Diamond Head Read Free

hills surrounding the camp, instructing us to stay low until the next morning. Before they abandoned us to the bush they kicked us, mocked us and swore at us in Cuban-Spanish and Russian. I remembered them as a jolly
bunch. As they beat us they laughed a lot. The idea was that no matter how hard we’d try to hide they’d capture us.
    That was the idea. They were elite recon marines, used to dealing with pilots who were accustomed to sitting in their weapons, not carrying them. We gave them something to think about. By 2300 we’d rounded up all twenty-eight of our “captors” and controlled the camp. That night was the cause of a policy change at SERE. Never again did they send more than two SEALs. If they send any at all now, they double the marines.
    After dinner I drove Max to Hickam Air Force Base where he squeezed onto a MAC flight to Alameda in California. He’d hop a civilian carrier from there to San Diego and be home by tomorrow morning. He wanted to clear the island. He didn’t want to be around when I started stirring up a cloud of dirt. From what he’d told me, that was a possibility. He had nearly thirty years in and wanted to retire with a clean slate. I didn’t blame him, but I wished he could have stayed. If there was anyone out there with murderous intent, there’s no one I’d rather have watching my back.
    Max’s C-141 lifted from the runway just before midnight. Watching the big cargo jet arc over the lagoon, a realization hit me like an adrenaline rush that a hole in my life had been filled. I’d been irritable lately, restless and bored. Tired of my own company. The physical training had been challenging, bringing me back to within a few notches of my top form, but training for training’s sake is dulling after a while. Max had done me a favor by asking for one of his own.
    I didn’t know much about murder investigations, but it seemed that a good place to start would be to find out what the police knew. They’d have a file, rich with information. I only knew two ways to get a look at a police file. I could ask the police, but I didn’t think they’d give me any cooperation, or Chawlie could get me a copy.
    Leaving Hickam I got on the eastbound Nimitz Highway toward
downtown Honolulu instead of heading back to Pearl Harbor. My old Rolex said it was twelve-twenty. It would take me five minutes to reach Chinatown and another fifteen to find a parking place, but there was no hurry. Unless he was dead, my man would be in his usual spot until well after three in the morning.
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    Hotel Street used to be the center of Honolulu’s red-light district. During World War II there were no fewer than a hundred and fifty houses of prostitution within the ten square blocks of Chinatown. Now the area is mainly a tourist attraction with lei stands, Chinese, Filipino and Vietnamese restaurants, and not a red-light house in sight. They’re still there. You just have to know where to look.
    The man I wanted to see was around the corner on River Street, a wandering road named for the meandering stream called Nu’uanu that bordered Chinatown’s western edge. I don’t know his real name. He’s known to me only as Chawlie. Chawlie can be found every night on a hard plastic chair in the foyer of the small restaurant facing the bronze statue of Dr. Sun Yat-sen, fifteen paces from the Nu’uanu Stream.
    Most people seeing the old man in the threadbare clothes might think he is there to share the rice bowl of the restaurant, an uncle fallen on hard times perhaps, living off the largess of a successful family. In reality he owns the rice bowl, the restaurant and possibly half of Chinatown. Chawlie knows everything that happens in town, both above and below the legal lines. Most recent politicians from the City and County of Honolulu have come to him for substantial financial help in their campaigns. There is an understanding, of course,