Case Review, No Chaser

1953: Pondering the facts as it should be, over bourbon

As soon as I got into Kaimuki, I found my ass on a red leather
padded stool at the neighborhood bar and grill on Waialae Avenue.
I had about three hours before it was time to pick Miss Cashmere
Sweater up for our dinner discussion and I needed another drink.

The old man behind the bar knew how I liked it set up: a finger
of Four Roses bourbon in a heavy, big-mouthed old fashioned glass, no
ice, on my right and a clean ashtray on my left. Sometimes there was a
fried aku bone or some such other glorified kitchen scraps.

There was a Red Sox–Yankees game on the radio and the usual
crowd of three old guys in shirtsleeves with nothing better to do sat in a
booth contentedly gnawing away on their complimentary aku bones in
silence and draining bottles of Primo. When someone was announced to
have gotten a base hit, the short one with the missing teeth would shout,
“Son of a gun!” This was the extent of their conversation.

The whiskey was spicy and went down like fire. Did Junior Billings
really have a relationship with Millie? If he did, he might have had good
reason to lie to Jack and me about knowing her. Did he dump her into the
harbor or maybe pay someone to do it? Why? What makes anyone that
angry or desperate? That’s even if Junior was remotely involved in this.
One thing was for sure. This was a premeditated and calculated act.

Crimes of passion end in some cane field beyond Wahiawa and,
if the perpetrator’s lucky, the unfortunate victim gets consumed in the
big pre-harvest burn. In most cases, we usually end up finding the body
because the perpetrator himself confesses and points us in the right
direction. No, Detective, I didn’t mean to kill her. She made me mad and the
trigger just kind of pulled itself. I loved her. Really. I’m so sorry. Yes, I’ll take
you to her. He hangs his head in shame, tearful as the cuffs are put on.
Then comes the long, quiet ride out to the middle of nowhere and the
grisly discovery. The medical examiner’s boys pack up the stiff and take it
downtown while we take Mr. Perpetrator back to the cellblock. Reports
with carbons. Sit down with the brass and brief them so they can brief
the press. Case closed.

This case wasn’t going to be like that.

I finished the drink and tossed a shiny quarter on the bar. I’d
settle up the tab at the end of the week. Good ol’ Policeman Yoshikawa.
He’s always good for it. And he’ll keep coming back. I pulled my hat
on, snapped the brim in the front down and walked toward the door
past the three old guys listening to the game. It wasn’t live, of course.
It never was out here in the middle of the ocean. It was the bottom of
the seventh and Mickey Mantle was stepping up to the plate. It’s funny
how a bunch of grown men would bite their nails over a game that was
already won or lost hours ago. If I couldn’t see it live, just show me the
box score. I wished, and not for the first time that day, that this case
could be like that. Just show me the box score. The problem was it was
live and I was at bat. So far, I fouled one back. Strike one. Everyone was
watching. Everyone wanted The Sheik to hit one out of the park. All I
could do was stand there and wait for the next pitch.

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This was an excerpt from my first novel, Kona Winds (Bamboo Ridge Press, 2019)