Surfing Detective 00 - The Making of Murder on Molokai

Hawaiian soul. Truth is, she was one quarter Hawaiian, which makes me only one eighth.
    So that Souza wouldn’t get instantly suspicious, I folded and slipped the envelope containing the affidavit into my back pocket.
    “‘Morning,” a sun-burned crewman said, mopping the deck of a spotless cabin cruiser.
    “Howz’it?” I smiled and walked on. Beneath my feet that lime green sea lapped between planks in the dock. Sleek sailboats and motor yachts graced the countless slips.
    Striding across the dock planks I wondered what Harry had said that Boston woman’s name was. His message on my answering machine had been vague about why he referred her. Though I would have rather spent the morning surfing three footers in Waikiki, I began to feel curious about this potential case. I don’t get many clients from Boston.
    The closer I got to Souza’s listing craft, the worse it looked by comparison to its pristine neighbors. Soon I was standing near the two portholes that had appeared pitch black from my car. Now they were transparent. I caught a glimpse of the girl, who bore faint resemblance to her photo as prom queen. She wore only bikini panties and a sheer nightgown that stopped half way down her thighs. She was reed thin with little upturned breasts. The rounded bulge in her tummy confirmed what her high school friend had confided.
    Behind the girl I saw the dark, whiskered man slipping on soiled denims and a black t-shirt with sleeves ripped out. Flecks of yellow-grey riddled his patchy beard and oily hair.
    Scum.
That’s what flashed through my mind when I laid eyes on this cradle-robbing deadbeat. Even if Mrs. Souza could pay me nothing (a distinct possibility), I would relish busting up his scuzzy little boat party.
    Since neither the girl nor Souza seemed in any hurry to leave their tiny cabin, I had to do something soon or stand up the woman from Boston.
    The
Hokulani’s s
loping aft deck offering neither boarding plank nor ladder, I climbed aboard over a gunwale onto the badly caulked teak. Two fishing poles mounted in chocks on either side of the stern had lines out in the water. One pole bobbed. On deck lay a long, hooked gaffe. The gaffe gleamed in the sun the like chrome bumper of my Impala and looked razor sharp.
    I tapped on the cabin door. No answer. Though I’m a veteran at serving papers, a few butterflies fluttered in my stomach. I wouldn’t exactly call this fear, just adrenaline. I knocked on Souza’s door again.
    Silence in the cabin.
    “Hello!” I announced in perfect mainland English. “You’ve got a nibble on one of your lines.”
    The door opened and Souza swaggered out. He looked grubbier than his photo and he smelled rank, like stale sardines. A jagged scar, not visible in the snapshot, slanted up over his left eyebrow like a bent apostrophe. He’d been in a few
beefs,
all right. But despite my butterflies, he didn’t scare me. I could handle him, though laying him out wasn’t part of my job.
    “Eh, brah!” Souza snarled. “What you doin’ on my boat?”
    “So sorry,” I replied like a high-toned yachtsman. “Thought you might have a bite.”
    He eyed me suspiciously. The bobbing pole went slack. Souza had lost his fish.
    “What do you catch in this harbor?” I pointed to the murky, lime-green water.
    “K
o
kala–
Puffer Fish,” he replied grudgingly. “Why you like know?”
    I glanced on deck again at that gleaming, razor-sharp gaffe.
    “Bettah get off da boat, eh?” Souza said. “My insurance no cover you.” He turned toward the cabin.
    “Another nibble!” I shouted. When he looked back at his poles I reached into my pocket and put the envelope in his hands.
    “What dis, brah?” His coal eyes smoldered.
    I glanced toward the dock, mapping my escape. Instinctively, my knees bent and my feet shifted, ready to jump. Once Souza saw the manila envelope he knew.
    “Fuckah!”
he shouted.
“You Fuckah!”
He dropped the envelope on the deck and, sure enough, grabbed that vicious looking gaffe.
    Before I could leap onto the dock, he swung the gaffe. The fastest way out was over the stern.
Bail out, brah! Bail!
    I dove down into the murky harbor as far from the boat as I could. But the gaffe came flying in after me, catching my right ankle. A sharp pain shot up my leg. I struggled under water, my polo shirt clinging like a wet blanket. My new Raybans sank into the murk. I kicked off my zoris and swam beneath the surface as long as my breath would hold. Behind