Sand Dollars Read Free

against the glare of the hot January sun glinting off the smooth Pacific swells. “You got a call on the ship-to-shore. Fella at the dock needs to speak with you pronto.”
    â€œHe say his name?”

    â€œJ. Lawrence Tishman, attorney-at-law. What’d you do? Knock somebody up?”
    I shook my head. “Can’t. Had the operation.”
    â€œIf your girlfriend ain’t late, then it must be your car payment.”
    â€œDon’t have one.”
    â€œMaybe your uncle died.”
    â€œYeah. That must be it.” The only uncle I had was named Sam. He’d be around long after I was gone.
    â€œHe’s wearing a tan suit,” Dennis added, wrinkle lines bunching up around his eyes.
    â€œSuit? Like with a tie?”
    â€œMust not be from around here.”
    I went back to check on my original group and to apologize for leaving them. I ignored the college boys. If they approached me, we’d talk. Without their initiative, I’d leave them alone.
    â€œWe understand,” said the senior executive. “George showed us wonderful things.”
    â€œThank you,” I said, “for understanding.”
    â€œThank you.” The elder Japanese shook my hand and then bowed. It was more of a dip than a formal bow, reminding me that I was the lesser being. “We will do it again. With you.”
    I nodded.
    â€œI’d be honored.”
    He handed me a roll of bills and bowed again. “A token of our appreciation.”
    I smiled and bowed and thanked the man again, my bow no deeper than his. When he rejoined his group, I went forward and glanced at the roll. Fifteen pictures of Benjamin Franklin looked back at me. Hundred-dollar bills. The ugly one. I found George and handed the roll to him.
    â€œThey already tipped me,” he said.
    â€œThey tipped you again.”
    George nodded. He needed the money more than I did. “Thank you, John.”
    When the Mako docked and I finished putting the gear away, I looked for the tan suit. A small, slight man stood patiently
near the bait tank wearing a beige suit and an expectant look, totally out of place on the boat dock, his pale, smooth, office-bound face scrunched up tight against the sunlight reflecting off the water.
    â€œI’m John Caine,” I said. “You are … ?”
    â€œJ. Lawrence Tishman.” He handed me a card. Attorney-at-Law. Fort Street. Honolulu. “May I have a word with you?”
    I shrugged, watching one of the college kids from the corner of my eye. He hesitated, hovering just within the range of hearing.
    â€œMy firm represents a group of real estate investors who believe the general partner guilty of stealing the funds. We’d like you to investigate.”
    I shook my head. “Sorry. Not interested.”
    â€œYou are a licensed private detective, are you not?”
    I nodded, wondering where this was heading.
    â€œYou were referred to us by one of the investors, one of the larger investors, a man named Choy. Mr. Choy indicated that he knew you.”
    That made me laugh. I couldn’t help it. So Chawlie was complaining about someone stealing his funds? Maybe the old guy was starting into decline. “Sorry. I don’t do that kind of work.” They would want written reports, spreadsheets, invoices with receipts for expenses. There would be a 1099 in the mail next January.
    J. Lawrence Tishman sniffed as if he’d suddenly smelled something foul. And at that moment I understood Chawlie had indulged himself at Mr. Tishman’s expense. It had been a joke, typical of the man. Tishman knew it, too, and didn’t want to be here, but his client had insisted, and when you work for someone like Chawlie, you do what you’re told.
    I glanced at the kid. He was still there, waiting. Whether or not he could hear our conversation wasn’t important.
    â€œThere are other firms who’ll do you a better job,” I told the lawyer.