Iced in Paradise Read online

  Neither one of us says much as we travel up to the North Shore. I still feel raw from my argument with my parents. What do you want, Leilani? That’s a question that I still can’t answer. All I know is that things can’t continue the way they have been.

  I roll down the window and feel the salt air run through my hair. Only nature can heal me right now. “Why did you decide to buy land in Waimea?” I ask Sean. “You probably could have bought something on the North Shore or Po‘īpu.”

  “Yeah, I looked at Hanalei Bay and other parts of the North Shore, but I think I prefer Waimea. It’s drier. Less touristy. And, of course, there’s the Canyon.”

  The Canyon. The artery of the island, in my book.

  “You’ve lived in Waimea your whole life?”

  “I actually was in Seattle for five years. I went to UW for a couple of years but never finished.”

  “I was wondering about all the Husky garb.”

  “Yah, I’m a bit of a nerd.” Getting into UW is actually my biggest accomplishment; not graduating is my biggest failure. “How about you? Where did you go to college?”

  “A place called Caltech.”

  “That’s where the Big Bang Theory guys work! Pasadena, right?”

  Sean looks a bit sheepish, and I realize that I’ve gone fangirl over a network TV show. So uncool. “Sorry, I know that’s all pretend. So after that, you moved back to Sunnyvale?”

  “My friend and I launched a start-up in my parents’ garage. It kind of exploded after that.”

  It must have for Sean to practically retire in his twenties.

  “So it’s okay for your parents for you to move so far from them?”

  “My sister’s nearby. And she has twins. They have their hands full. I was actually close to my grandfather. He died earlier this year. He was the original Nazi hunter.”

  I roll up the window so I can clearly hear what Sean says next.

  “He was in a Polish death camp during World War II. It was a miracle that he survived.”

  “Oh my God. That’s so heavy, Sean.” No wonder he’s obsessed with what happened so many decades ago.

  “He was only a kid, the only survivor in his whole family. Other people helped him out, and he was able to move to the United States. He eventually became a reference librarian.”

  “That’s why you’re into books!”

  “He started using his research skills to help these Jewish groups find Nazis who had escaped to other countries like the US. I figure the one last thing I can do in his honor is find this guy who is hiding out in Hawai‘i.”

  My respect for Sean expands. Maybe he will make good on his promise not to tear down Waimea Junction and make it into a resort or some other redevelopment project.

  In less than an hour, Sean’s navigation app has brought us to Bamboo Royal. We get out of the van. There are only a few cars parked in the lot, and I wonder if Celia and Rex are still here.

  “Wow, it’s so gorgeous,” Sean says as he takes some photos with his phone.

  I lift up my head and listen as the wind kicks up. “It’s like the ole sugarcane fields are talkin’ to us, eh?” I turn and see that Sean has aimed his camera phone toward me. “What are you doin’? Don’t take a photo of me!”

  He switches his focus to the Japanese pagoda.

  “You’ve never been inside Bamboo Royal?”

  Sean shakes his head. “Been meaning to. It’s been written up in so many travel blogs.”

  I glance at the small opening in the fallow sugar fields. “I hate to say this because you’ve driven me all the way here, but can I meet these folks on my own? I think they’ll be more open—”

  “No, I get it. I’ll be walking around, taking pictures.”

  I’m glad that I haven’t offended him and make my way through the fields into the clearing that Sophie had discovered. As soon as I step into it, the giant Patsy emerges, this time with a huge conch shell.

  “I don’t have time to mess around, Miss Patsy. I gotta talk to your girlfriend. It’s important.”

  Patsy checks me out from head to toe. “Oh, you’re the girl who was arrested with us.”

  “You also ran me and my little sister off this land before that.”

  “I didn’t recognize you without the little one. You know, she may have a future in entertainment. Great bone structure.”

  That’s the last thing that Sophie needs to hear. She already thinks she’ll meet and marry Jimin—the performer, not the rooster—some day.

  “Follow me.”

  I walk behind Patsy through a narrow path, the sugarcane leaves whipping at my cheeks. I start having second thoughts. Maybe I should have had Sean accompany me.

  Finally, we reach a bare hill that is mostly dirt. Three pop-up tents are lined up next to one another with two larger sleeping tents pitched on another side. Underneath the pop-ups is a long table with a portable propane gas stove. Bottles of beer and a carton of soy milk float amid a giant melting ice block in a metal tub. A cord, tied from one end of the tent to another, supports a line of laundry, mostly T-shirts and shorts, but also a couple of panties. Based on their size, they are probably Patsy’s.

  “Alice, we have a visitor.”

  The middle-aged redheaded woman I spoke to in jail steps out of one of the tents. She’s wearing a pink tank top and matching shorts. I now see a strip of white along the roots of her part. I guess it’s hard to maintain your dye job in the middle of nowhere. “Oh, you,” she says.

  “Leilani Santiago,” I extend my hand. “We spoke in jail.”

  “I remember. Alice Lindquist.” We shake hands and Alice offers me a seat on a fabric collapsible camping chair. She gets comfortable in a matching one.

  Once I sit down, Patsy slips an ice-cold beer into my chair’s cup holder.

  “Maybe a little too early for that,” I say but agree to a glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice instead. “How long have you been living this way?”

  “Three months, but it seems forever.” Alice says “forever” in a good way. “The rat race of Los Angeles was killing us. The traffic, the pollution. We prefer this downsized life. I can actually breathe. See the stars. Walk to the beach. When I’m here on my ancestor’s land, I feel at home.”

  As if on cue, a strong breeze wafts through this sandy hill. I can see the ocean on the horizon. Patsy, meanwhile, squeezes the oranges with her bare hands at the picnic table.

  “Did you see Taylor Ogura’s story on Wynn Hightower?” I ask Alice.

  “Oh, everyone’s been texting us about that. I think it will help with the resistance.” Alice talks as if she’s in a reallife Hunger Games world.

  The old sugarcane plants rustle for a bit until the bruddah who I saw at the protest emerges. He wears a yellow tank top and a bandanna around his neck. His face and clothing are streaked with sweat.

  Alice makes the introduction. “This is Pono Akau. He’s been leading the resistance.”

  “She’s the one who got arrested first at Hightower’s hotel in Po‘ipū,” Patsy explains as she places a glass with orange juice in my chair’s cup holder.

  He presses his forehead into mine and breathes out a ceremonial “ha” to give me a proper greeting among warriors, and I feel like a fraud. More than the ‘āina, the land, I care about my father.

  “Yes, we need more sistahs like you out dea.”

  “I’ve seen you on YouTube,” I tell him.

  “Been fighting dis ting for years. Last year it was burial sites around here.” The fluffy tops of the sugarcane plants nod in the wind. “So where you from?”

  “Waimea,” I tell him.

  “We had one bruddah from Waimea who wen come to one of our early meetings.”

  “Really? Who?” Waimea is so small, most of the original residents know one another.

  “Lemme see. What was his name? His ‘ohana has claim to da ‘āina here. But he gone after da first meeting. Don’t know what happened to him.”

  Before we can exchange more per
sonal information, a huge bruddah, almost the size of Patsy, pushes a slight figure forward from the sugarcane fields. He says, “Look, we got one haole spy here.” It’s Sean, who looks more annoyed than scared. “He was taking photos of everyting, like he workin’ for Hightower.”

  I get up from the camping chair. “Oh, no, he’s not one spy. He’s my friend. He drove me here.”

  “Dis your driver? He no look like one driver.”

  “Well, I drive but technically I’m not haole,” Sean says to the bruddah. What is he doing?

  “So whatchu den, hapa haole?” Pono asks.

  “I’m Jewish.”

  “Jewish.” Both Pono and his friend, whose name is Kai Calistro, ponder that for a moment.

  “Lots of Jews in Los Angeles,” Patsy comments. Not helpful.

  “He’s a Nazi hunter,” I blurt out.

  “What?” Pono seems intrigued.

  Sean explains that 10,000 Nazi collaborators entered the US illegally after World War II. He’s been on the search for a specific war criminal, John Fischer, who is hiding out in Hawai‘i, maybe specifically on Kaua‘i.

  “His grandfather was a Holocaust survivor,” I pipe in, thinking that it will make an impact.

  It does. Pono’s face loses its hard edge. “I hope you find him. If you need mo’ help, let me know.”

  I change the subject back to why I’m here. “Hightower has to be stopped.”

  “We will,” Pono says. “We have some friends in the traditional media now, plus we can take our message straight to the people through YouTube.”

  “No, I mean, we can do things to him.”

  Pono frowns. “Like what dat bruddah did to Luke Hightower at dat shave ice place? Santiago’s?”

  “Hold on, isn’t that what your name is?” Alice interrupts. “Leilani Santiago.”

  I feel my cheeks burn.

  Pono’s eyes flash. “You da daughter. Whatchu doing hea?”

  “Maybe she has a police wire,” Kai says.

  “No, I not trying for trap you or da kine,” I say. This conversation is taking a terrible turn.

  “Sistah,” Pono says as he unties the bandanna around his neck. “I tink it’s time you went back to Waimea.”

  I feel like a fool as Sean and I make our way to the parking lot. Between the Hightowers and the “resistance,” I still haven’t learned anything new. Only that the Hightowers have the most beautiful garden that I’ve seen in my life, and that Patsy squeezes some excellent orange juice. Nothing that will prove my father’s innocence or lead us to Luke’s real killer.

  I want to go back to Waimea as quickly as possible, but someone is standing in front of Sean’s parked van. “Go ahead,” I motion to Sean to get in the driver’s seat. I will handle Celia Johnson.

  “I thought that I saw you go onto our property.” Celia has straightened her hair since I last saw her. It shimmers like a gold waterfall in the sun. Damn her.

  “That’s not your property. That’s kuleana land,” I tell her. “Besides, I don’t think any of this is yours.”

  “Well, this is Wynn’s property.” She extends her arms from the parking lot to Bamboo Royal.

  “Well, get out of the way and we’ll leave.”

  She doesn’t move. “So were you behind it, that article in the paper this morning?”

  “How can I be? I know nothing about law. Learned about quiet title from the story.”

  “The timing is sure suspicious,” she says. We go back and forth and she continues to insult me. But I’m a former volleyball defensive specialist, a DS. I’ve been trained to respond to any kind of attack.

  Before our words can escalate to anything physical, Rex appears. When I first met him, I thought he was kind of cute, but now he seems so gutless and weak. A total turnoff.

  “What’s going on?” he asks.

  I cut to the chase. “Did you know she was sleeping with Luke’s father?”

  His neck reddens, but he says nothing, as if he’s trying to figure out how to respond.

  “Dammit, you knew! But you didn’t have the balls to tell Luke. Is it because his father was your financial sponsor?”

  “Shut up, you bitch!” Celia begins screaming at me, loud enough for other guests at the B&B to open up the windows of their room. Sean starts to get out of the van, but I have had enough. “Let’s go.” And we do.

  “You mind if we make a stop in Kapa‘a?” Sean asks as he steers the van down a dirt road in Moloa‘a Valley.

  “What’s up?”

  “The dealer your dad sold the surfboard to. He’s willing to see me if you come with.”

  “Why me?”

  “I guess he trusts your family. He said he met you a couple of times when you were in elementary school. Ronaldo West.”

  “My dad sold the surfboard to Ronaldo West?” What the heck? Ronaldo West is more of a wheeler-dealer than a legitimate businessman. He’s a junk man and pawnbroker who used to travel around in a beat-up old camper. I’d heard he had a real office/apartment, but my mom never encouraged me to accompany my father on any visits.

  “I can’t believe that Ronaldo had the fifteen grand to even give my father in the first place,” I tell Sean.

  “Well, he must have had a ready buyer.”

  Ronaldo does know all the eccentrics and hoarders on Kaua‘i, because he is both of those himself. I fear what we will find in Kapa‘a.

  Old Kapa‘a Town is for tourists. There’s an innovative shave ice place there that always ends up on the “Best of” lists. As we pass by, I think that Santiago’s needs to up its game. I know Baachan is going to protest, but we need to employ more high-tech, get a Square reader for credit cards and a website. And the flavors—we need to take advantage of all the natural fruit that Kaua‘i offers.

  Ronaldo’s place is not in Old Kapa‘a. It’s west of there, in a residential area that has the same vibe as our neighborhood. Little bungalows with small yards, except most of these in Kapa‘a are built off the ground because it’s wetter here. Sean finally stops the van in front of a gray unit that has a plumbing truck parked in the driveway. Has Uncle Ronaldo diversified his services?

  “Are you sure it’s here?” I ask Sean.

  He rechecks his phone. “This is the address he gave me.”

  We both get out of the van cautiously. There’s a beat of music reverberating from the front room. Somebody is home.

  The doorbell is useless, so Sean bangs on the metal security gate. First a little tentatively and then full force. We can hear swearing, and finally the door swings open. Through the bars we see a bruddah who is completely tatted up, even his face.

  “Yeah?”

  “Who the hell is it?” A scrawny bruddah with a shaved head joins him at the door.

  Both men ignore Sean and fixate on me. They give me a good once-over and I pull at my T-shirt, wishing that I had worn an XL instead of a large.

  “We’re here to see Ronaldo West.” Sean’s voice sounds so thin competing against the rap music.

  “Ronaldo? He lives out back,” the face tat says.

  “You can walk through our place.” The skinny one gives me a special invitation and swings open the metal gate.

  “No, we’ll just go from the driveway.” Sean tries to shield me from the leering men. Unfortunately, it’s something I’ve gotten used to over the years.

  In the backyard is a makeshift tiny house, barely 200 square feet. I’ve seen those tiny homes on home-improvement TV shows and websites, but no one would do a TV show on this one. It’s built on wheels, mostly in totan, what we call our corrugated steel. It seems completely jerry-rigged with junkyard materials. Yup, this would be Uncle Ronaldo’s place. Next to the house is an open shed, filled with stacks of traditional artwork like wood tikis and also boxes of HDTV flat screens. As we get close to the house, the door, barely hanging on to its frame, swings open.

  “A-lo-ha!” Uncle Ronaldo looks as grizzled as ever with a salt and pepper beard and full head of hair. “My, you’v
e really grown up, Leilani.”

  I don’t like his tone and wonder if I might be safer with the two bruddahs inside the main house. “Hi, Uncle.”

  “Come into my humble abode.”

  We go up some steps covered with flattened rubber from tires. The house has big windows in the back, bringing welcomed light to the minuscule space. Ronaldo has hung nets from the ceiling that hold a strange assortment of goods: giant dried gourds used by traditional Hawaiian dancers, autographed footballs, boogie boards, and old brown McDonald’s trays. In the main area is a small card table, where an old desktop computer rests with a pile of paperwork and a basket filled with thumbnail drives. Ronaldo pulls down two Japanese beer crates stacked in a corner and pads them with two mismatched soiled zabuton.

  “Sit, sit,” he says while plopping down in an ergonomic chair on rollers that’s missing one arm.

  Do I have to? I think, as I gingerly place my okole on one of the zabuton.

  “I don’t get many visitors. Most of customers prefer communicating via the World Wide Web.”

  I wonder why.

  Sean speaks up. “I mentioned that I was interested in the surfboard that Mr. Santiago sold to you.”

  “Oh, yes, yes. Sorry, brah, that’s already sold. But I can get you another surfboard from the 1920s.” Ronaldo puts on some reading glasses and starts clicking on his keyboard.

  “No, I want that specific one. Can you give me the buyer’s contact information?”

  Ronaldo examines Sean over his glasses. “Nah, I can’t do that. I keep my client’s names confidential, you know.”

  “Uncle, can’t you make an exception?” I intervene. “My dad is the one who got the surfboard for you in the first place.”

  Ronaldo huffs and puffs, and finally Sean brings out a folded bill, revealing half of Benjamin Franklin’s face.

  “Would this help?” Sean slides the bill to Ronaldo.

  “Hmm, well, well.” The bill disappears in Ronaldo’s fist. He returns to his computer. “The thing is, you can’t tell this guy how you got his contact information. He likes his privacy.” Ronaldo jots down something on a yellow Post-it, peels it from the stack, and hands it to Sean.