Surfing Detective 00 - The Making of Murder on Molokai

Whatever the faithful inside told him, the porno buff stalked away dejected with fists thrust in his pockets like lead weights. He was upset.
Plenny
upset.
    Now by this converted theater I saw no cab and no woman who looked like she came from Boston. I surveyed the surrounding businesses: Leong’s Dry Cleaning, Taka’s Antiques, and C & K Diner, where a buck fifty buys you a Spam musubi plate lunch. Near C & K’s take-out window I spotted two more homeless men leaning on grocery carts piled high like container ships with worldly belongings, but no client.
    Unlocking the filing cabinet that displays my tarnished longboard trophy, I pulled from the bottom drawer a pair of old Levi’s I wear for dirty work and a Town & County Surf t-shirt. My soaked clothes–underwear and all–I shed into a heap on the dusty linoleum. From the back of the file drawer I reached for a moldy hand towel and dried myself, hoping the woman from Boston didn’t show while I was stark naked.
    Three taps sounded at my door.

IV: Chapter Three: Paniolo Johnny Kaluna

    I would be remiss if I did not provide at least one example of how editors can enormously improve a book. My wife, Charlene, read and commented on every draft. And Kirsten
Whatley tightened the book into its final form. The finished
product is much better because of their efforts, and those of specialist editors. Ku‘ualoha Ho‘omanawanui, Puhi Adams, Rodney Morales, and Scott Burlington, as mentioned in
the acknowledgements, played a significant role in giving
Murder on Moloka‘i
an authentic island feel. Ku‘ualoha, an Assistant Professor of English at the University of Hawai‘i at Manoa who holds the only faculty position dedicated to Hawaiian literature anywhere in the world, transformed the character of Johnny Kaluna. In chapter three when Kai meets Johnny, we are introduced to a genuine
paniolo
, or Hawaiian cowboy, who looks, speaks, and acts the part. It was not so
in the first draft, before Ku‘ualoha’s magic touch. As can be
seen in the excerpt below, the
panilolo’s
name was originally Moreno, not Kaluna, he spoke in “proper” mainland English, rather than island pidgin sprinkled with Hawaiian phrases, and though he looked like a cowboy, he lacked such island touches as a red
palaka
shirt and skin tanned reddish brown like
koa.
Notice too that Kai himself spoke in formal English, rather than responding in kind to Kaluna’s pidgin. The result was a formal and stilted exchange between the two men that Ku‘ualoha helped to make more authentic.
Mahalo!

“Mr. Moreno?” I called.
    No answer.
    I looked at my watch. It was 7:30, the time we had appointed for our meeting. I heard a vehicle and walked back outside. It was a Jeep pickup, the bed filled with hay bails. A mustached man in a cowboy hat climbed out, skin tanned deeply like cherry wood. His jeans were worn white around the thighs–not fashionable faded, but really worn. A pair of riding boots and a western shirt with pearl buttons rounded out the effect. This man looked like a
paniolo.
We stood in the mist and introduced ourselves.
    “Mr. Cooke?” He extended his right hand, his dark brown hair curling under the brim of his cowboy hat.
    “Mr. Moreno, where are your mules?” I shook his hand.
    “Gone to a west Moloka‘i ranch,” he said. “Gone until the lawyers draw up new papers.”
    “New papers?”
    “Liability waivers for our mule riders to sign.” His almond eyes looked wary. “Ever since that accident we’ve been temporarily shut down.”
    “Too bad,” I said.
    “Are you a lawyer, Mr. Cooke?”
    “No, I’m a private investigator,” I replied. “Don’t worry, my client has no interest in suing your tour company.”
    Moreno seemed relieved. “There’s not much work for me while we’re shut down, except driving to the ranch twice a day to feed and water the mules”
    “Tell me about the accident.”
    “It was the worst day of my life,” Moreno said. “The young lady, Sara, she fell about three hundred feet into a gorge. There was a doctor in the party, but he couldn’t do a thing. Not eve help Coco.”
    “Who’s Coco?
    “A mule.” Moreno’s eyes glistened. “A damn good mule. Not like him to stumble. I buried him right by the trailhead. You’ll see the wooden cross when we hike down.”
    “You buried the mule yourself?”
    “He was my favorite.” Moreno blinked, then rubbed his moist eyes. “Come on in.” He motioned me toward the barn.
    “I’ll get