Mele Kalikimaka Mr Walker (8 page)

‘Well, that was the HPD, Les. What did you think?'

‘Not bad,' replied Norton. ‘That Honesto's got a good sense of humour. Though I suppose he'd want to with you around.'

‘Yeah,' smiled Mick. ‘I've managed to liven things up a bit.'

‘So what's doing anyway, Mick, apart from work? I wouldn't mind getting out and having a drink with you one night.'

‘Me too, mate. I'm keen. But the thing is, you've landed at a prick of a time. With the Christmas holidays and my partner off sick, I'm doing all these weird shifts. Plus, I'm managing to knock up a bit of overtime. Which comes in handy.'

‘What you really mean, Mick, is that you're busting your arse off getting no social life while you try to do the work of two men.'

‘Exactly,' grinned Mick. ‘But this Friday night I'm sweet.'

‘Sounds good to me.'

Mick was in a much better mood when he stopped outside the beachfront entrance to Norton's hotel. Even though he didn't know Les all that well, just talking to him and getting a few things off his chest had been like a tonic. He explained his movements and where he'd more than likely be and gave Les the number of his mobile and any other phone number Norton might need to get in touch with him or leave a message. Mick was looking forward to Friday night and showing Les around Honolulu.

‘Well, that was good, Mick,' said Norton, shutting the car door behind him. ‘I'll give you a ring.'

‘If I get a chance I'll call round for a coffee. But don't forget, along with all this rattle I gotta try and get some sleep. And spend a bit of time with Kia. You know what they're like.'

‘I understand perfectly, mate.' Norton paused for a second. ‘Hey, Mick, how bad do you want to talk to this Andriana Hazlewood?'

‘Pretty bloody bad. Why?'

‘Oh nothing.' Norton tapped the mailing bag on the windowsill. ‘I'll give you a ring.'

‘Les —'

‘I'll ring you. Go on, piss off. You're blocking the traffic.' Les waved Mick off and walked into the lobby.

Back in his room Les tossed the mailer on the spare bed; he'd spent longer at the police station than he thought because the room had been made up and the day oddly seemed almost over. It was. Les hadn't accounted for Hawaii not having daylight saving. Doesn't it get late early, he mused. This time yesterday it was only…? Yes, whatever. At the moment Norton felt like a bit more exercise and no thinking. There were a million things swarming around in his head that were absolutely none of his business and which he'd be better off forgetting about; and there was no better way of forgetting about things than to go snorkelling. You're too busy diving up and down, looking at fish and thinking about sharks, to worry about anything else. The reefs across from the hotel looked blue and inviting as the late afternoon sun added a golden touch to the turquoise of the ocean. Les tossed his diving gear in a bag, changed into a pair of thongs and went straight back downstairs.

The tide was out and gently lapping against the swimming pool wall as Les walked around. Then he put his fins and that on and eased himself in on a small swell. The reason the water looked so clear from his window was because it was only shallow, a few feet deep at the most. Surprisingly the water was a little murky, but there were plenty of colourful fish and other things to look at and for winter the water was delightful. Les swam out to a big metal buoy in front of the pier, then dived up and down, getting a fish's eye view of the kids on
their boogie boards. He snorkelled around a bit more then got out and found that although he was feeling happy and relaxed as he stood with some other tourists under the showers near the railing, he was also starting to think again. There were definite things to do and get if he was going to make his week in Hawaii even more pleasant.

Back in his room, Les had a shave then changed into his jeans and a blue polo shirt, then he went back downstairs to the ABC store, where he bought some fruit juices, milk, cereal and other odds and ends to either nibble on or drink while he was in his room. Norton also bought a six-pack of Millers Dry, a bottle of Bacardi and a bottle of Grape Crush, stopping by the ice machine on his floor to fill one of the small buckets provided. Satisfied his room was now sufficiently stocked up, Les had a bottle of beer then decided it was time for a feed. The hotel restaurant-diner called the Carvery had looked okay when he walked past. Norton caught the lift down again and decided to sample it.

The Carvery was roomy, well lit and fairly crowded with well-heeled tourists from all over the world, though mainly Japanese. There was a long winding buffet stacked with salads and cold cuts, which curved around to the hot dishes, casseroles, satays, et cetera, and two chefs carving roast meats. Les got a stack of salad, roast beef, a bit of veg and a table by a window, then topped his meal off with buttered fresh bread rolls and endless coffee. The food was quite good and the waitress's smile as nice as the coffee — nice enough for Les to leave a substantial tip. A walk after the meal would have been
nice too, but the wind had come up, it wasn't all that crash hot outside and Norton figured he'd had enough exercise for the day. Les decided to go to his room, put his feet up with a cool one and mull a few things over, then maybe go out later and have a sniff around Waikiki on Sunday night.

There was a desk in the corner near the window. Les poured himself a large Bacardi and Grape Crush, sat the radio at one end, opened the mailing bag, threw the cap on his bed and spread the contents over the desk. He flicked the small ghetto blaster on and a DJ said, ‘Stereo 83. KIKI. Golden oldies and good time rock 'n' roll. Comin' at ya.'

As Chubby Checker belted out ‘The Hucklebuck', Les stared at himself in the mirror above the desk and said, You're not Hercule Poirot or Jessica bloody Fletcher. You're Les Norton. You're here on a brief holiday and this is none of your business. But something didn't gel. Something did gel, of that Les was almost certain, but something else just didn't. Norton took a lengthy sip of his drink, sat down and turned to the photos of the murdered prostitutes.

Norton stared at the closeups of the wounds and the bruising. Whoever the marine was doing the killing, he was a strong bastard all right. To drive the bayonet right in to the hilt, and do that much damage with one blow, he'd have to be. But it didn't seem to work that way. And if it did work that way the bloke was a monster.

Les shook his head and flicked through the photos while more music played, and he managed to finish his first delicious. He got up and made another. While he was up, Les got a large clasp knife from his bag, opened
it and, holding it as if it was a bayonet, stood in front of the mirror. He then made a lunge at his heart and sternum, trying to stab his reflection, the same as Mick had done back at the police station. All the stab wounds were a perfect, horizontal cut. To do that the killer would have to twist his wrist around. And also to smash the girls' bones and inflict that much bruising you'd almost break your wrist. Unless, as Les had surmised, the murderer was a monster. Maybe doing it backfist style would give you more force? Les slashed the knife across backwards. There was more power, but it was also more difficult to make a horizontal cut. And besides that, all the bruises appeared to be in the shape of a man's fist. Les tried holding the knife through his fist. That didn't seem to work either. He lunged at his reflection from another angle. But that way would go close to breaking your thumb. Les took a pull on his drink and had a look at the bruising on the girls'jaws. If the killer was as big and strong as everyone thought, he'd more than likely break their jaws or at least tear the flesh. These were almost like they'd been tapped in. Les shook his head and finished his drink. There were a lot of ifs and buts with Mr Walker. Like, what was a boofhead marine doing back at an apartment with a high-class hooker? The black scrubber maybe, but high-class ones? Les made himself another drink, folded up his knife, then sat back down. And talking about high-class hookers, he turned to the photocopies of Andriana Hazlewood.

So you're the notorious madam to the stars, are you, sweetie? Norton raised his drink to the photo of the well-dressed blonde with the smartarse smile. Despite
the sunglasses there was something there besides some unknown Aussie sheila running brothels in Hawaii. He checked what Mick had on her — just her address and the number to an answering service and not much else. Despite this, a smile crept across Norton's craggy face. There wasn't much, but what there was was enough. The photo would do.

Les stood up, moved across to the window and stared out at where the inky blue of the ocean was splashed with silver from the moon and stars. The lights of several cruise ships twinkled in the distance and it was that clear now Les could see the popping of flashbulbs coming from along the decks. This was all definitely none of his business, and any normal person would have stuck to themselves on a free trip to Hawaii, seen the sights and copped it all sweet. But? Norton raised his glass towards the dark silhouette of the mountain in the distance. Tomorrow, after he'd hired a car, Les was taking a drive out to Diamond Head and calling in on the mysterious Andriana Hazlewood for a cup of coffee. More than likely he'd get told to piss off. But if he didn't, the cup of coffee could be a hoot. So here's looking up your old address, Andriana. Or your new one. Les downed his drink and smacked his lips. Now, what to do tonight?

Norton didn't particularly want to have a late one, but a few beers in that second bar from last night wouldn't hurt and the band was good. Those two jarheads more than likely wouldn't be there and if they were they probably wouldn't recognise him. Stiff shit for them if they did. The bouncer on the door? Les couldn't see any drama there. And if there was, he'd just go somewhere else.
Les put the photocopies back in the mailer, poured himself another delicious and listened to the radio for a little while, then headed out for a couple of beers.

The weather had cleared up and Kalakau Avenue was pretty much the same as the night before: swarming tourists, mainly Japanese, noisy, would-be studs on the make, hustlers, stalls selling cheap T-shirts, cops — either on foot or driving around in tiny white mopeds — and the usual hookers who avoided Les like the plague the moment they laid eyes on him. At least now Norton knew it wasn't because of his looks. The only difference tonight was a dedicated mob of black hot gospellers, preaching to a crowd that had formed on the footpath outside Liberty House. Les had seen black gospel singers on TV and in films, but never in the flesh, and they blew him out. There was one big, happy, black man in a white shirt and tie, seated at a small, portable organ, surrounded by about six men wearing the same and six or so soberly dressed women. All they were doing was clapping their hands and singing choruses to the man on the organ, yet the rhythm and energy they generated was amazing. There was that much beat and soul in their voices you wanted to jump up and start dancing — especially if you had several stiff Bacardis pumping through your bloodstream like Les had. The big man rose from the organ and started jumping up and down and running backwards and forwards in front of his fervent, eye-rolling followers, everyone singing perfectly at the top of their voices. Then, after the applause had died down, they'd stop singing and the big man would go into his spiel praising Jesus to the skies while his followers would back him up with plenty
of ‘Oh yeah! Uh huh! Right on, brother! Hallelujah!' It was the full-on, showbiz, Bible-bashing hype, but it was great. So great, Norton almost got carried away in the arms of the Lord and wanted to join in with one from his schooldays: ‘I don't care if it rains or freezes, I am safe in the arms of Jesus. I am Jesus' little lamb. Yes by Jesus bloody Christ I am.' Then he decided the Norton religious fervour might not go over too well with the soul brothers. He stayed for another couple of songs, till the curse of the demon drink overpowered his soul, and then headed off to the bar he was looking for.

Les decided to put his head in Bison Jacksons first, mainly to get a T-shirt because he liked the one the bouncer was wearing with the goofy-looking bison on the front. There was a small crowd of blokes at the entrance, laughing and carrying on, and tonight it was a dollar entry going towards some charity. Les dropped a buck in a large tin and went upstairs.

The T-shirt and souvenir counter was closed and you could have been the ugliest woman in the world and still got yourself a man in Bison Jacksons that night. It was nearly all men, mainly jarheads, nodding and boogying drunkenly to the same band who were slowly torturing to death Deep Purple's ‘Smoke on the Water'. There wouldn't have been more than a dozen women in the place and the best sort there you wouldn't have taken to Taronga Park Zoo and fed to the yak. Oh well, thought Les. I'm here now, I may as well have the one, I s'pose. He bought a bottle of Millers and drank it near the top of the stairs. The band was woeful, the crowd very ordinary and it was smoky and boring
all round. Les downed his beer pretty quickly and left. But not before he was watched intently by two marines standing near the band, one with a fat lip, the other with a slight black eye and a bruised back. They stared at Les standing near the stairs then watched him from the windows as he crossed the street and walked into Mahias.

There was a different bouncer on the door and the girl on the till scarcely looked up as Les handed her the three dollars, went straight across to the bar and got a bottle of Millers. The place had roughly the same size and shaped crowd as the night before and there was just a friendly looking couple seated where Les had been the previous night; he pulled up a stool and sat a little down from them just as the band started. Tropical Honey were again quite enjoyable to have a cold beer to and this time Norton's view wasn't blocked by two drunken wallies. He finished his first beer, ordered another, then another, and got into the music, almost asking a fat Hawaiian girl two tables away for a dance. The beers were going down that well and Les was enjoying himself so much that at first he didn't notice about a dozen fit-looking blokes, some with wispy moustaches, slip into Mahias in ones and twos then stand casually around the bar behind him. Two stood a little further down and watched him in the mirror as they ordered beers and tequila slammers.