Molokai Reef (34 page)

“
Where’s
‘goose?”

“
Not
sure. He and some wahine took the dinghy ashore. They got in a
noisy old car with a thatched roof and drove towards town.”

A
friend of Keali‘i appeared and soon dragged her away from Gybe.
Odd man out. Gybe walked about the schooner, mingling with the
partiers. He saw the girl that he had swum home with from the last
party. What was her name? Before he pulled a brain tendon trying to
remember, he heard the ’vair on the causeway.

At
the dinghy dock, he watched Mongoose and a sarong-clad native girl
wrestle three bags in the boat. The ‘goose parked the car then
returned to the dink. The girl had started the motor and as soon as
he stepped in, he cast off the line. She drove the dink back to
Makani
.

Gybe
stood amidships on the starboard side while she silenced the outboard
and drifted alongside.

“
Take
this.” The girl handed up the first bag. “Be careful,
they’re fragile.”

Captain
Cook Coffee Co. Ltd. was stenciled in a diamond shape on the
gunnysack. Beneath the logo, Gybe read Net Wt. 100 Lbs. He braced
himself while marveling at the strength of the petite wahine.

Gybe
grabbed the bag with both hands and stumbled backwards with the
unexpected weight. The burlap bag weighed no more than ten pounds.

Mongoose
laughed. “Chips. More chips.” Then he handed Gybe the
remaining bags.

“
Damn
‘goose. Got enough chips? Where’s the keg of salsa?”

Parties
aboard
Makani
were boisterous, unpredictable, and loud.
Anyone who had attended one never hesitated to accept the next
invitation. Mongoose provided the platform – the schooner -
and started the festivities with good music through a sound system
that included four sets of speakers – one set below deck,
another set on each mast, and a set in the cockpit. With a custom
built remote control, the ‘goose could select from over five
thousand music tracks stored on hard drives, as well as, balance the
entire sound system.

For
refreshments, he had converted a locker originally designed to hold
sails into a cold storage unit capable of chilling two regular-size
beer kegs and one pony key. The taps were mounted on the aft
bulkhead of the galley. When he invited people to his parties, he
asked them to bring their own drinks. Many did, some didn’t.
Mongoose didn’t care.

Flyn,
Keali‘i who had dumped her friend, Mongoose with his latest
squeeze, and Gybe sat in the cockpit, sipped drinks, and crunched
chips. An impromptu band had formed on the foredeck. Mongoose
lifted the control, hanging from the binnacle, and killed the sound
system.

“
Why
is your boat named
Makani
?” asked his wahine as she
draped a bare leg across ‘goose’s lap.

“
Makani
means wind or breeze. You’re Hawaiian, you should know that.”

“
I
do. But, why did you name it that?”

“
Because
I blow with the wind. No roots. I’m adrift in the cosmos,
adrift upon the oceans, just blowing in the wind.”

“
Profound,”
replied Flyn hoping to stifle Mongoose’s motion towards song.

Keali‘i
chuckled and tried to cover her laughter behind her drink.

As
usual, Bill sat on the binnacle holding a fat doobie. He passed it
to Keali‘i.

“
What’s
so funny Keali‘i? Too much wacky-backy?” Gybe asked.

Giggling,
Keali‘i answered. “Besides wind or breeze,
Makani
also means to break wind.” She took a deep hit, then
passed the doobie back to Bill.

Bill
leaned over to grasp the joint in his beak and fell off his perch.
“Oh baby, primo buds.” Bill tried to stand, but he
couldn’t keep his legs beneath him. Even a drunk couldn’t
fall off the floor. Bill remained on his back on the cockpit floor.
The giggling Keali‘i fell over into Gybe’s lap.

62

Mongoose
steered his dinghy to the stern of
Ferrity
and climbed aboard.
“I heard from the mainland.”

“
You
heard from the guy that we FedExed the corn plant to?”

“
Yeah.
The preliminary tests on the plant confirmed his suspicions from the
documents.”

“
Let
me guess. Jean and Ray created a strain of midget corn with yields
several times normal? Only one problem – the kernels are
green!”

The
‘goose smiled. “True. That is one conclusion. You and
I have seen that.”

As
was often the case with Mongoose, he parceled out information like an
old man dribbling his corn flakes.

“
There’s
more, isn’t there?”

“
I’m
mighty dry. Got any brews aboard this barge?”

Kara,
who had been reading on the bow, stepped into the cockpit and heard
the request. Gybe shrugged and Kara continued below. She returned
with three cold Lavaman ales and sat next to Gybe across from the
‘goose.

“
If
I weren’t rich, I would be.” He teased.

“
Goose,
if you don’t want me to pop those eyes out of your
mongoose-like face like I’d pop a two-day old pimple, you’d
better start talking.”

Mongoose
grumbled something about humor, took a deep pull from the bottle, and
told the story.

Developing
a high-yield, efficient variety of corn had not been the goal of the
murdered Jean and Ray. Their goal, which they attained, was to
transfer the THC producing genes from the cannabis plant to corn.
The corn kernels tested between eight and twelve percent potency for
the good stuff.

Mongoose
paused to let the news soak in.

“
Don’t
you see? The market for the corn would be astro-fucking-nomical.
Instead of all the secret marijuana plots in Marin county or British
Columbia or hidden across these islands, recreational users could
grow it in their own gardens and greenhouses. Think Alice B. Toklas
brownies – anything made with the corn could give you a buzz.”

“
Wow!
But, the problem was the forest green kernels?”

“
No.
My buddy doesn’t think so. He thinks they made the kernels
green so they could control the experiment. According to him, Ray
could modify the next generation to the more common white or yellow.”

No
one spoke for several minutes as each shuffled through the
possibilities.

Kara
spoke first. “Do you think they were killed because of this?”

To
Gybe, it all made sense. Secretly, the two researchers had produced
the caramel corn. Maybe the rumored offer of hashish to the drug
brothers was really an offer of corn.

“
Do
you think the drug brothers are involved?” Mongoose asked.

“
Nah.
They’re too stupid. They are efficient in the distribution
and control of the pakalolo market, but I don’t see them as
farmers or visionaries or market makers. Besides, once these kernels
become available to everyone, the pakalolo market is gone. I mean,
the kernels are fertile – aren’t they?”

“
Yes.
All you have to do is save some of this year’s crop and
replant it next year. Beautiful, just beautiful.” Mongoose’s
eyes widened and darted about like a weasel in a hen house.

“
Then
maybe the drug dealers killed them to stop the corn.” Kara
suggested.

“
If
they did, then that confirms their stupidity. Killed the victims and
left behind a greenhouse full of fertile corn.” Gybe replied.
“No, I think we need to look for someone else.”

The
three turned as Flyn brought her dinghy alongside. Once in the
cockpit, Gybe summarized the recent discovery.

“
Les.”
She said.

“
What
about Les?” Kara asked.

Gybe
was ahead of the answer. Of course, SynCorn had received two million
dollars from the Bahamas via a Swiss bank account. Flyn’s
friend had sailed from Eleuthera to Freeport where she bribed,
although cash wasn’t the incentive, a bank official. The two
million dollars came from Columbia. When Flyn revealed this to Gybe,
they decided that the money was most likely drug related. There was
no purpose in pursuing the source further.

Gybe
answered. “Remember SynCorn received the two million dollars
six months ago? That money likely came from the illegal drug trade.
Either the drug barons wanted the corn – unlikely since the
greenhouse was untouched – or, they wanted the researchers
stopped.”

Of
all the theories they had batted around over the past week, this one
made the most sense. Kara retrieved another round of drinks as the
discussion continued.

The
sun had fallen to within an hour of the big splash in the ocean. It
was too late in the day to go after Les now. Flyn saw a fisherman
return in a small boat. She excused herself, hopped in the dinghy,
and buzzed ashore. Fifteen minutes later she returned and handed
four thick mahimahi steaks to Gybe. “Fire up the barby, baby.”

63

While
enjoying the fresh fish steaks the night before, they had decided
that Flyn and Gybe would drive to SynCorn this morning and confront
Les. Kara wanted to go, but Gybe firmly refused her offer. In a
pout, she spent the night at Susan’s house. Though he
occasionally lost his teeth in barroom brawls, the ‘goose was a
non-violent person. He did not ask to go. But in honor of the
event, he wore crystal clear teeth. In the left one, Gybe could make
out a dollar sign. The right tooth contained a leaf of either the
Canadian maple or a marijuana plant.

At
SynCorn, Gybe parked the ’vair in a slot angled steeply uphill
before he and Flyn entered the reception area. The once friendly
receptionist told them that Dr. Spooner was in a conference and could
not be disturbed. The conference would last all day.

Flyn
followed Gybe through the door as he ignored the receptionist and
walked into the director’s office. Inside, they found Les
fellating a fat stogie with his feet propped up on the desk. If Gybe
could have read smoke signals, he might have seen that the stogie was
signaling an imminent attack. Les’s nose was heavily bandaged
as a result of the Lono experience. Two blackened eyes complimented
the bulbous nose.

“
You
are one rude sum bitch Gybe. I’ll have you and the bitch
arrested.” Les leaned forward and punched the intercom button.

“
While
we wait for the police, tell me about caramel corn. Then we can talk
about the Tonto Group.”

Sensing
no bluff, Les squawked “never mind” to the receptionist
as he released the intercom button.

Les
stood and started around the desk. “I’ll throw you and
that bitch out myself.”

Once
again, the testosterone underestimated the estrogen, Gybe thought.
Les hadn’t spoken to Makaha of shattered knee fame. Flyn would
be ready, stoked by the epithet tossed her direction.

As
Les rounded the desk, he spun around and plucked the spear gun from
behind the corn plant. In one motion, he nocked the spear and
pointed it towards them.

“
Step
away from the door.”

“
You
got one shot Les. One of us will get you.”

“
Move.
Now.” He aimed the spear at Flyn’s starboard nipple.
“The question is Gybe, will you come after me or will you try
to save your girlfriend with the perforated lung?”

Les
closed the door behind him as he left his office. A futile effort,
since like most offices, there was no way to lock the door from the
outside.

Gybe
waited for a couple counts, then squatted down and cracked open the
door. Les had taken only one spear. Gybe didn’t want to see
that shot. The hall was empty.

Behind
him, Flyn shouted from the window. “Les is headed out in the
Navigator.”

Racing
from the office, Flyn blocked the receptionist, knocking her on her
butt, before following Gybe out the door.

Gybe
jumped in the ’vair and released the brake to start the
backward roll while he started the engine. The impatient Flyn leaned
against the hood and pushed hard. The engine caught as Gybe cranked
the wheel to the left. Flyn jumped in and the ’vair chirped
out of the lot. Must have been the backward momentum, Gybe thought,
as he mashed the accelerator.

“
Looks
like he’s headed for the pier.” Flyn yelled. “He
doesn’t know that the ferry won’t leave until this
afternoon.”

“
Or
he’s got a boat.”

Gybe
locked both hands to the wheel as the floor-boarded engine pegged the
speedometer at 47 mph. The car vibrated like an Egyptian belly
dancer’s navel ring.

Halfway
down the causeway, Flyn pointed to the dimpled SUV parked by the boat
ramp. A blue four by four Dodge Ram pickup was backing down the ramp
preparing to launch a new WaveRunner FX. By the time Gybe and Flyn
jumped from the ’vair, Les was astride the jetski. He was
attempting to start it as the personal watercraft drifted away from
the ramp.

Gybe
headed for his dinghy. “Call the cops.”