Nodding thoughtfully, Hully said, "I'd like to track down this Stanton-he's on a weekend pass. Maybe we could check out Hotel Street later."
"I'm game."
Just beyond Lau Yee Chai-the best, most lavish chop suey house in Honolulu (a different sort of tourist trap)-was River Street, bordering the Nuuanu Stream. Soon they were on Queen Street, and Sam found a parking place, and they headed over on foot to the Aala Market and the Japanese sampan fishing dock.
Along the way they encountered Japanese women wearing silk kimonos clip-clopping along the wooden walkway in clogs called gettas, lugging children on their backs. Past the garish Oriental lettering of signs, small simple wooden storefronts were gorged with tourist-friendly merchandise; often a diapered baby would be crawling across a wooden floor, and one moonfaced older child sat unattended, nibbling pink gelatin candies, while tourists and clerks bartered. They passed pawnshops, saimin (noodle) cafes, coffee shops, and herb dens, the babblelike sounds of Asian tongues mingling with the occasional popping of firecrackers and the hollow echo of gongs gliding down the Nuuanu Valley from a Buddhist temple.
The Aala Market was democracy-and capitalism-in action: all classes of people, half a dozen or more races, moving along the vegetable, fish and flower stalls, rubbing (sometimes knocking) elbows in the common pursuit of food. The fish caught in Hawaiian waters were second to none, and spread out in rows for the approval of customers: red snappers looking like giant goldfish; enormous swordfish; tuna small and large (aku); bass; needlefish; even an octopus. Some of it had been chopped into slabs and steaks, and there was seaweed for sale, too, and dried salmon, and fresh poi.
Hully let Sam do the talking-since much of it was in Japanese-seeking directions to the grocer's shop. Sam had little luck for some time, until Hully thought to ask him to explain to these merchants that they were not seeking Harada to make a purchase.
"I should've thought of that," Sam said, grinning, shaking his head. "They don't want to send us to a competitor!"
Next time out, they got the address-and it was close by.
As they strolled along the sampan dock, where both small blue sampans and larger diesel-powered boats were moored, Sam said, "These fishermen are all Japanese-no Chinese or Filipino or anybody else."
"Why?"
"We're just better at it." This was a rare instance of Sam referring to himself as in any way Japanese. "Faster boats, powerful shortwave radios. We're good at gizmos."
"Size of some of these boats is amazing."
"Fishing is big business, around here-one of those diesel-powered forty-footers can run you twelve grand. That kind of dough even Tarzan wouldn't sneeze at."
Hully whistled. "You know, all this talk of a Japanese attack on Oahu-would they really do it? I mean, there are so many Japanese here … so much Japanese business."
"Well, it's really American business, Hully. But you have a point-Honolulu is probably the most Japanese city on earth, outside Japan."
"So you're saying they wouldn't bomb us?" "No." And Sam's eyes tightened into slits, and his smile was utterly mirthless. "They'd bomb us in a flash."
"That's hard for me to believe." Sam put a hand on his friend's shoulder. "Hully, there are quite likely people in Japan right now banking on that very attitude."
Yoshio Harada's shop was not a grocery in any American sense. It was a small, unpretentious wooden storefront whose front door was black hanging beads; the walls were consumed with shelves overflowing with reed baskets and glass jars of ginger root, shark-fins, seahorse skeletons, dried seaweed and other exotic wares. None of the fresh fish or produce that Harada delivered to the Niumalu (and, presumably, other clients) was on display-apparently, he strictly made his purchases at the nearby Aala Market for deliveries by pick-up truck.
The small, mustached man-wearing a white shirt and tan trousers and a grocer's apron, despite the lack of groceries-was manning a counter to the left, the shelves of weird roots and herbs rising surrealistically behind him.
Harada recognized Hully at once, half-bowing. "Ah, Burroughs-san. You honor me. What brings you to Chinatown?"
"I came to pay my respects." Hully gestured to Sam. "This is my friend Sam Fujimoto-his mother is our maid at the Niumalu-perhaps you know her."
"I am sorry, I do not. But it is a pleasure." Harada held out his hand and he and Sam shook, like they were both Americans … which, of course, they were.
"I was a friend of your niece's, as well, sir," Sam said, with another respectful nod. "We're sorry for your loss."
The grocer offered a curt nod in return. "Thank you, gentlemen."
"When will the service be held?" Hully asked.
Harada seemed confused. "Service?"
"Pearl's funeral."
"Oh… no arrangements have been made."
"Ah. Can I help?"
"I have written her parents. Posted the letter."
"You didn't call them?"
"No. It is long distance."
Hully exchanged glances with Sam. "But Mr. Harada, surely Pearl deserves better than this….As I said, I'll be glad to help…."
"Offer is … kind." Harada smiled faintly, patiently. "Burroughs-san, I like my niece, but we were not… close. I am Buddhist, she was Christian. She would not want a service in my faith; I no have interest in arranging one in hers. Her parents share her Christian belief. They may feel other way."
Frowning, Hully asked, "Where is her body now?"
"I understand is in morgue. She was murdered."
"Well, I know she was murdered, but-"
Harada held up a hand. His face was strangely hard. "I am sorry for her death. But she turned her back on her people. She did not like it here, with me-and she did not return, once she got her… job."
"I thought she helped line you up your grocery account with Fred Bivens, at the Niumalu."
"She did. I was grateful."
Sam said, "But you weren't close."
"No."
Hully tried another angle. "Did she have any friends down here? Or for that matter, enemies?"
Harada's eyes narrowed; his face seemed to harden even more. "Why do you ask this?"
"Well, someone killed her…."
Harada's chin lifted. "A man is under arrest. She had loose morals and a man killed her. He is in custody, is he not?"
"Yeah, sure, but-"
"The circle has closed. Why do you ask questions as if you are a policeman?"
Hully gestured with an open hand. "Mr. Harada, I meant no offense. I merely … we merely … thought we'd offer our sympathies in what we had assumed would be a dark hour, for you."
Harada said nothing.
Sam said, "I guess that was our mistake."
For several long seconds, Hully just stared at the little grocer, who didn't even blink. Then Hully rushed out onto the wooden sidewalk, anger bubbling; Sam followed. Hully was several storefronts down, moving quickly through the interracial crowd, when Sam caught up with him. 'Take it easy, Hul….You just ran head-on into a cultural war I've fought every day of my life."
Hully stopped, looked at his friend. "Something smells."
"Yeah, fish and dirty diapers and incense. What, you think Harada killed his own niece? Why? Because she was Christian?"
Hully didn't know what to say, and was still looking for words when a small dark man in a snap-brim fedora, orange tie, and brown rumpled suit was suddenly in their midst.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Detective John Jardine demanded. His dark eyes were daggers.
"I, uh… well…"
Jardine took Hully by the back of the arm and bus-tied him into a booth in a nearby cafe. Sam came along, a wide-eyed bystander, who slipped in next to Hully.
A waitress in a kimono came over, and Jardine said, "Three coffees," and she went away.