BooksBarbecue
Back The Preserve
Chapters (56)
  1. Front Cover
  2. Half-Title Page
  3. Title Page
  4. Copyright Page
  5. AUTHOR’S NOTE
  6. 1.
  7. 2.
  8. 3.
  9. 4.
  10. 5.
  11. 6.
  12. 7.
  13. 8.
  14. 9.
  15. 10.
  16. 11.
  17. 12.
  18. 13.
  19. 14.
  20. 15.
  21. 16.
  22. 17.
  23. 18.
  24. 19.
  25. 20.
  26. 21.
  27. 22.
  28. 23.
  29. 24.
  30. 25.
  31. 26.
  32. 27.
  33. 28.
  34. 29.
  35. 30.
  36. 31.
  37. 32.
  38. 33.
  39. 34.
  40. 35.
  41. 36.
  42. 37.
  43. 38.
  44. 39.
  45. 40.
  46. 41.
  47. 42.
  48. 43.
  49. 44.
  50. 45.
  51. 46.
  52. 47.
  53. 48.
  54. EPILOGUE
  55. AFTERWORD
  56. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

“I know. You don’t think I know that?”

Frankie sucked on the paka and handed it back to her.

“Where you think you’re going?” she said. “Somewhere they don’t own you? Pshaw.” She waved at smoke.

Frankie leaned forward. “They don’t own me.”

“That’s what you think.”

“I have things they need. I always have. You just have things that they use.”

“Such as?”

“One washout by the name of Charlie Selfer.”

She flinched but kept it inside. Frankie was just trying to spook her. That was his game, how he found out things—start a fire and see who and what came running out.

“Maybe I’m only hunting,” she said. “Maybe I’m the one doing the using.”

“Maybe.”

They eyed each other.

Frankie lay back on the chaise again. He folded his arms behind his head, his elbows knocking against the wall. “By the way,” he said, “it’s ‘Francisco’ now.”

She pretended to fight a chuckle.

“Laugh all you want. But listen up too and good.” His arm was so long, he reached over and touched her chin from there. “It’s not for the taking,” he said.

“What’s not?”

“What we just talked about. What’s being stored here.” He pointed downward, underground. “Not any of it.”

She sat up. “You mean, you’re here to protect it? Not to take it?”

“That’s what I mean.”

She wanted to spit at him, but she swallowed it back down.

“Yep, that Selfer’s a loser of a haole,” he said. “Mister Lansdale, now he’s the future.”

All she could do was growl. She snatched up the origami and lighter off the little table and shoved them into her pockets.

“And stay clear of that Wendell Lett,” Frankie added. “That one’s on thinner ice. His days are numbered. Maybe he gonna get dirty lickens.”

Lickens was a beating. Dirty was worse. Her stomach tightened up, that sharp chill bit her again. She could only shake her head. “Numbered?”

“Tita, you better stick with me,” he told her. “I gonna give you this one chance. You’re smart. I see that. You show me that.”

She eyed him, sideways, adding the slightest roll of her eyes.

“Me, I’m gonna make the right kine moves,” Frankie said. “Uku plenty.”

“How so?”

“One day, they’re gonna leave this place. They’ll give it back to us. And that leaves me in charge.”

He was holding the last of that pakalolo reefer pinched between thumb and forefinger. He handed it over.

Kanani’s throat filled with the paka smoke and this time she didn’t cough. She let it burn. “Bruddah,” she said, “I got one story for you. They never give back what they take. Not ever.”

30.