"Why didn't you stop me in the other room, Terry, when I asked for information?"
"Jim beat me to it. What did he fell you?"
"That you and Pearl were good friends."
"That's true… that's true." He covered his face
with a finely boned hand and began to weep. Hully, embarrassed, dug out a hankie from his pocket and handed it to the man, who took it gratefully; for two excruciatingly long minutes, Mizuha wept into Hully's cloth. When the slender man lowered the handkerchief from his face, his eyes were even more bloodshot. He said, "She was my best friend."
"Do you know anything about her murder?"
"I know I saw that soldier… Stanton? She had dated him, before the sailor boy-Fielder? I saw him yelling at her, after the dance, when we were packing up."
"Did the others see this? Why didn't they-?" Mizuha was shaking his head. "They didn't see the argument. It was outside, he had her up against the wall of the lodge. I… I interceded. He almost struck me, but I pretended she was needed by Jim, for band business. Stanton stalked off."
"Did you hear anything of what was said?"
"Just the usual spurned-lover recriminations."
"Did Stanton threaten her?"
"Not overtly. Just his manner. I do think she was afraid… she was trembling. I put my arm around her." He began to cry again, into the hankie.
Hully waited, then asked, "Is there anything else you saw, Terry? Anything else you know?"
Mizuha bunked. "What do you mean… anything else I know?"
This seemed a peculiar reaction to Hully, who shrugged. "Just that."
The pretty eyes narrowed; the smooth forehead furrowed. "You're not a detective, are you?"
"Unfortunately, no-just a friend trying to help a friend who is beyond help, really."
He swallowed, nodded. "You were going to talk to Colonel Fielder for her, weren't you?"
"Yes….My father agreed, also."
Mizuha sat forward, a strange urgency in his voice. "What did she say to you? What did she tell you? Or your father?"
The intensity of the man made Hully rear back, a little. "Nothing, really-obviously, she wanted to state her case, plead for the colonel's consent to the marriage."
Mizuha's eyes tightened, but otherwise he relaxed, air escaping as if from a balloon, his body becoming even smaller. Then he said, "Let us talk again,"
"Sure."
"I have … I have to sort a few things out. I have to think."
“Terry, if you know something, tell me, hell, tell the police.…"
Mizuha was shaking his head. "I'm too distraught right now. I'm confused. I'm afraid. Please give me a few hours….We'll talk again."
“Terry…"
But the conversation ended there, because something attracted Hully's attention: he saw Bill Fielder getting out of a gray Ford sedan (it beloriged to Colonel Fielder), having just parked in the Niumalu lot.
Something was terribly wrong: Bill was smiling, his expression cheerful; the young Naval officer-who was in a green sportshirt and chinos, on this fine off-duty day-was even whistling a tune.
"We'll talk more, later," Hully said, and Terry Mizuha was getting up and going off in one direction, as Hully-shuddering as if from cold on this warm morning-moved through that open archway into the parking lot, where he approached Bill, catching him before he entered the lodge.
"Hey, Hully." The handsome, cleft-chinned Fielder wore a winning smile. "Hell of a beautiful day, huh?"
"Yeah, Bill-nice weather, even for Hawaii." He touched his friend's arm. "You doing okay?"
"Yeah, better today. I skipped Hotel Street, and had it out with Dad, and…"
Hully stopped listening to his optimistic friend, his own mind throbbing with the inescapable realization that Bill did not know about the murder….
"We have to sit down,". Hully said, guiding his confused friend into the lodge lobby, "and we have to talk."
"What's wrong with you? What the hell-listen, I have to see Pearl, she's waiting, I'm a little late…."
"Sit down, Bill. I have to tell you something-something very bad. Very sad."
Hully sat his friend down in the wicker chair the musician had vacated and he stood in front of his friend and quickly, calmly, as gently as he could, told Bill Fielder that Pearl Harada had been murdered.
Bill's cry of emotional pain echoed through the lodge like that of a mortally wounded beast.
The young Naval officer fell onto the parquet floor and assumed a fetal position and Hully got down there with him, taking his friend into his arms, patting him on the back, comforting him as Bill howled and wept. Hully couldn't even offer Bill a handkerchief because the trumpet player had taken it.
But no handkerchief could have contained the tears of the young sailor.
It was a long time before Bill got settled down enough to begin asking questions about the particulars.
Then, suddenly, the brawny officer was on his feet. "Harry Kamana? Harry Kamana did this? Where the hell is the bastard? I'll break his goddamn neck-"
Hully held him by the arm. "The police have Kamana, Bill-he may not have done it. He says he didn't."
But Bill didn't want to hear about that. He pulled away from Hully, ran out to the car, and tore away, throwing crushed coral like rice at a wedding.
Hully wondered what the hell good Bill thought he could do, what sort of revenge he could take, with Kamana behind bars.
He also wondered if there was the remotest possibility that his friend was good enough an actor to have concocted this entire scene-because if Bill were the murderer of Pearl Harada, he would've had to have done that very thing.
EIGHT
The Termite Palace-as locals affectionately if accurately referred to the wooden-bleachered Honolulu Stadium-had hosted Bing Crosby concerts, championship boxing matches, and even a notorious race between Olympic runner Jesse Owens and a horse (Owens won). The unprepossessing facliity-at the ewa (west)/makai (seaward) corner of King and Isen-berg streets-was also home to every Oahu sporting event from club baseball to college football games, like today's annual Shriner-sponsored contest.
The stands were packed, over twenty-five thousand in attendance-10 percent of the city's population--which was unusuaclass="underline" college games were usually lucky to draw half that many fans. The big local attraction was high-school football, the eight-team league an Oahu obsession, fueled by gambling interests whose weekly betting turnover was said to be half a million dollars.
Burroughs found the casual corruption of Honolulu at once amusing and disturbing. To a writer, the irony of sin in paradise was appealing, and he disliked the legislation of morality; but the town's wide-open gambling and unfettered red-light district jarred his conservative Midwestern sensibilities.
Somehow the rollickingly enthusiastic crowd-watching the game for its own sake (little betting attended college games)-gave Burroughs a lift. He was enjoying this exceptionally beautiful day with its clear sky and sharp sunlight as much as anyone in the polyglot assemblage, which contained more than its share of high-ranking military personnel, including Colonel Kendall "Wooch" Fielder, next to whom the writer sat. As the first half neared its conclusion, with the Roaring Rainbows of the University of Hawaii leading the Bearcats of Willamette (Oregon) University fourteen to nothing, the reserved seat on the other side of Burroughs-meant for FBI agent Adam Sterling-was vacant.
Sterling was a rabidly loyal Willamette grad, who for weeks had been vocal about looking forward to this game, and his missing-in-action status nagged at Burroughs, who was aware the agent had taken off early this morning to go in to work. The writer could not help but again wonder if Sterling's absence was related to the murder of Pearl Harada.