed to the signs and the Japanese swarming around the wooden tables along the wall. ‘The Honolulu Marathon's on this weekend. Thirty thousand Japs fly in and try to kill themselves in the heat.'

‘So I noticed. Hey, what were all the motorbikes in aid of this morning? There were hundreds of the bloody things out the front.'

‘That,' Mick chuckled a little derisively. ‘That's the
annual Bikers For Christmas rally. They all get together for one day of the year and donate a toy for the kids out at the army barracks. It's good for their image.'

‘Then for the other 364 days of the year they go back to killing each other, dealing dope and burning sheilas?'

‘Exactly, Les. Only over here it's called gang-banging.'

‘Yeah, right. Anyway, what do you want to do for breakfast?'

Les suggested they eat in the hotel; the food would probably be good and they could charge it to his room. However, Mick said there was a good breakfast place — ‘Bennies' — just round the corner and across from the park. His girlfriend was waiting there with a table. Norton agreed and they started walking through the lobby out into Kalakau Avenue. It was only a short walk past another highrise and a few shops, then it was right on the corner of Kalakau and Kapahulu — a wide boulevard that ran past the park and zoo towards the mountains. As they strolled along in the sun they chitchatted about things in general. Mick said he'd worked till after midnight the previous night. Les said he was a bit tired after the flight so he just went for a walk and finished up in Mahias having a few beers and listening to the band before he hit the sack. He didn't mention belting the three blokes. The conversation was lighthearted and Les got the impression that Mick liked it if any Aussies he knew dropped in and said hello. Les also got the impression that at times Mick seemed a little distant, vague even, as if there was something on his mind.

They rounded the corner and Les followed Mick up a flight of stairs into the lobby of a restaurant that was
again mainly Polynesian decor. A long counter and stools faced the stairs, the dining area angled off to the right, there were chairs and tables in the centre, and red vinyl booths ran round the walls. Outside over the avenue was a balcony but almost the whole restaurant gave you a pleasant view of the ocean. It was quite crowded with more overweight Americans stuffing themselves with anything that could be drowned in maple syrup, gravy, or some kind of sauce guaranteed to bung on calories. The only difference Les could notice between the vegetables seated at Bennies and the ones at McDonald's was that the Bennies lot weren't quite as noisy and they seemed to be dressed a little better. At a table near the balcony and to their right a girl waved.

‘There she is,' said Mick. Les followed him over.

Mick's girl was Hawaiian and quite pretty with long black hair and dazzling white teeth emphasised by her smooth brown skin. She was wearing a green and white floral dress and a touch of blue mascara round her walnut eyes; resting on the table next to her handbag were a pair of tiny hands tinged with red nail polish.

‘Les, this is Kia.'

‘Hello, Kia,' said Norton, giving her hand a gentle squeeze. ‘Nice to meet you.'

‘You too, Les,' smiled Kia, giving Norton a quick once up and down. ‘So you're the Aussie guy Mick stayed with in Australia? The bouncer?'

Les noticed Mick smile a little self-consciously. Les just smiled. ‘“Crowd behavioural supervisor” is the politically correct term, Kia.'

Kia nodded, letting her eyes rest on Norton's iodine-stained knuckles. ‘You still look like a bouncer.'

‘Anyway, grab a seat,' said Mick, rubbing his hands together. ‘I'm starving.'

‘Yeah, righto.' Les sat down on Kia's left with Mick on her right closest to the balcony.

The waitress arrived with the menus, ice water and a percolator of coffee. The menu was a full-on, glossy reproduction of the usual American breakfast nosh. Pancakes, bistro steaks, Portuguese sausage, hash browns, et cetera. Norton gave it the once-over then looked at the vegetables stuffing themselves around him and suddenly didn't feel all that hungry. What he did fancy was a bowl of Weetbix, muesli and chopped-up mango and banana with a little bit of raw sugar. But if he ordered that in here they'd probably have him terminated by the CIA as a pinko, commie subversive. It made no difference to Mick and Kia. They ordered bacon, sausage, omelettes, pancakes, more eggs, the works. Oh well, mused Les. When in Rome. He ordered Portuguese sausages, eggs over easy, hash browns, tomato and extra toast.