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

He was glaring at Kanani.

She jerked her head back. “What? You’re scaring me.”

“Aren’t you forgetting something?”

“Eh? No, no, I’m not.”

“You never asked me what the cargo is. The shipment to Hilo. Because you know. It’s gold, isn’t it? Gold that broke a sturdy loading cart. That’s your angle. You get in here, nab some, get out again, you’re gone. Your friend Miss Mae tipped you off to it.”

She held up her hands. She made that sound she did with her lips, like a balloon sputtering air.

“But now Frankie is after it, too,” Lett said.

She stared at the treetops a while. She pulled out her gold lighter finally and flipped it between fingers. “I’m afraid it’s more than that, Wendell. There’s always more to it with Frankie. He must be after everything, here to win the whole pot, or he wouldn’t be here at all.”

13.

Kanani had seen a man wearing a kimono before, but that outfit was the plain male version. This getup before her now was a shiny garment, pink and blue and floral all over. Kanani had also seen men in makeup. In a certain haunt of Honolulu, down a narrow alley lined with wooden fire escapes, one could find nice and fun fellows wearing a little rouge or lipstick or mascara even. But those guys were never this guy. This guy’s face had a stark white base with red lipstick and red-and-black highlighting around the eyes. The red circles on his cheeks were supposed to be blush, she guessed. And the black geisha wig he’d slapped onto his head was such a cheapie.

She could stare at him like this because the man was out cold, his head turned her way. He lay on the chaise in the boogie house where Selfer had set her up. He was still breathing, luckily, hot air pulsing from his nostrils. It reeked like the whisky they were drinking.

He had showed up, alone, and his faint knock on the door proved to be the only formality he’d shown. He was smoking one of those Filipino cigars and was already drunk. She had widened her smile and bowed and ushered him in with a sweeping gesture. Once inside, he had kicked his thick sandals off and plopped into the chairs. He kept grunting at her. He was no bulahead and certainly no kotonk—the guy was straight Japanese, and straight off the boat or plane. But she was guessing it was the boat arriving Hilo Side that Wendell Lett told her about.