Running the Numbers (31 page)

“Guy could’ve come straight from some bank downtown. Like he might be the CEO or something. Suit and tie.”

“Oh, yeah, I remember him. Expensive haircut, trimmed nails, tailored slacks. As recent as they come.” Boston had spotted him twice. The first time had stopped Boston in his tracks. His heart had thudded in his chest, stupidly hoping some benevolent rich dude had discovered their operation and came to donate. Until Boston saw him chowing on one of Hani’s rice plates. The second time, Ryder hadn’t looked so fresh. His button-up was wrinkled, his slick black hair a little less slick. “What happened to him?”

Hani’s flat gaze stilled on Boston. “He got arrested last night.” A pause. “In Kalihi. I was thinking if bail is set low enough, maybe we can pull something together. Ryder’s a good dude.”

Boston checked a sigh. Hani reminded him of a spoiled wife sometimes, asking for a new car at the same time Boston was breaking his back just to pay the mortgage. He shook his head slowly. “Kalihi is bad news, man.”

Hani’s plaintive stare didn’t waver.

Boston ran a hand over his smooth cheek. Shaving. His only concession to societal niceties. He tended to get more business when clean-shaven, like facial hair was some sort of trustworthiness gauge. “I don’t know, Hani. Guy like that, maybe he developed an expensive habit—the kind of habit that takes a man to Kalihi in the middle of the night. If that’s the case, I’d just as soon not get involved.” Kalihi had no shoreline, no draw for tourists. Just a working-class neighborhood with the crime and drug problems encountered in any city. It had to go somewhere.

Hani didn’t let go. “You can’t assume nothing. We don’t even know what he was arrested for. One of the boys let me know about the arrest, but he didn’t have any other info.”

Boston hated to let Hani down but couldn’t promise the money was enough. “Let me see what I can do about the oven. Maybe I can pick up a used one. If there’s anything left, we’ll talk about what we can do for Ryder.”

Hani beamed. “You’ll come through,
haole
. That’s what you do.” He wiped his hands on the apron tied around his expansive waist and turned back to the stove.

Haole.
It had taken Boston years to get accustomed to Hani’s familiar use of the word, Hawaiians’ not-so-nice name for white people. Whether or not it had prejudice connotations depended largely on who was saying it and how. Hani used it as a term of endearment these days, but that hadn’t always been the case.

He hesitated to say it, to give Hani hope, but
maybe
… “I might be able to squeeze a little more out of Quinn.”

Hani had started sorting through a shelf of pots and pans on the far wall. He didn’t look up but raised his voice over the clunks and clangs. “Oh, yeah? How you gonna do that? Be a
real
guide after all? I got a clipboard ’round here somewhere.” He hefted a huge stainless steel pot into the sink.

Boston grinned at Hani’s doubtful expression. “Hell, no. This lady’s vacation is open-ended. No departure date is set. I got a two-week advance. If she stays longer than two weeks, I get to charge for it. The longer she stays, the more I get paid.”

“Why can’t you just tell them your rates went up? Insurance companies pull that crap all the time. Inflation, man. I’m just saying.” Hani’s innocent shrug almost made Boston laugh.

“I’m not successful because I gouge my clients. You know that.”

Hani gave the stove a frustrated kick and muttered something unintelligible and probably offensive under his breath in Hawaiian. He smoothed down a long strand of hair that had escaped from his braid. “Don’t try to sell me your credo, Boston. I think we both know why you’re so damn good at this private guide business, and it ain’t nothing to do with prices.”

Was Hani about to berate him for giving away Oahu’s local secrets to tourists? He thought they were past this.

Hani’s grin came slowly. “It’s them long, golden locks. Akela knows what I’m talking about. You’re like a Barbie doll, man. You’re so pretty it’s confusing sometimes.”

Boston refused to be baited. Hani constantly gave him a hard time about his “pretty boy” looks. Maybe he should grow a beard after all, his clients be damned. “Flattery won’t convince me to marry your sister.” It might be playing with fire to tease Hani about the mean crush Akela had on him, and the pink hibiscus tucked perpetually behind her right ear, a status symbol declaring to anyone in the know that she was both single and available. Unfortunately, Akela didn’t merely resemble Hani—they were practically identical. They even had matching braids, big thick black ones they wore straight down their backs.

He hadn’t noticed the blue speckled stovetop coffee urn sitting atop the broken stove until Hani reached for it and poured the dark contents into a mug, disgruntled. “Cold coffee, man. How do you like that? I was gonna offer you some brew, but I guess compliments are all I can afford. You’d make a terrible prince, anyway. Don’t know why I bother.”

Boston’s eye roll didn’t do the situation justice, but he didn’t have time to groan and walk away.

Hani bobbed his head like he knew what was coming. “I know, I know. You don’t believe me, but I’m telling you, brother. We’re descendants of the royal Hawaiian family. Kemahameha the Great, man. He’s my great, great, great, great something. With the conquest of O’hua in 1795, he became the founder of the Kingdom of Hawai’i. Fifteen years and a few concessions later,
bam!
You’ve got a unified country, my friend.” He poked Boston in the chest with a large, stubby finger. “Until your people showed up, anyway. I’d be living at Iolani Palace right now if it weren’t for you
haoles
.”

On an island where dialects and languages came in many flavors, Boston appreciated the universal. He flipped Hani the bird. “I have to go. Keep an eye out for the delivery guy from the appliance yard. We’ll have rice flying out of here by lunchtime.”

Hani grimaced after taking a sip of the cold half-brewed coffee. “Hey, you never said what this lady’s name is. How you gonna find her at the airport if you don’t know her name?”

Boston dug around inside the outer pocket of his frayed cargos and came up with a crumpled yellow note. He unfolded it. “Emily Buzzly-Cobb. That’s one hell of a name.”

Another grimace from his friend. “I’m starting to feel sorry for you, brother. She even sounds like a stick in the mud.”

Boston smirked. “I’ll just have to knock her loose.”

* * * *

Some places on the Web described Honolulu International Airport as the busiest U.S. airport.

Emily glanced around and doubted it. A seasoned traveler, she’d seen far worse at LAX, O’Hare, and JFK. Perhaps Hawaiians weren’t morning flyers. She checked her watch. Six hour flight plus a three hour time difference in her favor meant she’d only lost three hours.

If she didn’t calculate for jet lag.

Which she wouldn’t. She could sleep when she went back to California. On Hawaii time, it was seven in the morning. The perfect hour to begin her first official day in paradise. First, she needed to get to her room at the Hilton her sister, Quinn, had reserved for her stay.

Her completely open-ended stay.

No return ticket accompanied the surprise flight to Honolulu Quinn and her husband, Jack, had sprung on Emily out of the blue in an effort to help her escape her post-divorce funk. But that was the point—to break free of deadlines. If she wanted to go home after a week, she’d book the flight. If she wanted to stay, she’d stay. Stay and do what, who the heck knew.

Maybe forget Blake Cobb existed for a few weeks. Forget her failure as a wife and her failure to be true to herself. She should’ve never gotten involved with her sister’s ex-husband, especially knowing what she did about him. How could she be so successful in one arena of life, yet such a miserable failure where it mattered?

Usually, Emily had meetings and consultations to keep her mind from such dour reflections. The lack of a schedule and sense of urgency was like having the floor shift beneath her feet with nothing to hang on to. No tether. No one waited for her at the hotel, no one expected her at a function downtown, and no one clamored for her expertise.

Emily caught herself smiling, despite the disheartening thoughts of her ex-husband. No consultations. No meetings. No pencil skirts, panty hose, or sensible black pumps.

She glanced at her pin-striped pencil skirt and slide-on loafers.

Okay, first her hotel room. Then, a gratuitous shopping venture for a vacation wardrobe. She must’ve gone into autopilot when she dressed for the flight and wore what she always wore. She’d even taken to wearing slacks on the weekend because why buy jeans to wear one day a week? She didn’t recall if she even owned a pair anymore.

Emily stopped at the conveniently placed Starbucks kiosk outside the terminal exit and ordered a tall caramel frappe. It was downright decadent compared to the coffee she’d suffered on the plane. With her indulgent coffee in one hand and her luggage handle in the other, Emily navigated her way through swarms of travelers to a cabstand outside.

A native woman greeted Emily with a friendly welcoming smile and a lei of white, heavenly-scented flowers. She inhaled deeply and let the floral aroma take over her senses.

Her shoulders relaxed. This must be the island vibe people talked about. An ocean breeze from the west blew the fine hairs around her face into a playful dance. Even the humidity enticed her. Such rich air. So
tropical.

She came to a dead halt that nearly sent the scalding contents of her coffee flying. Without blatantly staring, Emily recovered herself and tried to get a better glimpse of the man standing near the cabstand with her name on a sign.

She double-checked the placard.

Yep. Emily Buzzly-Cobb. That was her name. Pretty unmistakable except for the time she’d gone down on a reservation list as Buzzing Cod. Or, more facetiously, the time she’d been addressed as Fuzzy Knob at a school fund-raiser with her nephew.

She regarded the man holding the sign.

Definitely homeless. His unwashed sun-streaked blond hair was a few tangles away from becoming dreadlocks, pulled back into a ponytail at the nape of his neck. His ragged red shorts were hacked off so the hem frayed around his shins, and he wore a tight-fitting faded T-shirt of indeterminable color. It might’ve been tan or even a light blue at one time. His heavy-duty black hiking sandals with tread like a tractor tire appeared to be the only thing on his person of any value.

His smooth face surprised her. Where did a homeless guy get a good shave?

And why would Quinn hire someone like this to drive her to the Hilton? The last bit of the unsettling image came from the tattoos on the man’s arms and legs. Several more on his torso were noticeable through the worn fabric of his shirt.

Emily suppressed a shudder and smoothed her hair into place. Merely examining his made her want to run a comb through hers. Luckily, he hadn’t seen her yet and wouldn’t recognize her. She made to walk past him.

He pinned her with pale blue eyes the size of half dollars. “There you are.”

Her body froze mid-stride. “Excuse me?” The flat question came out sounding like an accusation. She inwardly cringed.

The man didn’t seem fazed by her tone or dumbstruck manner. He was probably used to people reacting strangely to him. He stuck out his hand. “Emily, right? I’m Boston. Your ride.”

She took his offer of a handshake like she would any CEO’s and silently thanked God for the automatic responses her career had ingrained in her. “Boston.” This time she was careful to keep her tone neutral. “That’s an interesting name. How did you know what I looked like?”

“Quinn sent a photo.” He gave her a sort of cockeyed half-smile. Not the genuine article by a long shot, but not quite a smirk, either. A pair of aviator sunglasses kept hair from falling onto his face. He slid them back on his nose, and his cornflower blue eyes vanished behind the reflective lenses.

Cornflower?
Really? It was some nonsense Quinn might use in one of her books. Didn’t make a lick of sense. Corn didn’t grow flowers and if it did, they certainly weren’t blue. “Very thoughtful of my sister,” Emily mumbled.

At least she wasn’t the only one sending out prickly vibes. She blamed Boston’s unfriendly bearing, which she gauged by his forced smile, on her choice of attire. It gave away everything about her.

She was one of
them.

Suits. Working stiffs. Nine-to-fivers.

Otherwise known as someone who worked for a living.

She didn’t much care for him, either, which made his dislike easy to stomach. Indeed, the feeling was mutual. Emily only had to survive the ride to the Hilton, and they could dust off their hands and part ways.

Boston offered to carry her bag, and she let him. He could do something to earn his tip besides harbor barely contained displeasure with his fare.

Wordlessly, Emily followed as he guided her though two levels of the parking garage, and her thoughts turned to Quinn. How best to tell Quinn and Jack they sucked at making travel arrangements? They obviously hadn’t done their research on cab companies, or they wouldn’t have sent a homeless man to pick her up from the airport.

Eventually, Boston pointed them toward a late model white van with a simple logo pasted on the passenger door.

Wonderful. A ride in a nondescript white van with a total stranger.

Emily hadn’t realized she’d come to a halt until Boston paused one stride away from the vehicle. He made a lazy about-face with an amused grin lifting one corner of his mouth. “What’s the matter? Does my van creep you out?”

Heat flew up from her chest like a rash and spread over her face. Boston had to notice the furious blush on her pale skin, which made it worse. Didn’t he know anything about tact? “No, no. Of course not. I was, uh, admiring your company motif.”

He gave a doubtful glance at the circle drawn with
The Island Experience
printed in bold maroon script inside. “Whatever you say. You can sit up front if you prefer.”

She hitched her chin up a notch and started for the van. “I believe I would, yes. Thank you.”