Surfing Detective 02 - Wipeout

tonight?”
    I imagined her waiting for me last night in her Punchbowl duplex after stringing
lei
all day in Mrs. Fujiyama’s shop. Leimomi didn’t even phone my apartment with her innocent, slightly hurt questions, but that’s not her style. When she called my office the next morning expecting to find me in, I was sitting in a booth at Denny’s in Waikiki gazing into the violet eyes of a pregnant California blonde.
    What I had done yesterday instead of showing up for my date with Leimomi was surf. I paddled out to my favorite spot in town, offshore of the Sheraton Waikiki—the long, hollow, right-breaking walls of Populars. I rode waves until the mango-orange sun slipped into the sea. Then in twilight I strolled back to my apartment—a studio penthouse on the forty-fifth floor of the Waikiki Edgewater—and hopped into a long hot shower. By seven when I was supposed to be pulling into Leimomi’s Punchbowl duplex, I was sipping a beer in front of the Triple Crown of Surfing recap on ESPN.
    “Kai, I’m off today so I won’t see you at work. Would you call me . . . please?“ Leimomi’s voice drifted from the answering machine. I sighed.
    A second message contained the sardonic deadpan voice of my attorney friend, Tommy Woo: “Hey, Kai, how many piano players does it take to change a light bulb?”
    Another doozy. The punch line included the names of keyboard legends Bill Evans, Keith Jarrett, and Yanni, and to my tone-deaf ear made absolutely no sense. Though he practiced law, Tommy’s true passion was the jazz piano.
    “How about dinner?” continued Tommy. “Got a gig on Tuesday, but Wednesday looks good. Same old place at seven?”
    Same old place meant Ah Fook Chop Sui House on infamous River Street in Chinatown, where the best thing on the menu was the prices. If Tommy and I have anything in common, it’s being cheap.
    I erased the messages and returned to my newspaper clipping on the unfortunate Corky McDahl. “The best wave of his life . . . The way he’d want to go . . . He died with a smile on his face . . .” It all sounded so convincing—such a purposeful, happy death. Not something you could easily fake. I scanned the not-yet yellowed newsprint once again—then realized I was procrastinating.
Call Leimomi.
I picked up the phone and dialed. It rang three times, then her answering machine kicked in.
    “Sorry about last night, Leimomi . . .”
    As I began to sheepishly explain, there was a barely audible tap on my door.
    “Be right with you!” I barked through the solid mahogany, then continued speaking to the answering machine, “I’ll take you to that film. How about tomorrow night?”
    Tap. Tap. Tap.
Again at my door—this time not so faint.
    “Look, I’ll have to call you back. A customer is knocking. We’ll see that movie, I promise.”
    “Coming!” I reached for the knob and swung open the door. “Leimomi, what are you doing here?”
    Startled into abruptness, I gazed down upon her. She stood barely five feet in sandals—waist-length brown hair, mocha-colored skin, eyes glistening like black pearls. She was a Kaua‘i girl whose mixed Japanese, Chinese, and Filipino heritages blended together beautifully.
    “You don’t work today,” I said studying her innocent face for some clue. A simple black shift hanging on her slim frame revealed just a hint of the curves I knew were there. Her expression looked neither anxious nor angry, but bewildered.
    “I wondered,” she said in her quiet voice, “if anything was wrong.“
    “No, nothing is wrong. I’m sorry about last night. I know you wanted to see that movie.”
    “We can see it another time,” she said almost apologetically, as if the missed date were
her
fault. I suddenly felt more guilty than if she had given me the verbal thrashing I deserved.
    “I know we can see that movie another time,” I uttered abjectly, “but today was your day off and all, and we had planned to spend some time together last night . . .”
    “So you still love me then?” She peered into my eyes with those glistening pearls.
    “Of course.”
    “And everything is all right between us?”
    “Everything is fine.”
    “Good, because I worried last night . . . I worried that after all we’ve shared you really didn’t love me.”
    “Why are you so worried?”
    “We need to talk, Kai. But . . .” she hesitated.
    “Is something wrong?” I was becoming more than curious.
    “Tomorrow night would be better.” She lowered her dark