“Was Sam Chang in competition with Lever?” I asked.
“No, he was trying to supplement what they offered,” Kari said. “He saw an opportunity, and it would have been a good one, too, if not for the war.”
“Lever brought in the basics,” Porter said. “Liquor, tinned meats, that sort of thing. They didn’t do much with anything that might spoil, since they only came around once a month.” He finished his beer with a long swallow, and tossed the empty bottle into the drink.
“With the planters doing well before the Japs came along, they were ready for more frequent resupplies, and more luxuries,” Kari said. “Chang delivered what they wanted.”
“If you don’t mind me asking,” I said to Porter, “did you end up owing Sam Chang money?”
“He never came my way,” Porter said. “Too far for only one customer, on the north side of the island. We face the open ocean, and the waters can be heavy.”
“But he did go to Pavau,” I said.
“Indeed,” Kari said. “A good businessman. He let me know he had no intention of replacing Lever’s business, and asked me to pass that information on, which I did.”
“So he did supply the other planters?” I asked.
“Right,” Kari said. “Except for Silas’s place, the plantations on Pavau are all on the south side of the island, on New Georgia Sound, where the waters are calmer. Chang made regular stops every week, except for when the Lever boats came in. He was smart. He didn’t want to antagonize them, so he worked around their schedule.”
“Did you guys meet on Pavau?” I asked, wondering if Porter and Kari had anything in common other than their Coastwatchers service.
“No,” Kari said, laughing. “Silas the hermit didn’t have a reputation for putting out the welcome mat. Besides, there was only a jungle track over the mountain. His end of the island was quite inaccessible except by boat.”
“And being a dedicated hermit,” Porter said, “I never ventured off the plantation, by land or sea.”
“I’m surprised you took on an assistant,” I said. “Didn’t cramp your style?”
“The price of success, I’m afraid,” Porter said. “We were doing rather well, and I couldn’t be everywhere at once. It takes a deft hand to work with a native crew. You have to be firm and let them know who’s boss, but not be so harsh that they’ll retaliate.”
“Retaliate how?” I asked.
“Oh, there’s been a few who were set upon by their workers. There’s dozens of them and only one of you, so you have to take care. Archer is one who uses fear and his fists to deal with them,” Porter said. “I favored firmness and a decent wage.”
“How did Peter Fraser take to the isolation?”
“He didn’t seem to mind a bit,” Porter said. “But it had only been six months. Perhaps it would have worn on him, had he lived.”
“So what about after the war, for both of you?”
“You mean after a hot bath and a soft bed?” Porter said with a grin. His plans didn’t go beyond rebuilding the plantation and getting off the island now and then. No more of the hermit’s life for him. John Kari hoped to attend university in Australia, if it was allowed.
“I have a feeling things will change after the war. There’s talk of independence for the Solomon Islands,” he said.
“Good luck with that,” I said. “The English don’t let go of their colonies easily, believe me.”
“I don’t think Lever Brothers and the other companies who profit from cheap native labor will be happy either,” Kari said. “But we’ve seen and done things because of this war that will change the Solomons forever.” There was no bitterness when Kari talked of the future, only hope. He finished his beer and carefully set the bottle on the wharf.
“It’s true,” Porter said, with a shake of his head. “For better or worse, the world has descended upon these islands. The simple times are gone.”
“Well, we’ve still got a war to win first,” I said, standing and stretching my legs. “I’ve got to see Lieutenant Cotter. Thanks for the beer.”
“Bye-o,” Porter said, lighting a cigarette as he leaned back against a stack of crates, all labeled Fragmentation Hand Grenade, Mk2. Out here, you took your comfort where you found it.
John Kari waved and smiled, perhaps practicing for his future career as a politician. He had a good start. He’d been lying through his teeth when he claimed he hadn’t met Daniel Tamana on Pavau.
Chapter Twenty-Two
We all lie from time to time. But John Kari’s lie was about Daniel Tamana, a guy who’d brought me to these tropical isles and ruined my leave in Algiers with Diana by getting himself killed. There were plenty of reasons to hide the truth, and Kari may have had a good one, but I needed to find out if it had anything to do with Daniel’s death.
I turned it over in my mind as I walked the length of the dock, heading to where Cotter’s PT-169 was moored, the blistering sun grilling my exposed skin. Daniel Tamana’s job on the Pavau plantation was to keep the books and oversee outgoing shipments of copra. John Kari’s job was to record those shipments for Lever at the docks. How could they not have met? How many well-educated Melanesians were there on one island, speaking the King’s English to perfection?
Kari was also in charge of billing planters for the Lever supplies. Daniel would have handled those bills. Another intersection of events that certainly would have brought them into contact. But why lie? Even if they’d only met briefly and had cursory business contacts, why hide the fact?
Porter had not been there when Daniel first came to Hugh Sexton’s place, which explained why he had asked Kari if he’d ever met Daniel before. Would Porter have known either man on Pavau? No, not isolated as he was on the north end of the island. But I had my doubts about Kari not knowing Daniel.
I scanned the dock for any sign of Gordie or Archer, but couldn’t pick them out from the press of sailors moving in every direction. Another section of dock jutted out from the shore just ahead, with only a single larger vessel moored alongside. It was about the size of an LST, but with cranes and pulleys, the kind you see on merchant ships for loading cargo. Two PT boats were anchored alongside; I figured this was a PT boat tender, the kind of vessel Daniel and the others took from Guadalcanal. It was bigger than I’d expected, and I decided it’d be interesting to see what the view was for your average passenger.
I approached the 169 as Cotter was descending the gangplank. I introduced myself and told him I might need to hitch a ride for Kaz and myself tomorrow. I offered to show him my orders, but he waved me off.
“Not a problem, Lieutenant, even for a pal of Kennedy’s,” Cotter said, his hands on his hips, his chin jutting forward. His words were friendly enough, but his stance was a fighter’s. “Be here before fifteen hundred hours tomorrow, and keep your gear light. We’ve got plenty on board already, courtesy of our Coastwatcher passengers.”
“Got it. And Jack Kennedy and I are acquaintances, not pals,” I said. “How about you? Were you and he pals?”
“We were friendly enough, before that patrol in Blackett Strait. A skipper dumb enough to get his boat sliced in two while dead in the water shouldn’t criticize his squadron mates for not finding him.”
“You searched?” I asked, figuring a direct question was the best way to get the measure of this man.
“We not only searched, we sent a radio warning before the 109 was hit. We saw the phosphorescent wake of what I thought was a destroyer and radioed to all boats in the vicinity. No acknowledgement from Kennedy.” He turned and spat into the oily water.
“Why wouldn’t he acknowledge?” I asked.
“Good question,” Cotter said. “I asked his radioman, Maguire, why he hadn’t answered. He said he was up on deck, chatting with Kennedy. Chatting, can you believe it? That’s the kind of skipper he was. Sloppy. If I was in a night action and my radioman left his post, I’d kick his ass and put him on report. Anything else you want to waste my time over?” Cotter took a step closer, his arms akimbo. If I backed up, I’d end up in the drink with his spit, which seemed to be his plan.