The Green Room (2 page)

“No, a friend gave this to me. His cousin was in one of the meets.”

“The Eddie Aikau Big Wave Invitational? You know somebody who did that? Is he still around?”

“Sure, he runs a dive shop on Maui.”

“Cool.” Ben paused. “Hey, I'm going to be in a meet this weekend with Nahoa. You wanna come out?”

“You're in the Sunset Triple Pro? I just heard about it on the radio.” Storm did a quick reevaluation of Ben. This guy was more than a wannabe. The Sunset Triple Pro was by invitation only. “Are you seeded?”

Ben shrugged. “Fourth or fifth, since Ken died.” His shoulders sagged a little.

“You knew him?”

“Not well. He was older than I am, better established. Makes you think.”

“Yeah, I'll bet. Sure, I'd love to see the meet.”

Stephanie's expression had become even more worried during this exchange. “Call me if you come out,” Ben said.

“I will,” Storm promised, and saw them out of her office.

No wonder Stephanie looked troubled. She had a nasty ex and her only son wanted to compete in the waves that had killed his competitor.

Storm remembered the forecast for rising surf. Hadn't the announcer mentioned waves in the twelve to fifteen foot range? In the Asian-Polynesian tradition of downplaying grandness, waves in Hawai‛i are measured from the back. Consequently, when the weather service reports that waves are “breaking three to five,” experienced islanders know that the face of the wave approaches twice that.

Twelve to fifteen foot waves would be monsters, but still not the biggest of the big-time waves. Certain surf meets weren't even held until the waves were in the twenty to twenty-five foot range. Storm knew that surfers at Pe‛ahi, on Maui, had to use jet skis to get past the break zone, then catch the liquid mountains that Mother Nature devised with her winter storms. The Eddie Aikau Big Wave Invitational not only didn't take place until the waves were at least twenty feet, the contest required surfers to paddle themselves.

She never, ever wanted to be in waves that big. But it would be awesome to watch: just to feel the ground tremble under the crashing force of those rushing walls of water would be a thrill. Big wave surfers like Nahoa would be flocking to Haleiwa in droves, as if the weather report were a party invitation instead of a warning. There are a handful of places on earth where the ocean's huge waves curl in a form perfect enough to hurtle a steel-nerved athlete on the ride of a lifetime. From November to February, the north shores of the Hawaiian Islands beckon to surfers the way Everest calls to climbers.

She'd see if Hamlin would go with her. Maybe her best friend Leila and her eleven-year-old son, Robbie, would come along, too. It would be a weekend they'd talk about for months.

Chapter Two

Steve O'Reilly squinted against the oblique rays of the rising sun and hoisted his board shorts over his skinny ass to his growing waistline. The sun was just peeking over the horizon, filtering through the briny mists that blew in from the surf a few hundred yards off shore. Six forty-five and “dawn patrol” was already out, catching the glassy waves before the wind kicked up. These were the local men and women—schoolteachers, firemen, shop owners, and waiters who wanted to catch some rides before they had to be at their jobs. They probably also wanted to avoid the more aggressive crowd that rose later, who at this hour were still replenishing the energy depleted by their late partying. These were the characters of legend, the glittering barracuda that lived on the edge, both day and night.

And these were the people O'Reilly sought. In their so-low trunks, tattoos, and tiny thong bikinis, they were the photogenic icons that reminded him of the days when he was a sports announcer for a prestigious San Diego TV station. Before he had the thing with Alicia, that is. The producer tolerated a lot, including an indulgence in raves and Ecstasy. But not an affair with his younger wife.

That was seven years ago, when O'Reilly was a mere thirty-five, and he'd been on a slow but steady slide ever since. Going the same direction as his gut and thinning hair: down, down.

But life was going to change with this gig. This sport was hot, daring, and glamorous like no other professional sport. It was just coming into its own with a growing media response. Sponsors were beginning to offer huge money, and were fresh with altruism, social and environmental platitudes. Plus, his old fraternity buddy, Marty Barstow, had been a lifeguard and semi-famous surfer here some years ago. Marty still had contacts, still knew whose palms to cross for the permits and “help” required for surf contests. This was going to be big, and he wasn't just talking wave size. There were millions to be made, and compared to sports that took place in arenas, not as expensive to pull off.

O'Reilly checked his watch. In about a half hour, the aspiring pros would be rolling out of bed and into the water. Of course, the media representative he was meeting was late, even when O'Reilly had carefully explained to the doofus how to find Himalayas.

Gordon never had been known for punctuality, and he was supposed to be here at seven. It was hard to know which break was named what, and Mainlanders seemed to only remember Pipeline or Sunset. Still, O'Reilly had explained all this, told him where to park and the whole deal.

Maybe a little of what was bugging O'Reilly this morning was that Barstow had called yesterday from California, when he was supposed to be on a flight here. Marty said he was hot to make this happen, but he maintained he couldn't come until this afternoon. O'Reilly brooded on this transgression. One of Barstow's jobs was to line up sponsors, and it was a critical role.

So what if he had some big shopping center contract to sign off on, he's still gotta show me this deal is important to him. O'Reilly hadn't seen much of Marty in the last ten years, but had heard his old friend was doing well and had all kinds of contacts on the West Coast and Hawai‛i. And he was certain Barstow's competitive nature wouldn't have changed, but he wondered if he should have spent some time with the guy before asking him to come on board. Just to make sure they still saw eye to eye.

It didn't help O'Reilly's mood that the number one seeded kid for the Sunset Triple Pro, Nahoa some-weird-Hawaiian-last-name, didn't show up for their quasi-appointment last night, either. O'Reilly had planned to invite him to the meeting this morning, have him meet Gordon, but Nahoa obviously couldn't be bothered. What was on these people's minds, anyway? The surfer, who was built like a Roman god, would make quite an impression on TV. O'Reilly planned to use him as a liaison to the surfer community—the Hawaiian “voice,” so to speak. He knew the kid could talk, deal with the media. He'd seen him do it.

But the goof was apparently too provincial to realize how this would help him get endorsements. Big ones, like the credit card and cell phone companies, who could offer seven figures.

To make matters worse, the Hawaiian's girlfriend, a six-foot blonde with a Frappuccino tan and eyes the deep blue of Hanauma Bay, wouldn't even give O'Reilly a hint as to where her squeeze was. Or a smile to go with the hint. That hurt.

O'Reilly took a deep breath and tried to concentrate on the positive. Here he was, on one of the most beautiful beaches in the world, and a big swell was on the way. It was January, when winter storms pounded Hawai‛i's North Shore and ushered in waves that approached fifty, sometimes sixty feet. It was pretty damn hard to measure walls of water the size of a condominium, traveling at the speed of an F-16. Perfect for the Tow-In Contest he and Barstow had planned.

Even better, surfer Ken Matsumoto's death had amped up the media attention for these events. It was crazy how more people than ever clamored for places in the lineups for the big meets. Yup, the money was increasing, the surf was rising, he had the media contract in hand, and that dweeb from KZXM TV was finally stumbling down the beach in his Ferragamos.

Chapter Three

“Congratulations on your client.” Hamlin held up his glass of cabernet.

Storm touched his glass with hers. “It's a divorce situation, maybe even a hostile one, but I'll take it.”

“What's your read on it?”

“I can't tell if the mom and son are trying to protect each other, or if they're at odds, but I know they're not telling me the whole story yet.”

“You'll figure it out.”

“I hope so.” Storm grinned at him. “I've got a plan that will help me get to know them better. Ben is in that surf meet this Sunday, the Sunset Triple Pro. He invited us to watch.”

Hamlin's eyebrows rose with interest. “That would be fun. What time would we need to leave?”

“Maybe tomorrow around ten? I asked Leila and Robbie to come, too. Brian has to work.” Leila's boyfriend Brian was a Honolulu police detective, and he was involved in a trying case that had been going on for a few weeks.

“Where would we stay?”

“Aunt Maile and Uncle Keone have friends with a cottage at Laniakea. They've offered to let us use it.” Storm knew Hamlin thought she was related to half the population in the islands, which was a concept she didn't discourage. He enjoyed her aunt and uncle, who lived on the Big Island, and had raised Storm until she moved into Miles Hamasaki's household. Both she and Hamlin knew that the six degrees of separation people talked about on the Mainland shrank to one or two degrees in Hawai‛i.

“Are your aunt and uncle coming?” Hamlin asked.

“No, they're going to a baby lu‛au.”

Hamlin took a sip of his wine and Storm knew he was mentally reviewing his obligations for the weekend. “I'd love to see one of those meets. What's the surf prediction?”

“Big and rising.”

“Yeah?” he said, and Storm knew she had him. Hamlin wasn't a surfer, but he had been an All-American runner in college and was still a fan of most active sports, especially if he could see the event live.

Storm slipped off her shoe and ran her bare foot up his trousered leg. “Want to start our wild weekend at my place?”

His green eyes sparked candlelight from across the table and the corners of his mouth curled up beneath his bushy moustache.

***

The girl's brown knuckles glowed white against the bucking gunnels of the
wa‛a
and her short, wavy black hair flopped in time with her swooping stomach. Why had she volunteered to sit in the front, anyway, where she could see the prow climb vertically against the wall of blue, blue water, so angry she thought the canoe would be hurtled like a flimsy spear halfway to the center of the earth?

Weren't they too far from shore? It seemed like the wind, which whipped the crest of each wave into her face with the blast of a fire hose, was pushing them farther down the coastline. Why didn't Uncle Bert turn around now? They were certainly out far enough to catch some waves. That was the plan, wasn't it?

She could see right through the adults' efforts. What did they think, she was stupid? A year ago, she would have killed for this adventure, but now, with the whole neighborhood trying to console her, she would rather have slipped off alone to her secret spot in the sugar cane fields. She would puff stolen cigarettes and try to sort out her mother's death. Instead, she'd let her best friend Pua, who had seemed genuinely excited about the idea, talk her into canoe surfing.

The boat plowed through a wave, but the next crest was hidden behind the first, and the boat hit it head on, instead of on the quarter. Storm catapulted from her seat and banged her knees against the bow. Just as she scrambled back to her place, the boat rocketed down the face of another wave.

“Try bail!” shouted Uncle Bert. He dug with the paddle and gasped with exertion.

Storm grabbed the plastic bucket as it floated by at mid-calf level, though she knew it wouldn't help. Her arms and shoulders ached with the effort, but she couldn't keep up with the water coming over the gunwales. The canoe was foundering, no longer cutting through the water.

Pua looked back over her shoulder, her mouth a gaping chasm as she shouted, “Look out!”

“Jump!” Uncle Bert's voice was ragged and choked-sounding.

Storm didn't jump; she was launched. And this time, Hamlin woke her up.

“Storm, you're having a nightmare.” He stroked her damp hair from her face. “You're safe. Was it the water one, again?”

“Yeah,” Storm whispered.

He held her, and before long his breathing became deep and regular. But Storm was afraid to close her eyes, because she knew the next part of the dream lurked behind her lids, whether she was awake or asleep. Her lungs would burn just as they did that day when she was tumbled in the roiling water until she didn't know up from down, while the red hull of the overturned boat, with its broken and jagged
ama
, hovered ten feet above her head.

The dream was always the same, and her eyes burned with salt, or tears, in the effort to snatch a breath while she gasped and strained to find Pua and Bert in the white, churning surf.

Eighteen years later, she still couldn't tell anyone how she'd navigated the surging reefs from a half-mile out, except to say that she could see an animal pacing the beach. She was certain that it was
pua‛a
, the pig, her
‛aumakua
, and it appeared to paw and snort its distress as it kept vigil.

People still avoided mentioning the canoe accident; it was too painful for everyone involved. Storm had made her way through a channel in the shallowest and most treacherous reef, where the waves were so big that one of the rescue canoes capsized. None of the crowd lined up on the shore had seen a pig, or any animal, but few of the Hawaiians questioned her story. They were too busy comforting Bert's wife.

Chapter Four

The Tubin' Tanker, with its hand-painted sign and cool, cave-like interior, was a surf-enthusiast's Mecca. O'Reilly's eyes meandered over the vertically arrayed boards, which were arranged in no apparent order. Thrusters were interspersed with guns, and there was even a tanker or two in the mix. The place smelled of fiberglass resin and strong coffee. A guy could get a buzz off that blend if he wanted, O'Reilly mused.

He had some time to kill before he made the hour and a half drive to Honolulu Airport to pick up Marty. One of the young surfers he'd met this morning on the beach had told him to check out the Tubin' Tanker. The owner of the store, Mo‛o Lanipuni, was a popular surfboard shaper. This was a respected profession in the islands and could be extremely competitive, especially if the shaper was working with competitive surfers. God forbid one shaper copy another's design. Blood could flow.

O'Reilly wanted to pick out a board for his own use, but not one of the guns used for the really big waves. He figured he needed a Malibu, something in the nine foot range. They were six hundred bucks and up, so he wanted to ask Mo‛o's opinion before he shelled out the green.

The riches that would be coming in from the meet sponsors and media moguls weren't in the bank, yet. Still, he could afford to treat himself. He had to keep up the image, like with the rented house near Chun's Reef. These were the facts of business, after all. Big bucks begat big bucks.

There was a little coffee bar set up in the back of the store, and it looked to O'Reilly like Mo‛o made espresso for customers he favored. Right now, two men, a husky guy with arms the size of O'Reilly's thighs and some wizened, dark-skinned dude, were involved in an argument that seemed to have been continued from an earlier time. They ignored everyone else in the store, which meant O'Reilly and a teenaged tourist couple who had been seared to a peeling pink.

“I tell ya, damn contests going make the situation worse,” the skinny guy said.

“Not all bad, Buster,” the stocky one said. He conjured a sweating carton of half and half from someplace under the counter and splashed dollops into the chipped ceramic mugs they both held. The big guy—O'Reilly thought he must be Mo‛o because he sat behind the counter where the cream was kept—wore a ragged muscle shirt with the faded name of a surfboard on the front. He looked in his fifties, with thin gray hair pulled back into a ponytail. Though he was about five-five and two-fifty, the swell of muscle under his extra flesh was daunting.

O'Reilly guessed at his ethnicity, which was a game all islanders seemed to play with each other. Hawaiian, Caucasian, and one of the Asian races, probably. Wide face, high cheekbones, deeply tanned skin, and light gray eyes, which gave the guy a harder look than the dark-eyed wiry one, who was doing more of the complaining.

O'Reilly grabbed a couple pairs of board shorts and headed for the sheet-draped cubicle that served as a dressing room.

“Business going get bettah all over town. Wait and see,” Mo‛o said.

“Maybe bettah for you, cuz people buy surfboards an' stuff, but there's no more space to use 'em.”

“You making too much of it. Restaurants, hotels, shops all going do good.”

“You, you're shortsighted, you missing the big picture.” Buster set his cup down with a thwack. “It's anti-Hawaiian. The old ones put value on giving and sharing, not ownership. They wen' start the sport, and now it's all about money. Who gets the best beaches, the best breaks. Going get Lono all stirred up, you wait an' see.”

“You think?” Mo‛o's voice held a note of amusement. “Most words I hear you talk for long time.”

“What you think, this guy Matsumoto die from accident?”

Mo‛o's voice was no longer amused. “Matsumoto hit his head on his board, the reef, a cave, something. Can happen any time.” O'Reilly heard him take a breath. “And you shouldn't be talking about the old legends.” His voice had lowered to nearly a whisper. “You only going scare locals, not the ones you want to scare.”

“Me? Hey, at least I take responsibility. I join O‛ahu Surfing Alliance, already.”

“Fuck that.” Mo‛o's voice was hard. “What you think those whiners going do? Talk to City & County?”

“Who else will do it? Everyone knows what the Blue Shorts do, but no one will stop it.”

“What?” Mo‛o hissed.

“You know.”

O'Reilly stopped pulling on the board shorts mid-thigh. Blue Shorts? He'd heard that term somewhere before.

“You stupid bolo-head
pupule
, join some
haole
committee.” Mo‛o's voice was cold.

Buster sucked in his breath. “Not all
haole.
” His voice was defensive.

“Most.” Mo‛o's tone held a sneer. “They're
malihini
, been here a year or two, think they fuckin' own the place.”

“Not. Got surfers on it, too. Guys you know.” A cup slammed to the countertop. “But I guess you already pick your side.”

Mo‛o chuckled softly, in what sounded to O'Reilly like a conciliatory attempt to reach his friend. “Not. Come on, Buster. We been friends a long time. What surfers you talking about?”

“Ask someone else.” The door slammed.

“Shit,” Mo‛o muttered, and O'Reilly heard the coffee mugs clank together, as if Mo‛o was clearing his countertop in a hurry.