Mele Kalikimaka Mr Walker Read Free Page A

Whoopi Goldberg movie, which you listened tothrough decent headphones. The movie hardly seemed to finish when it was time for supper: spinach gnocchi with tomato and pimento sauce, followed by walnut tart. While they were eating and drinking Les tried to pump Warren for a bit more information about where he’d be staying, but all Warren would reply was that he was staying with a friend at a friend’s home on the big island. He’d tell Les a little more when they compared notes on the flight home. Oh well, thought Les. Mine’s not to be nosey, I suppose. Though Warren did seem to have this half-smug look on his face all the time that got under Norton’s skin just a little. Before Les had time to think too much on this, he’d read the Sunday papers again, had a couple of coffees and it was time to buckle up once more as they descended into Honolulu. It was just after eleven-thirty Saturday night and they’d left on Sunday morning. Amazing how we do it, Les chuckled to himself as the jumbo jet’s huge tyres squealed and they smoothly touched down on the tarmac.
    Getting off the plane and through customs was a breeze also compared to the shitfight at Los Angeles. They filed into a couple of small buses that took them the short journey to the baggage area; while they waited to board Les noticed it was warm, quite windy and it had been raining. Next thing they went down some stairs beneath a rainbow-coloured sign that said ‘Aloha. Welcome to Hawaii’ and into the customs area and lanes with shiny, chrome rails and chains. The other passengers were mostly young surfie types with their girls, or the usual easy-going Aussie tourists on holidays. The airport staff wore blue floral shirts, caps, and blue trousers; the customs and security officers wore neat blue uniformsand they mostly looked a cross between Maoris and Japanese. But they were all extremely polite and efficient; Les had his documents filled out properly and before he knew it he was standing with his bags and Warren outside in the Passenger Pick-up and Put Down area underneath a huge concrete overpass.
    â€˜Well, I’ll see you back here on Saturday night, Les,’ smiled Warren. ‘Don’t forget, we leave at one-thirty Sunday morning.’
    â€˜Yeah, righto, Woz,’ answered Les, still a little confused. ‘So which way do you go?’
    â€˜That way.’ Warren nodded to his right.
    â€˜Okay. So how do I get in touch with you?’
    Warren shook his head. ‘You don’t have to. I’ll get in touch with you.’
    Mildly frustrated, Les shook his head too. ‘Fair dinkum, Warren. What is this? The Ipcress File or some fuckin’ thing? What’s going on?’
    Warren was still smiling. ‘Don’t worry, Les. It’s all sweet. I’ll be in touch. Now there’s a cab over there. Good luck.’
    â€˜Yeah, righto. You won’t forget to ring us, will you?’
    â€˜I will, Les. No worries.’
    They shook hands, Warren disappeared wherever it was he was disappearing to and Les piled into the back of some monstrous blue Chevrolet taxi that was like a Cadillac.
    â€˜Where to?’ asked the driver. He wore a plain shirt and a floppy gaberdine hat, and looked Hawaiian.
    â€˜The Regency Hotel, Waikiki. It’s on Kalakau Avenue.’
    â€˜Okay, buddy.’
    The taxi took off smoothly, Les settled back into the soft leather seat and tried to see what he could see. What Les mostly saw through the misty rain was gigantic American-style freeways and highways and heaps of gigantic American cars — at least this time Les was used to sitting on the wrong side of the car and driving on the wrong side of the road. Now and again he could make out signs with strange Polynesian-sounding names: Kamehameha Highway, Kaluaopalena, Kanakanui, Waiakamio. They must’ve named all the streets round here after a Maori football team, mused Les. Whether the driver was