Molokai Reef (31 page)

When
the drumming stopped, the Navigator looked like it had been driven
through a golf ball dimpling machine. Somehow, the windshield was
unscathed.

A
stunned Les stepped out of the vehicle and looked up - one coconut
too soon.

58

As
Les looked up, a coconut hit above the bridge of his broken and
bandaged nose, a souvenir from Lono Harbor. Gybe lifted him by the
arms and drug his body to the beach where he propped the unconscious
man against a mound of driftwood.

From
a ready supply of discarded beer bottles, Gybe selected a 40-ouncer
and filled it with seawater.

Les
sputtered awake as Gybe dumped the second bottle of seawater.

“
Mornin’
sunshine,” Gybe gibed.

Flyn
suppressed a smile.

“
This
is my friend, Flyn. Flyn, this is Les. He is the director of
SynCorn and was Ray’s boss.”

“
Les,
tell me about the Tonto Group.” Gybe asked.

“
Fuck
off. It’s none of your business.”

While
Gybe had been awakening Les, Flyn collected crabs from the beach.
She dropped a handful of the black crabs inside the collar of Les’s
western shirt. “Tell Gybe what he wants to know.”

Les
struggled to get up but was held back by a rope looped around his
chest and tied to the fallen palm. He hadn’t noticed the rope
when he came to.

“
Sit
still. Tell me about the Tonto Group.”

Before
Les could answer, Gybe saw a Maui County cruiser stop on the highway,
flip on its blue lights, and back up to the entrance to the park.
With his rigging knife, Gybe severed the rope that held Les.

The
police officer parked the cruiser in the lot and walked to the black
Lincoln SUV. Cocking her head towards the shoulder mic, she radioed
the station and read the license plate number to the dispatcher.
Then, she walked to the beach.

The
officer flung a thumb over her shoulder and asked, “Who owns
that car?”

Les
acknowledged that it was his. Gybe and Flyn edged away from the
still recumbent Les who was squirming and wrapping his arms over his
shoulders trying to reach the crabs.

“
We
found him unconscious near the car, officer.” Flyn took over
the conversation. “We carried him here and he just came
around. I think he is OK except for that lump on his forehead.”

“
What’s
wrong with him? Why is he squirming?”

Flyn
and Gybe shrugged.

The
officer unsnapped the retaining clip and rested her left hand on the
butt of her 9mm Glock. “With one hand only, show me some ID.”

Les
started to stand but the officer drew her gun and yelled for him to
sit back down. Les stood anyway.

“
Hands
on your head, NOW.” The officer had taken a step back and
braced her gun in both hands. “Turn around.”

Les
complied. Sand poured from the bottom of his once sharply pressed
Levis as he settled his hands on top of his head.

“
Officer,
if you don’t need us, we’ll be going.” Gybe and
Flyn walked toward the bikes without waiting for an answer.

The
officer’s attention focused on Les who looked like the typical
white-man dancing as he tried to shake the sand from his pants and
the crabs from his shirt.

Les
was arguing with the officer when Gybe and Flyn mounted up and rode
along the path to the parking lot. Two more Maui Police cars left
rubber on the highway and slid into the parking lot; their blue
lights flashing with impatience and their sirens triggering adrenal,
pituitarian, and testicular hormonal releases into their
steroid-enhanced bodies.

Once
out of range of the officer, Gybe said, “Guess we will have to
schedule another meeting with him.”

They
pedaled towards town.

Flyn
and Gybe were half way down the causeway when a swarm of mopeds
surrounded them. Gybe counted eleven mopeds – seven black
ones, three silver, and one gold. Their leader rode a Harley. Queen
bee and her drones, Gybe thought.

Flyn
leaned their bicycles against the railing and watched as Makaha swung
a leg over the hog and stepped up to Gybe. The other riders
straddled their mopeds revving their engines. It sounded like a
Kathy Lee sweatshop in Bangladesh.

Gybe
balanced on the balls of his feet and readied his muscle groups.
When Makaha crossed into his personal space, Gybe held up a palm.
“Whoa buddy. That’s close enough.”

“
I
want the key for that thing you put on my brother’s nuts. I
want it now.” The chorus of mopeds revved their approval and
support. Two tried to chirp their back tires but instead killed the
small engines.

“
Don’t
have it. Wouldn’t give it to you if I did.”

Not
liking the answer, Makaha puffed up even more and stepped closer to
Gybe. “Maybe I should check your pockets in case you forgot.”

The
man was two inches taller than Gybe. Prison tattoos, one letter on
each knuckle, spelled FCUK. Another illiterate or maybe a dyslexic.
The man’s biceps had pumped some heavy iron. Makaha was solid
and mean. The gang of mopeds bolstered his ill temper.

“
Where’d
you get these guys?” Gybe nodded to the mopeds. “Shriner
dropouts? Abandoned by the circus?” From the moped colors, he
deduced that the moped support team represented the lower tiers of
the multi-level drug distribution pyramid.

One
guy removed a coil of rope looped over his shoulder and stepped to
the nearest lamppost. On the third toss, he sailed the rope over the
cross-arm and tied a slipknot in the dangling end.

The
remaining riders parked their mopeds in a semicircle, obstructing the
makai bound lane of the causeway, then dismounted.

“
I
think maybe we shake out your pockets. Remember how funny you
thought it was to hang me from the banyan tree?” His guys had
heard the story, so there was no use pretending that it hadn’t
happened. Makaha had embellished the tale. Six big men had jumped
him before stringing him from the tree. Three of them were in the
hospital, he had told his troops.

“
Hey
Pablo, show the man what you got in da jar.”

The
small Hispanic man, clearly out of place on this island, held up a
gallon jar full of fake mustaches. Odd, Gybe thought, until he
noticed they were moving. Centipedes!

Makaha
stepped forward and grabbed for Gybe’s shirt. As his hand
touched the material, Gybe heard the loud snap of bone just before
Makaha’s scream of pain.

Like
most macho men, Makaha had ignored the weak female who stood about a
yard to Gybe’s right. Flyn, who had studied martial arts as a
hobby and sometimes taught self-defense classes to college coeds, had
thrust her foot into the side of Makaha’s left knee. The joint
had snapped and it would no longer support his weight.

Makaha
screamed as his leg collapsed. Trying to ease his fall, Gybe lifted
a knee to the man’s groin. His knee supported Makaha for a
moment but then the big man went down howling.

For
several seconds, the mopeders stood silent as they watched their boss
writhe on the tarmac. Makaha didn’t know whether to grab his
k-nuts or his k-nee.

“
Kill
that bitch. Kill em both.” Makaha squealed with his new
falsetto voice. “I want em dead.”

Gybe
and Flyn exchanged glances. They could stay and fight. The odds
were eleven to two. Gybe surveyed the crowd. Like good little drug
dealers, each one wore a pair of dark sunglasses. If they were on
batu – ice, crystal meth – then they would be
unstoppable.

A
SWAT officer in Honolulu had told Gybe how it took several trained
officers to bring down a tweaker, someone high on ice. The drug gave
them superhuman strength and a feeling of invincibility.

The
bay was behind them. Flyn and Gybe could jump into the water but it
was less than four feet deep, deep enough to swim but not deep enough
to offer an advantage.

Flyn
flicked her eyes towards the harbor. Gybe heard the dopplering sound
of a small engine. Someone, Mongoose he hoped, was approaching in a
dinghy.

“
I
think maybe we string up the bitch first.” The talker was
about five six and weighed well over two hundred pounds. Like the
rest, he wore slippers and surfer shorts. His greasy muscle shirt, a
size XXXL, should have been another X or two larger.

The
group stepped forward.

Flyn
and Gybe stood side by side with their backs to the water. None of
the gang had noticed the approaching dinghy.

Gybe
grabbed Flyn as he turned and dove into the water. Several feet
away, a moped exploded, knocking five of the gang to the pavement.
Gybe and Flyn surfaced in time to see the second flare miss the
mopeds, but catch one of the mopeders in the gut. His friends ripped
off his shirt and threw him in the water. Gybe and Flyn swam towards
Mongoose’s dinghy.

No
one noticed the approaching car.

Kara
locked the brakes and slid the ’vair into a parking slot then
jumped into the dinghy as the ‘goose motored close to the pier.
The four were back aboard
Makani
before the first fire truck
arrived.

“
Nice
driving, Kara.” Flyn suggested.

“
Thanks.
Above 40 mph, that car shimmies like a lap dancer in a Honolulu
strip club. Without the wobble, I wouldn’t have left the
one-ten split.”

From
the cockpit of
Makani
they watched two patrol cars, blue
lights flashing, block traffic on the causeway. A male officer from
one car joined the female officer from the other car. They walked
around the fire truck and surveyed the debris field. The woman
looked up at the rope hanging from the lamppost. Like any good Bruce
Willis movie, the drugsters had disappeared with their wounded. The
Harley was gone.

“
Doesn’t
look like you’ll get the spare.” Gybe motioned to the
police cars.

The
officers recognized the mopeds. The female officer spoke into her
shoulder mic. Ten minutes later, a county dump truck rolled up to
the carnage. It was towing a yellow front-end loader atop a trailer.

“
I’m
starved. Got anything for lunch?” Flyn asked.

Before
the ‘goose could answer, Kara asserted. “I don’t
want to eat here.”

The
friction between Kara and the ‘goose grew more palpable with
each passing day. Mongoose had wanted to leave her on the pier, but
Gybe had convinced him to pick her up.

“
Let’s
go to the Hotel Moloka‘i.” Gybe suggested.

“
Since
Kara’s buying, fine with me.” Mongoose moved towards the
dink. “I have found some interesting stuff in Ray’s
computer files and I finally had time to look at the hard drive you
swiped from Jean’s computer.”

59

Gybe
found a moped fender buried in the thatched roof of the ’vair,
but otherwise the 60’s vintage Detroit steel was unscathed.
Kara dropped the stick into low and released the clutch. Two car
lengths later she stopped and the men got out.

Mongoose’s
signal to back up was met by a cross-eyed grimace from Kara. The men
pushed the car backwards, then reached down to retrieve something
that might once have been a skateboard with handlebars and one tire.
Gybe tossed the debris in the harbor Dumpster.

Except
for a scorch mark on the pavement and the rope hanging from the
lamppost, there was no evidence of the encounter with Makaha.
“Wonder when the boy will walk again.” Flyn mused.

Kara
parked the ’vair in the hotel parking lot. As usual, the valet
had flagged them past and pointed to the far lot. The four sleuths
walked to the Lanai Bar and settled around an outside table, shaded
by a large umbrella. Keali‘i was their server. She unloaded a
basket of chips and a bowl of salsa before dealing the menus. Gybe
introduced Flyn and re-identified the others for Keali‘i’s
benefit

“
Drinks
anyone?”

Kara
ordered a mai tai, Flyn ordered a sparkling water and the two men
requested Lavaman Red Ale.

When
she returned with the drinks, Gybe asked, “I thought you ran
out of these chips.”

“
Got
a new batch. Yesterday.”

“
The
color’s a bit different. They seem to be an even darker
green.”

“
Are
you all ready to order?” She looked to the two women.

Keali‘i
jotted down their food orders and walked towards the kitchen.

“
What
did you find on Ray’s computer?” Gybe turned to
Mongoose.

“
The
usual junk that accumulates on someone’s computer. People
should be more careful. I mean, think about it. When you die,
someone is going to go through your boat, looking in every drawer,
under every bunk. They’ll find your sex toys and porn DVDs.
It’s the same with your computer. They’ll see who you’ve
sent e-mail to, which adult sites you have surfed, what letters you
have written, etc.” He paused, then looked at each one of his
companions before staring at Gybe. “Would you want me looking
at YOUR computer today?”