“Who’s got a silver dollar?” he called.
Faces turned toward him.
“I’ll dive from the deck,” he said, “for a silver dollar!”
“Here!” a mustached fellow called, digging into his pocket and holding up the silver coin; the sun caught it and a reflection lanced off it.
And I’ll be damned if this kid didn’t climb over the rail, and position himself, yelling “Now!” following the pitched coin into the deep blue waters, in a high perfect dive that cleaved the water with the assurance of God parting the Red Sea.
Before long, he emerged with a toss of wet dark hair and a happy, infectious grin, holding the coin up as he bobbed there. The sun caught it again, and both the smile and the coin dazzled his audience on deck, who began to applaud and cheer. Isabel put two fingers in her mouth and let loose a whistle the Aloha Tower might have envied.
Then he stroked off toward the pier as our boat continued making its way there.
“Wasn’t that the damnedest thing,” I said.
“What a man,” Isabel sighed.
“Thanks,” I said, and we grinned at each other, going arm in arm after the rest of our party.
When the ship slipped gracefully into Pier 9, a mob was waiting; a band in white uniforms performed syrupy renditions of Hawaiian tunes while colored streamers and confetti were hurled, and shapely dark hula girls in grass skirts and floral-print brassieres swayed, their slender necks bedecked with wreaths of brightly colored flowers. The citizens who’d come to greet us were less a melting pot than a list of racial ingredients: Japanese, Chinese, Polynesian, Portuguese, and Caucasian faces were among the locals on hand to greet the tourists they depended on for their livelihoods.
As we walked across the gangway into this mad merriment, I had to wonder if there wasn’t an undercurrent of hysteria at this particular “steamer day,” an edge provided by the tension and turmoil of the most controversial criminal matter that had ever faced the Islands.
Just as Darrow stepped onto the cement of the pier, an attractive native woman in a loose dress, the tropical version of the Mother Hubbard known as a muumuu, transferred one of the half-dozen flower garlands she was wearing from her neck to Darrow’s. The battery of press photogs lying in wait—one of whom had no doubt put the woman (who was a seller of the things) up to it—jockeyed for position to record Darrow’s chagrin for posterity.
But C.D. wasn’t having any.
“Hold off there!” he said, shifting the wreath to his wife’s neck. “You’re not catching me wearing those jingle bells—I’ll look like a damned decorated hat rack.”
“Lei, mister?” the native woman asked me cheerfully.
“No thanks,” I said. Then to Isabeclass="underline" “They don’t waste any time here, do they?”
“That’s what those flowers are called, silly,” she said. “A lei.”
“Really?” I asked innocently, and then she knew I was teasing her. And joining the ranks of every mainlander male who ever set foot on Oahu, in making that particular pun.
Darrow was leading the way through the crowd—the old boy seemed to know what he was doing and where he was going. I still had that kid’s clothes tucked under my arm, and was looking around for him. His head popped up above the throng, and I held up till he angled through, still in his trunks but pretty well dried off, now. The climate, though pleasant, was warm enough to be his towel.
“Thanks!” he grinned, taking his stuff from me.
“Hell of a dive, for a dollar.”
That great grin flashed. “When I was a kid, I was right in there with the other beach boys, divin’ for nickels. Gotta raise the ante a little, when ya get older. Where you staying? I’ll drop by and use the buck to buy you lunch.”
“I think the Royal Hawaiian.”
“A buck doesn’t go far there, but I know some people on the staff—maybe they’ll cut me some slack. Heller, isn’t it? Nate?”
I said it was as we shook hands, and he tossed me a “See ya,” and disappeared back into the crowd.
Leisure leaned in and said, “You know who that is?”
“Some crazy college kid. Buster, he said they call him.”
“That’s Clarence Crabbe. Hawaii’s great white hope in the Olympics comin’ up this summer. He took two bronze medals in ’28, at Amsterdam.”
“Diving?”
“Swimming.”
“Huh,” I grunted. “No kiddin’.”
A Navy driver was waiting for us at the curb; his seven-passenger black Lincoln limousine could have handled all of us, but Darrow sent Ruby and Mrs. Leisure on to the hotel, on foot; it was easy walking distance, and our baggage would be delivered. Isabel (looking lovely in a lei I’d bought her) started to go with the two women, and Darrow stopped her, gently.
“Come with us, dear,” he said, “won’t you?”
“All right,” Isabel said.
So we all got in the back of the limo, where Isabel and I sat facing Darrow and Leisure; everyone but Darrow was confused.
“I thought we were staying at the Royal Hawaiian,” I said.
“You’re staying there, son,” Darrow said, as the limo rolled smoothly into traffic. How odd it seemed for this city to be such a…city. Buses and streetcars and traffic cops, with only the predominance of various shades of brown and yellow faces to let you know this wasn’t Miami or San Diego.
“Why’s Nate staying at the Royal Hawaiian?” Leisure wondered, just a slight touch of cranky jealousy in his tone.
“For two reasons,” Darrow said. “First, I want to keep our investigator away from reporters, keep him off the firing line. They’ll only bother him about the Lindbergh business, for one thing, and I want him someplace where he can invite various witnesses and others involved in the case, for a friendly conversation over lunch or fruit punch, without the prying eyes of the press.”
Leisure was nodding; jealous or not, it made sense.
“It won’t hurt,” Darrow continued, “to have an opulent setting to entice the cooperation of these individuals. Also, I can sneak off there myself, if I need to confer with someone, away from journalistic meddlers.”
“Despite all the lawyerly bypaths you just took,” I said, “that’s just one reason. You said two.”
“Oh. Well, the other reason is, I was offered a free suite at the Royal Hawaiian, and this was a way to take advantage of that invitation.”
And he beamed at me, proud of himself.
“So the taxpayers of Chicago pay for my services,” I said, “and the Royal Hawaiian provides my lodging. You couldn’t afford not to bring me along, could you, C.D.?”
“Not hardly. Mind if I smoke, dear?”
“No,” Isabel said. “But where are we going?”
“I was just wondering that myself,” Leisure said. He still wasn’t used to Darrow’s offhand way of doing things.
“Why, taking you to your lodgings, child,” Darrow said grandly to the girl, as his steady old hands emptied tobacco from a pouch into a curl of cigarette paper.
“I’m staying with my cousin Thalia,” she said.
“Yes,” Darrow said. “She’s expecting us.”
4
The Navy limousine slipped into the stream of leisurely traffic on King Street; the Oriental and Polynesian drivers of Oahu, and even the Caucasians for that matter, seemed more cautious, less hurried than mainlanders. Or maybe the seductive warm climate with its constant cool breeze encouraged a tempo that to a contemporary Chicagoan seemed more appropriate for horse carts and carriages.
Nonetheless, Honolulu remained resolutely modern. There were trolley cars, not rickshaws, and on side streets, frame houses were in evidence, not a native hut in sight. The stark modern lines of white office buildings were softened by the soothing greenery of palms and exotic flora, and once we’d left the clustered heart of the business district, the urban landscape was calmed by occasional stretches of park or by a school or a church or some official-looking building resplendent on verdant manicured grounds.