Surfing Detective 02 - Wipeout

trails head
mauka
every mile or so along the beach. They’re full of
kiawe
thickets and out of our way, but they may be our
only
way.”
    Maya nodded and we took off down the beach, away from the lights.
    About a mile beyond the wrecked ship, we came to a sandy trail twisting up several miles toward Lanai’s City. It didn’t make sense to go back to the room now, where Sun’s men would be waiting for us. It’d be better to push ahead and try to get off this island. It was now two a.m. We had miles to go before dawn
.
And the twin beams kept coming.
    We took the
make
trail.

    Hours later, in the distance, we saw a faint flickering. Lana‘i City. The moon in the west was setting over the tranquil sea, while the eastern sky behind us was turning the color of a blushing peach.
Morning.
    No more roving beams. No head lamps. Had we shaken them?
    The twinkling village lights stretched out before us in a luminous grid. Cottage windows of early risers glowed pale yellow against the brighter checkerboard of streetlights. We headed for one of those cottages, the home of Angel Figuiera.
    Tin-roofed plantation dwellings with postage stamp-sized lawns lined ‘Ilima Street in colors that, even under glaring street lights, looked wild: lemon yellow, cinnamon red, cornflower blue. Evidence of family life abounded: boogie boards, bicycles with training wheels, barbecues, toy Jeeps, Igloo coolers. A puppy whined. A lone rooster crowed. Hard to believe that among this reassuring domesticity a drug lord might be lurking.
    Most cottages didn’t have legible numbers, but from the few that did, we seemed to be moving in the right direction. There it was—“537” affixed to a lavender cottage with a rust-freckled GMC truck occupying the lawn.
    Five in the morning is a strange time to knock at someone’s door. We had little choice.
    A short, wiry old man appeared in a white chef’s apron contrasting his wrinkled, raisin-brown skin. He must have lived seventy years, maybe more, under the tropic sun. Despite his weathered appearance, Angel Figuiera’s lively eyes sparkled like an excited boy’s.
    “Mr. Figuiera? I’m a friend of Rad from O‘ahu—Kai Cooke.”
    “Eh, Kai, Catalina been tol’ me you call.” Out came his sunny smile and his pidgin.
    “Sorry we come so early.” I shifted to pidgin too. “Dis my frien’ Maya. We get some kine
pilikia.
Can help us out, or what?”
    “Shoots . . . .” The old man smiled.
    “We need catch da first boat to Lahaina from Manele Bay dis morning, so dat . . . ,” I hesitated, “so dat nobody see us.“
    “No need explain. You n’ Maya come wit’ me to Manele Bay Hotel. I work dere.“
    “You go to work soon?”
    “Yeah, right now in da truck.” He waved toward the GMC. “Climb in da back, in da shell. Nobody see you in dere.”
    I was grateful for local-style hospitality. No need to explain motive, however bizarre, even shady. After our nightlong hike, I had little energy to spin a yarn about what we’d been through, or what we might face ahead. Sometimes mysteries are best left that way.

    Angel’s pickup rattled through the few blocks of Lana‘i City, then turned down Highway 44, the two lane blacktop also known as “Manele Road” that ran about five unswerving miles, then began to weave as it approached the cliffs of Manele Bay.
    “Da boat to Maui no leave ‘til eight in da morning,” Angel said through the sliding window between the cab and the shell.
    “Dat’s O.K.,” I said.
    “Da harbor jus’ one short walk from Manele Bay,” Angel explained. “You like come to da hotel?”
    “You sure no problem?” I asked.
    “Nah, I take you through da kitchen. I’m one
Preparation Chef,”
Angel said in formal English, pronouncing each syllable of his title carefully. “I prepare da pineapples and papaya and mango for da guests’ breakfas’—lunch too. I experience’ wit’ pineapple,” Angel laughed. “T’irty years in da pineapple fields—I pick ‘em. Now in da resort, I slice ‘em. I da ‘pineapple man.’”
    As Angel approached the cliffs, Maya gazed longing at Manele Bay, dead ahead in the gauzy twilight.
    “Over dere, dat’s da resort where I work now,” Angel said. “Job mo’ easier, mo’ bettah pay. Go figgah.“
    The Manele Bay Hotel spread its meandering Mediterranean-tiled wings around the sheltered bay where dolphins are known to play and
malahinis
bake in the tropic sun. Unlike the cool Lodge at Koele, this oceanfront resort