STAR STRUCK SHOOTER By Graham Smith

TKnC is always happy to welcome back old friends. This time we get double the pleasure with Graham Smith and a character from his previously published 'Shooting Stars' in...

Star Struck Shooter

   She’d escaped the bullet I’d fired at her. Now my moral code wouldn’t let me kill her myself. I allowed myself one bullet per target and I’d missed when I shot at her. I’d killed a bystander, which further breached my professional ethics. An assassin shouldn’t feel remorse but I hated that I’d killed an innocent. At least it was one of those bloody mime artists.

   I had a solution though. I’d merely stepped up my apprentice’s training and passed the job to him. I’d broken my code over that bitch once. I’d sooner die than break my code a second time for the same target.

   Jessica wouldn’t escape this time. We’d make sure of that. We’d followed her to the beach house where she was relaxing between movies.

   I knew her routine very well after the idyllic month we’d shared here. There were no bodyguards, assistants or staff. She went native in every respect. Cooked her own food, did her own laundry and refused contact with anyone who wasn’t invited onto her island.

   We’d arrived late the night before, rowing the last mile to be sure of silence. Out here sound didn’t just carry over the water it amplified. A cough became a gunshot, a gunshot a thunderclap and all because of the night air’s papal purity.

   Soon she’d be going for her morning jog. Twice round the two mile perimeter, running at the waters edge where the sand was firmer.

   The plan was simple, the apprentice would wait until she was nearly finished her second lap. She would be breathless, sweaty and low on energy as she always drove herself to near exhaustion when exercising.

   Then he would sprint out from the mango grove, grab her and then drown her in the shallow breakers rolling in from the east. Her body would be left at the high tide mark to be found by the locals who brought her daily provisions at noon.

   As she rounded the southerly point for the second time I reached across to the apprentice and gently tapped him on the shoulder to get his attention without startling him.

   I pointed out a pleasure yacht which had just hove into view from behind the neighbouring island.

   The younger man relaxed back from his sprinters crouch and lifted his thumb from his fist to show his understanding. We would fall back to the first of our reserve plans.

   I’d been on enough missions to know never to rely on just one plan. The second plan was almost as straightforward although there was more risk to it. We would wait on her reaching the house. I knew she would go straight for a shower and that would be his chance to pounce.

   OK so it couldn’t be passed off as an accident like drowning but she would still die and that was all I cared about.

   She ran past us. Dressed in baggy shorts and t-shirt, hair matted to her head, face and clothes drenched in sweat as she puffed her way, red faced past our hiding place among the trees. No wonder she was the highest paid actress in the world, even in the bedraggled state she had presented as she ran by, she was still eye wateringly beautiful.

  Giving her a hundred yards head start, we jogged through the woods until she entered the house. The yacht had passed the island and was arrowing its way through the calm seas.

   I entered the house via the sliding windows which fronted the beach. My apprentice was hot on my heels with the knife ready in his gloved hand. I led him through the house to the bathroom which adjoined the master bedroom. We could hear running water. I signalled to my apprentice to go in.

   After adjusting his grip on the knife he burst through the door and slashed and stabbed at the figure in the open shower cubicle. In my mind I could hear the screeching wheek from the classic Hitchcock film. I kicked my attention back towards what was happening in the bathroom only to see a female body fall to the floor.

   We made our getaway that night. Our dingy easily covered the five miles to the nearby island where we’d set up our base. After cleaning everything down which may have held a trace of us we boarded the plane back to Miami.

   I was on cloud nine. I‘d hated her ever since she’d told an entire table in a crowded L.A. restaurant of my erectile dysfunction.

   It had taken years for me to perfect my assassins’ craft, and make enough money to stalk her around the globe until I finally had my chance. Now however, she was dead.  My apprentice came good and killed for me. I would always remember him favourably for the way he unquestioningly settled the score my code wouldn’t allow me to.

   As we exited Miami International Airport I bought a newspaper to see if her death had yet been discovered.

   Right there on the front page was her picture, underneath the chastising headline “Movie Star’s Twin Found Slain”.

© Graham Smith 2012

BIO:

Graham Smith is married with a young son. A time served joiner he has built bridges, houses, dug drains and slated roofs to make ends meet. For the last eleven years he has been manager of a busy hotel and wedding venue near Gretna Green, Scotland.

An avid fan of crime fiction since being given one of Enid Blyton’s Famous Five books at the age of eight, he has also been a regular reviewer for the well respected review site Crimesquad.com for over two years.

As well as reviewing for Crimesquad.com Graham has also interviewed such stellar names as David Baldacci, Jeffrey Deaver, Dennis Lehane, Lee Child, Matt Hilton, current CWA Chair Peter James, Mark Billingham and many others.

When not working, his time is spent reading, writing and playing games with his son. He enjoys socialising and spending time with friends and family.

http://grahamsmithwriter.blogspot.com/

WHAT PARTNERS ARE FOR By James C Clar

'Mele Kalikimaka' to all with this Christmas themed Higa and Kanahele tale...

What Partners Are For

HPD detective Ray Kanahele sat on a bench in front of Leonard’s Bakery on Kapahulu Avenue. He popped the last of a warm, cinnamon malasada into his mouth and sighed contentedly. He wiped sugar and oil from his fingers with a napkin and picked up the slim stack of papers that lay clipped together on the seat next to him. He squinted up in the late morning Hawaiian sun and looked at his wiry partner, Jake Higa, who stood on the walkway a few feet to his right. The health-conscious Higa was unobtrusively running through what he referred to as a “micro-stretch-break.” The Japanese-American detective was rolling his shoulders, bending at the knees and waist and turning his head slowly from left to right.

“You ever try this shit, Jake?” Kanahele asked as he shuffled a paper to the top of his pile. He pointed a beefy finger at the image of a beer coaster featuring the black-ink figure of a tiger against an orange background. The animal stood beneath a stylized date-palm.

“I’ve had it a few times,” Kanahele continued before Higa could answer. “Tastes like tiger-piss.”

Higa straightened up and smiled. It hadn’t taken the detectives long to determine that the logo in question was that of a cheap beer made in Singapore called Tiger Gold Medal. Still, it was Tuesday and four full days had passed since the aforementioned coaster was discovered in the back pocket of the jeans worn by a ‘Jane Doe’ whose body had been discovered on the bank of the Manoa-Palolo drainage canal out where it ran beneath the bridge on Date Street behind the Ala Wai Golf Course. So far, there wasn’t a shred of helpful forensic evidence. Blunt force trauma was about all the M.E. had to offer. As Kanahele had said, “like we needed her to tell us that!”

Additional lab reports also determined that the woman, who looked to be in her mid-thirties, hadn’t been sexually assaulted. Other than the Tiger Gold Medal coaster, which had been soaked from the brackish water of the canal, there was no identification on her body. Neither were her fingerprints in any of the standard databases. A young woman with her head bashed in a mere ten or fifteen minute walk from the tourist-choked streets of Waikiki was never something about which the Mayor’s Office or the Visitor’s Bureau was exactly ecstatic. Now, though, with Christmas just a few weeks away – and with it hoards of visitors celebrating the holidays in Hawai’i Nei – the pressure was really on to solve the case.

“I’m not a beer drinker, Ray” Higa finally replied with a twinkle in his eye. “You know that. As far as ‘tiger piss’ is concerned, well, I’ll have to take your word for it. The Japanese have some weird, traditional herbal remedies – maybe not as many as the Chinese – but I can’t recall my parents or grandparents ever recommending tiger urine for anything.”

Kanahele clambered to his feet. He spent a few seconds looking through his papers and shuffled another one to the top.

“I suppose we better get back to our friggin’ list. Thank God most of the places that serve or sell this crap are in the Waikiki and Kaimuki areas. Otherwise we’d be chasing all over the island. As it is, I promised Maile we’d go downtown and check out the Honolulu City Lights. We already missed the ‘Electric Light Parade’. Shit, between this case and her schedule at the nursing home, it’s been days since we’ve even had a meal together.”

Higa was too polite to say so aloud, but knowing his longtime partner as well as he did, he was pretty sure that the thought of missing another meal rather than an inability to visit the City and County of Honolulu’s month-long festival of holiday lights and decorations with his long-suffering spouse was what really upset Kanahele. With a sigh, Higa recalled that he had told his girlfriend and the woman’s ten-year-old son that they, too, would make the trip downtown together to take in the sights “one of these nights.”  The way things were going, though, he wasn’t holding out much hope of ‘making good’ on his promise either.

Short of clues, Higa had called around to the beer and liquor distributors on Oahu in order to compile a list of bars and restaurants that sold Tiger Gold Medal. Armed with a picture of their Jane Doe the two detectives had spent the last few days trolling the watering holes and hotel lounges that offered the Singaporean beer. So far, Higa and Kanahele had come up empty; and they had only two places left to visit.

As the two detectives got into their car, Higa’s phone began playing the theme from Hawaii Five-O. He looked down at the display. Kanahele turned to the right and glanced at his friend on the passenger side.

“Aren’t you going to get that?”

“No,” Higa answered. “It’s Charlie Apana. You remember him, right?”

“He’s the guy who trained you, isn’t he? I heard he was having some issues since he retired.”

Higa fiddled with his phone and clipped it back to his belt. The two men stopped at a light on Kapahula directly across from the Rainbow Drive-In. Kanahele looked wistfully out his window at his favorite plate-lunch spot as the light changed and they continued toward Ala Wai Bulevard. The trade winds had picked up and the palms that lined the road swayed gracefully. Their soft susurration could just be heard above the traffic noise.

It had, in fact, been Apana’s retirement that had cleared the way for Higa’s promotion to detective. The two men weren’t especially close, but the veteran detective had stayed on for a few months in order to show Higa the ropes and to help him tie up some loose ends on a couple of old cases before he left for good. It had been years since Higa had heard from Apana. Curiously, this was the third time the older man had phoned in the last two or three days.

“‘Trained’ might be too strong. But I did learn a lot from Charlie in the short time we worked together. He was, maybe, the best investigator I’ve ever known.” Higa declared. “As far as ‘issues’ are concerned, yeah, rumor has it he married a younger woman who has a real wild streak. Charlie always had a temper and I hear that, lately, he’s also seen the bottom of a bottle a few times too many. Not a good combination.”

“What’s he want with you,” Kanahele asked as he piloted the car onto Ala Wai Boulevard. Off to their right, the bright, tropical sun made even the dingy waters of the canal sparkle. The usually burnt out fairways of the Ala Wai Golf Course were lush and green from all the recent rain; so, too, were the slopes of the Koolau Mountains further off in the distance to the north.

“He’s bored, I guess. Who knows? Maybe the holidays have made him nostalgic. He wants me to stop over, talk shop, that kind of thing. Normally I would. Charlie was always an interesting guy. But who’s got that kind of time now?”

A few minutes later, the detectives were on Nohonani Street just up from Kuhio Avenue. Unbelievably, they found a parking spot right in front of their destination, a little dive called the Red Chamber Bar nestled between the Aqua Wave Waikiki and the Ohana Waikiki Beachcomberhotels. The entire complex looked like it had been built in the late ‘50’s or early ‘60’s. It hadn’t gone completely to seed yet but it had certainly started to wither.

The bar occupied a fairly spacious area that allowed access from the lobby of both hotels and which looked out on the tiny pool that served the guests at the ‘Wave. A gaily decorated Christmas tree stood incongruously in the corner just behind the diving board.

As their eyes adjusted to the dimly lit interior, Higa and Kanahele noticed a small stage to the left of the door and a lengthy bar off to the right. In addition to the ubiquitous Christmas decorations, red leather upholstery and traditional Chinese artwork clashed with Mexican sombreros and potted cacti. Clearly the establishment had seen a number of different owners over the years, each with a different idea as to décor and theme. The only occupants were the Hawaiian bartender and a couple of middle-aged ‘hard-throwers’ about three-quarters of a way through a liquid lunch.

“Jesus,” Kanahele muttered as he and his partner seated themselves at the bar, “you’d have to drink to hang out in a place that looked like this for very long!” The sounds of Jimmy Buffett warbling his way through Mele Kalikimaka emerged from speakers tucked somewhere overhead and added to the surreal atmosphere of the surroundings.

The detectives ordered iced tea. When their drinks arrived, Higa opened his wallet to reveal his badge. Once he had the bartender’s attention, he placed the picture of their ‘Jane Doe’ face-up on top of his shield.

“Do you recognize the woman in that picture?” he asked.

“Sure,” the startled bartender answered immediately, “that’s Renee. But, man, she’s actually pretty good looking for a woman her age, know what I mean? She looks like shit in that picture.”

Congenitally unable to restrain himself, Kanahele leaned forward. “Yeah, well, she’s dead in that picture, ‘bruddah. How good you expect her to look? You know what I mean!”

The bartender’s face registered genuine surprise.

“Listen, detectives,” he stammered. “I didn’t know. We have HPD in here once in awhile … someone gets drunk and acts up, or maybe there’s, like, a fight. But, hey, this is the first time I’ve had cops in here showing me pictures of dead customers for Christ’s sake. It’s actually a pretty quiet place.”

“Yeah,” Kanahele interjected with a smile, “it reminds me of House without A Key over at the Halekulani.”

Unfazed, Higa continued. “Does this ‘Renee’ have a last name?”

“Not that I’ve ever heard anyone use. She comes in once, maybe, twice a week. Never any trouble. A good tipper; most of the time she just sits and reads … lady always has a book. It’s never too long before guys start hitting on her. Come to think of it, she hasn’t been in for a few days. Guess now I know why!”

“Do you remember the last time you saw her?

The bartender absent-mindedly wiped down the bar with a damp towel.

“Toward the end of last week … maybe Thursday. Yeah, it had to be Thursday. I was off this past Friday. I remember now because she seemed kind of down-in-the-dumps about something. I was busy, though, a holiday crowd. I never had a chance to talk to her.”

“Listen,” Higa said as he and Kanahele got to their feet. “If you think of anything else, give us a call. Here’s my card. By the way, did Renee leave with anyone that night?”

“It’s like I said, detective, at one point or another, and as quiet as she was, Renee basically left with everyone. But, no, I don’t remember that she was with anyone in particular that night. At least not that I saw, anyhow.”

With that Higa and Kanahele paid for their drinks, turned and walked out. The two habitués at the end of the bar seemed completely oblivious to what had just transpired. Kanahele was vaguely aware of Bing’s version of White Chrismas as he left the darkened interior of the bar and hit the brilliant light of the street.

“At least we have a name, that’s more than we had two hours ago,” Kanahele offered as the two men got into their car. “We should probably come back to this dive tonight when it’s more crowded. Meanwhile, we got one more place to check off our list.”

Higa, busy writing in his black, Moleskine notebook, was lost in thought.

“Listen, Ray, this is going to sound crazy, but let’s take a break. Maybe pay old Charlie Apana a visit. As I said, he was a top-notch detective. Can’t hurt, right? It’s the Christmas season after all. Think of it as an act of charity. I feel like I owe him, I guess. Besides, we can use all the karma we can get. Last I heard he was living over there on Campbell, just off Monsarrat. I have the address somewhere here in my notebook.”

Kanahele looked quizzically at his friend. All of his instincts cried out for him to object. Still, over the years he had learned to trust his often enigmatic partner’s hunches and intuitions. Wordlessly, he turned the car around and headed down the street toward Kuhio Avenue.

A few moments later, the two men turned at the corner of Kapahulu and Kalakaua and headed up Monsarrat past the zoo and the Waikiki Shell. They came to Campbell and turned right. As they did, Kanahele looked longingly at another of his favorite establishments, The Diamond Head Grill.

They parked in front of a little house near the corner of Hayden Street and got out. Somewhere in the otherwise quiet, well-tended neighborhood a dog barked. To their right, they could see the slope of Diamond Head off in the distance. The landmark shimmered in the sunlight as they walked up to the door of the house. A small banana tree growing in the yard gave off a rich, cloying scent. There didn’t seem to be a bell, so Higa knocked.

Before long, they heard footsteps. The door opened to reveal a balding, powerfully built man in his early sixties.

“Jake, son of a bitch, what a surprise,” Charlie Apana blurted. “I figured I’d never hear back from you. C’mon in. It’s great to see you.”

“Good to see you, too, Charlie. This is my partner, Ray Kanahele.” The three men shook hands. Apana held the door and the two detectives entered the house. Instead of the pizza boxes, beer cans and overflowing ashtrays they had perhaps unconsciously expected, the place was neat and tidy.

“Can I get you guys something to drink?” Apana asked as he ushered Higa and Kanahele into the living room.

“Some guava juice for me, if you have it, Charlie. We’ve been pounding the pavement most of the afternoon.”

“The same,” Kanahele echoed.

Apana headed for the kitchen.  While they waited, the two men looked around the room in which they sat. What struck Higa the most – apart form the lack of photographs – were the books that lined the shelves on the far wall. He’d never have taken Charlie for a reader. Kanahele, for his part, was relieved by the absolute lack of Christmas decorations. After the Red Chamber Bar, he was glad to be in a place that was singularly devoid of theme-oriented décor

Apana returned to the living room. On a tray, he had what was clearly a Scotch for himself along with two tall, chilled glasses of guava juice. He set the tray down first. Before giving his two guests their glasses, he opened the drawer of an end table and extracted two cardboard coasters and placed them on the coffee table in front of where Higa and Kanahele were seated. The cardboard circles became immediately damp as soon as the older man set the condensation covered glasses down on top of each. Even so, the two detectives recognized the by-now-familiar image of a black ink tiger under the silhouette of a date palm tree.

Kanaele’s eyes traveled up to meet those of his partner. Simultaneously, both men turned toward their host.

“Tell me, Charlie,” Higa inquired quietly, “what’s your wife’s name?”

Apana hesitated perhaps a moment too long. He must have sensed something in his former partner’s tone.

“It’s Renee,” he responded as he averted his eyes. “Why do you ask?”

***

My partner’s a goddamn savant, Kanahele thought two hours later as the detectives walked back to their car. The area around Charlie Apana’s Campbell Avenue home had been cordoned off and the street was choked with all manner of official vehicles. Residents watched the early evening drama from their yards as well as from behind half-closed curtains and blinds. Christmas lights winked on in the neighborhood as the sun began to set behind the Waianae Mountains to the west.

“Looks like you and Maile might be able to make it down town to the Hale tonight after all, Ray,” Higa suggested. “I’ll take care of the paperwork on this one. He was my partner, after all.”

“Really,” Kanahele responded incredulously. “Shit, we might even have time to stop at that Italian place on Beretania. I owe you one, Jake. Really, I do.”

“Merry Christmas, my friend,” Higa spoke with more than a trace of irony, “that’s what partner’s are for.”

THE END

BIO:

Short fiction by James C. Clar has been published in venues as diverse as 365 Tomorrows, Apollo’s Lyre, Static Movement, the Taj Mahal Review, Powder Burn Flash, Resident Aliens, The Magazine of Crime & Suspense. Everyday Fiction and A Twist of Noir. Stories featuring Honolulu detectives Jake Higa and Ray Kanahele may also be found from time to time right here on Thrillers, Killers ‘n’ Chillers.

BROWN BAG LUNCH By James C. Clar

We're a few days late, but nevertheless, we're sure you'll enjoy the latest Higa and Kanahele tale just right for valentine's day...

Brown Bag Lunch

“Tell us again what happened, Mrs. Maeda,” HPD Detective Jake Higa instructed the agitated young woman who sat across the desk from him. Higa and his partner, Ray Kanahele, had commandeered a manager’s cubicle on the ground floor of the new Bank of Hawaii Center that occupied most of the block along Kalakaua Avenue between Lewers Street and Beachwalk. Like most days for the past month or so it had rained lightly in the morning but the afternoon brought with it bright sunshine, blue skies, puffy white clouds and light trade winds. The temperature hovered in the low 80’s.

Maeda fingered her wedding ring. She seemed to be looking past Higa and through the tinted glass of the large window that swept in an arc around the front of the building. A small crowd had gathered outside on the sidewalk in response to the police cruisers and uniformed officers who had secured the area in the general vicinity of the bank. Palm trees swayed in what looked, from inside the bank, like a tropical pantomime.

“He had a gun detective. It’s just like I told you already.” Maeda’s lilting voice betrayed just a trace of irritation. Kanahele had earlier fetched the young woman a cup of tea. Both policemen had been concerned about her going into shock. At the very least, her nerves were shot and they were doing everything they could to keep her on an even keel while they pieced together her story.

“We realize that,” Kanahele spoke in his most placatory tone. “The thing is you notice stuff when you’re under stress without even being aware of it. It’s an unconscious thing, right? So every time you go back over the story it’s possible you might remember something else, something that might help us here.”

“And, to be honest,” Higa chimed in quietly with a smile, “my partner and I have had a long day already. Maybe we missed something you told us the first time through. We’re trying to cover our bases here as well.”

As Higa intended, Helen Maeda looked over at the two men with an expression of sympathy, solidarity even. And, in fact, it truly had been a rough day.

“Jesus Christ, Jake,” Kanahele had complained an hour or so earlier as the two overworked and decidedly underpaid detectives left their car where they parked it on Kalakaua Avenue and ID’d their way through the police cordon that had been set up around the entrance to the Bank of Hawaii building.

“This is the third call we’ve answered today. Damn! We haven’t even had lunch yet. All I’ve had are coffee and a couple malasadas.”

“You stopped at Leonard’s on your way in?” Higa’s question had carried the note of accusation.

“Yeah. I didn’t bring you any ‘cause I know you don’t eat them.” The stocky, lumbering Kanahele had been temporarily preoccupied with visions of the sugary Portuguese doughnuts to which he was partial and for which the aforementioned bakery over on Kapahulu was noted. His wiry, health-conscious partner nodded his head.

“Anyhow, isn’t anyone else working today?”

“You know how it is, Ray,” Higa replied. “Pretty much anybody that’s available is here. There was a freeze on time off over the holidays and now, of course, everybody’s using their time before they lose it.”

“Shit, the holidays. Don’t remind me. What a ‘freak show’ that was. You know, reality is twisted enough in Waikiki under normal circumstances. Folks from the Mainland just can’t handle Christmas in Hawai’i Nei. I mean, Santa in a canoe, palm trees with ornaments and hula elves? It overloads their circuits. And I’m not even talking about the homegrown shoplifters, pickpockets, dopers, prostitutes and homeless people who flood the area looking for a little holiday cheer.”

Almost on cue, someone dressed as a giant green frog could be seen waving at and handing leaflets or pocket menus to the hordes of sunburned tourists who walked down the street a block or two from where the two policemen stood.

“See what I’m saying?” Kanahele pointed with an air of vindication. “It’s that new chain Mexican place that just opened in the Royal Hawaiian Shopping Center.  Maybe drugs are the answer. It might be the only way to cope. Anyhow, now we got Valentine’s Day to contend with.”

Kanahele had paused for a moment.

“Listen, Jake, speaking of Valentine’s Day, I’ve been meaning to ask …that is, Maile has been wondering … how’s it going with you and that Nakamura woman. You’ve seen her a few times, right?

Higa stopped and looked down before answering as if weighing his words.

“Yes. We’ve gone out a couple of times … for dinner. Actually, though, I’ve been spending more time with Toshio. He’s a great kid … a special kid.”

Kanahele recalled the young boy and his vivid imagination from a previous case.

“I’m taking it one step at a time, Ray. It’s been a long time since I’ve dated anyone.”

Higa’s wife had left him over ten years ago, just before Kanahele had been promoted to detective and assigned as his partner. In all the time they had worked together since then, Kanahele couldn’t recall his Japanese-American friend taking an active interest in a woman. The fact that the normally stoic and serious Higa had actually asked Mary Nakamura out had been a frequent topic of conversation in the Kanahele hale of late.

“To be honest,” Higa went on to confide, “I’m not even sure Mary is genuinely interested in me. There are times when it seems that what she likes most is the fact that Toshi and I get along so well. I don’t blame her. The boy’s never had a ‘father’ or, really, any kind of positive male role model.”

“Yeah, well, that ‘moke she had living with her … you know, that Eddie dude who disappeared … was a total loser. No doubt. But, listen. I saw they way you two were lookin’ at one another when we were interviewing her. She’s interested alright. She’s probably a little gun shy, too, know what I mean? I’ll talk to Maile. We’ll have the two of you … or the three of you, whatever you want … over for a cookout or something. Maile will be able to tell where thing’s stand. I guarantee. You know I’m right.

Higa smiled. “Thanks, Ray. Let me think about it before you make any plans. OK? We’ve got enough on our plates here today as it is.”

And so the detectives were decidedly glad when Helen Maeda acquiesced without further complaint and launched into her story again.

“I was just about to go to lunch … we stagger our breaks, right … when this young Asian kid, he might have been Filipino, I’m not sure, came up to my position.”

“You said he had shoulder length black hair, a blue tank top and a tattoo on his shoulder, correct?” Higa interrupted before his partner mentioned their own lack of a lunch break … again. “What did the tattoo look like again?”

“It was one of those stylized turtle ‘tats you see on t-shirts and stuff all around here, know what I mean? I think they call them tribal tattoos.” The policemen nodded their heads. Around them, a small cadre of plainclothes and uniformed officers conducted interviews with other bank staff and two or three patrons who were unfortunate enough to have been in the building at the time of the incident.

“Anyhow, the kid was probably nineteen or so – maybe early twenties. I could tell right away that something was up.

“How so” Higa asked? His pen was poised over his battered, black Moleskine notebook.

“Well, for one thing, he was looking around like crazy. He was obviously nervous, hyped up, lolo … you know what I mean? And he kept muttering something about his girlfriend; at least I think that’s who he was talking about. I had to ask him three times what I could help him with. Next thing you know, he starts waving a gun at me.”

“Did you trigger a silent alarm?” Kanahele inquired. “I mean, you must have a panic button.”

Helen Maeda looked down. Her pretty face flushed red.

“Listen, officers. We just moved over here into this building.”

Kanahele nodded his head. “Yeah, sure, I know. I had a day off and my wife and I were in Waikiki. We stopped by for your grand opening celebration.”

Higa looked at his longtime friend.

“They had a band, Jake, out front on the sidewalk. Plus free pu-pu’s. Maile had been doing some shopping.”

Higa shook his head and smiled. The slender man turned back to the frazzled bank teller.

“Mrs. Maeda, I’m not sure I follow. What does that have to do with the alarm?”

“Well, in our old location, the alarm was on the floor. You had to activate it with your foot. Kind of like the high-beams on older cars. Here the thing’s on the inside of the counter, under the lip. And it has a cover you have to pop off before you can push it. That’s supposed to prevent anyone hitting the thing by accident.”

Higa and Kanahele waited for Maeda to continue.

“The thing is,” the young woman stammered, “I was so nervous, I mean, the guy was waving a gun in my face, I only thought of the alarm as he started to walk away. Even then, well, I started searching for the thing on the floor with my foot. I kept kicking the bag that had my lunch in it. It took me a few seconds to remember that, here, the alarm’s under the counter. I think he was already out the door before I tripped it. Listen, we have drills, but I was shaking. I could hardly think. Will I get into trouble because …?”

“Hey,” Kanahele, offered the sobbing woman one of his trademark handkerchiefs. “No worries. You did great. We’ll make sure we talk to you manager, if it even comes up, OK?”

An EMT vehicle passed outside on Kalakaua Avenue; probably called to assist someone stung by a box jellyfish or tossed off a surfboard and onto the rocks. Higa used the interruption of the down-Doppler strain of the siren to refocus the conversation. “Let’s go back to the point when he pulled the gun. What happened next?”

“The kid shoved a paper bag at me, you know, one of those small, brown sandwich bags. He said ‘fill it’ and started looked around like crazy again. I was so flustered I didn’t know what to do first. Anyhow, I dropped it. I mean, my hands were shaking. I felt like I was going to pass out.”

“What did the kid do?” Kanahele interjected.

“Nothing,” Helen Maeda almost smiled. “He was nervous too. I don’t even think he noticed.”

“And that’s when, you know …” Higa prompted.

“Yeah. I guess if I had realized what a chance I was taking I never would have done it. It was like I was in a trance. I did it without really thinking about it.”

“Maybe your training kicked in after all.” Kanahele smiled.

“Sure. The thing is, the kid never looked. He just took it from my hands and bolted out the door. Like I said, I think that’s when I finally hit the alarm. I’m so sorry.”

“Mrs. Maeda,” Higa spoke as he closed his notebook, “you have nothing to worry about on that score. In fact, I’m willing to bet there’s probably a commendation for you in all of this.”

“Listen, detectives, at this point I’d be happy if someone bought me my lunch. I mean, I was planning on going to the bank after work myself. I need some cash. That’s why I was brown-bagging it today in the first place.”

***

“Jesus, Jake,” Kanahele remarked later as the two men left the Bank of Hawaii building and emerged on the street and into the bright, late afternoon sunshine, “I’ll bet that kid was pissed when he opened that bag. Shit. Instead of a sack full of money he ends up with a peanut butter and apple-banana sandwich, some yogurt and an Ito En green tea!”

Higa smiled, almost the equivalent of a laugh for him. “Well, at least he got a healthy lunch for his efforts. And no one was hurt, that’s something. That gun worries me, though. Let’s hope we pick the kid up sooner rather than later.”

Higa paused. “Ray, have you gotten Maile anything for Valentine’s day yet? You know what’ll happen if you forget again this year.”

“I was going to get her some flowers or something after we got off today. Thanks for reminding me.”

“Listen,” Higa suggested, there’s that Teddy Bear World place right next door here. You know, it used to be Planet Hollywood before they went bankrupt. You want to go in and look around? You might find something in there. I don’t mind. It won’t take long.”

Kanahele looked at his partner and arched his eyebrows. Almost at once a knowing expression animated his features.

“Sure thing, Jake. Hey. Maybe you might find something in there too, right? Let’s go take a look.”

***

A few blocks away on the curving path that ran between McCully and Kalakaua Avenue, Charlie Ona sat on a bench and watched the sunlight glint off the surface of the Ala Wai Canal. He tossed a few crumbs into the water and, almost instantaneously, a dozen or so minnows emerged from its depths to start a short-lived feeding frenzy.

Charlie finished his sandwich, crumbled up the brown paper bag that held it and tossed it into a green receptacle emblazoned with the state seal and motto. He wiped his hands on his jeans and un-tucked the long-sleeved t-shirt he had changed into a few moments ago.

Shit, shit, shit … he muttered to himself over and over again as he stood up. He had no idea how that bitch back at the bank had tricked him like she had. Some day he’d go back and teach her a lesson. For now, though, he had more immediate problems. Like, if he didn’t score some money or wasn’t able to swipe something to give his girlfriend for Valentine’s Day, she might just kick him out of her place. Then what would he do? After all, that was the only reason he put up with her raggedy ass.

The gun, Charlie thought as he started walking. Maybe I can sell the gun …

The End

BIO:

James C. Clar's short fiction has been published in print as well as on the Internet. His work may be found in places like The Taj Mahal Review, Flashshot, Golden Visions Magazine, Word Catalyst Magazine, Antipodean SF, Bewildering Stories, A Twist of Noir, Powder Burn Flash, Static Movement, The Magazine of Crime & Suspense, Weirdyear, Apollo's Lyre. and 365 Tomorrows. Stories featuring Honolulu Detectives Jake Higa and Ray Kanahele have appeared previously here on Thrillers, Killers 'n' Chillers.

A DOG OF A DAY By Paul Grzegorzek

Enjoy part 2 of Paul's new crime thriller series...

A Dog of a Day.

 I got out of the car carefully, trying not to get Tony’s blood on the wheel, seats or door. I’d taken him straight from the flats to a back street doctor who wouldn’t ask questions about bullet wounds, along with enough money for him not to go making any clever connections between my lung-shot friend and the shootout in South London that was now all over the media.

Big Trouble in Little Streatham, most of the radio news teams had been calling it, although one wit had dubbed it the ‘Tooting Shooting’.

I knew that before long the police would have the DNA of everyone who had bled at the scene, which included myself and Tony, and before that happened I needed to find the man who’d escaped and make his insides outsides.

I’d been paid up front, so I probably should have just walked away, but people shooting my friends makes me an unhappy man, not to mention the fact that I was unlikely to get a reference from my last employer and that really ticked me off.

So I’d come to the one place I knew in London that would give me a chance to find out who and where my new Russian friend was.

Scrubbing the worst of the blood from my hands onto my jeans, my fingers brushed across the butt of my Sig, tucked away under my jacket.  Just knowing it was there gave me the confidence to go into a situation that was at best uncertain, at worst fatal.

Visiting Benny Kolpov was a bad idea at the best of times.  He was, as you might guess from the name, Russian.  He was in his late sixties, and spent most of his life bombed out of his face on vodka.  That wasn’t what made him dangerous though.

What made him dangerous were the half dozen guards that he kept around him at all times, lounging around his large house in West Norwood like fleas on a dying dog.  That, and the fact that last time I’d seen him I’d put three of his guards in hospital and broken his nose.  He had been trying to kill me though.

Benny claimed that he was ex-KGB, abandoned in the UK when the cold war ended.  It might have been true, it might not; either way he knew every serious Russian in the City, or at least knew of them and knew their business well enough that for a price he could tell you how to find them.

Dusk was turning the sky the deep purple of an ugly bruise as I approached the house on Thornlaw Road, checking about to make sure that I wasn’t being observed.  Not that I thought I would be, but old habits die hard and forgetting them makes you die harder.

The house was set back from the road with a yard large enough to park three cars in front of it.  Two of the slots were filled, one with a Jaguar XFS and the other with a BMW X5. Whatever Benny lacked in sobriety, he made up for in money.

I’d no sooner set foot in the yard when the front door opened and two men in casual clothes stepped out, one of them holding a hand inside his hoody.

I raised my hands and slowed. 

“I’m not here for trouble, I’m here to see Benny about business.  Lucrative business”.

The one on the right nodded and held up a hand.  I obediently stopped while he disappeared inside, leaving me facing the other across twenty feet of cold concrete.  His hand was still inside his top, no doubt resting on the butt of something as illegal as my Sig.

After what felt like a month the other man returned, waving me forwards.

“Spread your arms mate”, he said as soon as I’d stepped into the wide hallway.

I spread them obediently.  “That’s a funny Russian accent you’ve got”, I remarked as he searched me thoroughly, removing the Sig and both spare magazines.

The man shrugged as my weapon disappeared into his jacket.

“Benny decided he wanted someone local to do the talking.  Help smooth things over where the language barrier gets difficult”.

Despite his size and the broad London accent, he was clearly no muscle-moron, and I watched him carefully as he led me through the richly decorated hallway and into Benny’s ‘receiving room’.

It had changed little since I’d been there last, several couches strewn around with a coffee table each to rest drinks on.

On the far side of the room sat a drinks table that would have put Olly Reed to shame, dozens of bottles of all shapes and sizes neatly lined up with a stack of glasses and an ice machine nearby.

Benny himself sprawled on a sofa, his cadaverous body hidden by a large smoking jacket as he nodded along to the strains of what I thought might be Wagner coming from the stereo.

“Ah, Mr Blake!”  He said jovially, waving a glass of vodka in my direction.  “It has been long time”.

I nodded, staying silent as I noticed the two men taking up flanking positions either side of the door.

“I suppose you want Benny for something, in spite of our… differences last time we meet, no?”  His accent, always thicker when he was drunk, was now almost undecipherable.

“Shrewd as always Benny.  I assume that as I’m coming to you as a paying customer I don’t need to worry about you trying to settle the score for last time?”

The Russian waved a hand at me magnanimously.  “Of course not!  It was just business, and we were… opposite tradesmen at the time.  Now sit, and tell Benny what you need”.

I’ve never been able to trust people who talk about themselves in the third person.  It’s as if they want to distance themselves from their actions.  Oh no, that wasn’t me, that wasBenny.  I’m sure you get my drift.

I sat on the sofa furthest from the door, wanting to give myself reaction time if it kicked off.  Not that I thought it would, but I hadn’t survived this long by being careless.

“I need to know about a Russian”, I began, setting Benny chuckling.

“Of course you do, or why else you come to Benny?”

“I don’t have a name, just a description and the place he was earlier today”.

Benny straightened a little in an attempt to look halfway sober. 

“Go on”.

“A block of flats in South London, between Streatham and Tooting.  He’s about my height, thin face like a vampire”.  I went on with the description, giving every tiny detail I could remember.

When I’d finished, Benny was nodding sagely.  “Yes, I think I know this man.  Come with me and I will check records”.

He stood a little unsteadily and weaved towards the door which one of the guards obediently opened.  I followed him out into the hallway and over to a door under the stairs.

Pulling it open, he turned on a light and led me down a narrow flight of stairs that I thought would spell his end, but he gripped the railing and shuffled down step by step until he was on the hard concrete floor.

He stood for a moment, looking around uncertainly before wandering off into the gloom. “I will be back in moment.  Make yourself at home”.

The darkness swallowed Benny almost immediately, the only light coming from the bare bulb that hung above the stairs.  How he could see in the darkness was beyond me, but then a small lamp flickered into life about twenty feet away, outlining the stacks of shelves that filled the basement.

A creak from behind me made me turn to see the guard who’d taken my gun lounging against one wall while the rest of him filled the stairs. 

Hearing Benny moving back towards me, I tried to move to keep both of them in view but the basement here was too narrow, so I turned to look at Benny instead, trusting that the guard had no reason to cause me harm.

Only it wasn’t Benny.

Instead, the man from the flats was coming towards me, both hands curled around a pistol that was aimed at my face.

Putting my hands up, I shifted backwards until my heels hit the bottom step.

“Easy lads”, I said nervously, wishing the man behind me didn’t have my gun.  “This looks like a great time to do a bit of talking”.

“I wish it was, Mr Blake”, Benny’s disembodied voice floated out of the darkness, “but the man you seem to have found so easily is my cousin, Yuri”.

My heart sank.  There was only one way out of here, and that was clearly in a body bag.

Yuri approached until he was just out of reach, cold eyes fixed on me over the pistol.

“You killed my good men”, he said in atrocious English, “for that you die”.

Two things happened at once.

The first was the guard on the stairs looping his arm around my throat to hold me still. For a big man he was fast, and his huge, corded muscles began crushing my windpipe before I could react.

The second was that I got angry.

Not the usual burning anger that I’d felt so many times before, but a cold, hard rage that made everything sparkle like crystal and slow down around me.

I saw, with perfect clarity, Yuri’s finger tightening on the trigger, the pad turning white as it pressed against cold metal hard enough to hurl a bullet towards my chest.

I saw, way off in the darkness, Benny shuffling cautiously towards the pool of light in which we stood.

And I felt, with a sudden smug glee, the guard’s footing shift slightly as he tried to pull away from the shot that he knew was coming.

The moment he shifted, I moved.  One hand shot up, sticking a thumb in his eye as I dropped my weight, pulling forwards as my other arm grabbed his shoulder and hurled him over my now bent back.

He flew like a bird, rolling off my hip to crash into Yuri as the Russian’s eyes widened in surprise.

His finger jerked reflexively on the trigger, the sound deafening in the tight space and hiding the guard’s scream in its ringing echoes.

Before the big man could regain his feet I charged forwards, stamping hard on his throat. Blood spurted and a scream cut off abruptly as I launched myself from his throat and into Yuri’s arms before he could bring the pistol to bear a second time.

He stumbled backwards, pistol flying from his grip as I hammered an elbow into his jaw, then followed through with a knee that caught him in the stomach and lifted him off the floor.

From the darkness a shotgun roared, a flash of light blinding me as tiny balls of lead ripped through my jacket and into the flesh of my right arm, stinging like a hundred angry wasps.

Ignoring the pain I roared out my anger and charged, head high and fists up in a guard as if I could ward off the final shot I knew would come.

Except that it didn’t.

Instead, I ran into the small pool of lamplight to find Benny frantically breaking open a single barrel shotgun, trying to stuff a cartridge into the breech before I closed with him.

In his dreams.  I was two hundred pounds of angry muscle and he was an old man with a skin full of vodka inside him.  I hit him like a train, both hands slamming into his chest and lifting him off the floor to slam him into the wall with his feet dangling inches from the concrete.

The old man snapped the weapon shut and tried to bring it up under my chin, his eyes screaming his fear for him.  He didn’t let it stop him though, and I respected him for that as I reached out almost casually and broke his neck, the crunch as his spine snapped nothing but a whisper against the slowly diminishing rage.

Dropping the lifeless body to the ground, I stooped to grab the shotgun and hurried back to the stairs, intent on having a few choice words with Yuri.

Except that he was gone.

The guard was still there, sightless eyes staring up at me in reproach, but Yuri had managed to escape.  Dropping the shotgun, I retrieved my pistol from the corpse and headed up the stairs, determined to find Yuri and get some answers.

I may have lost him for now, but at least I had a name, and in London’s dark underworld someone knowing your name can be a very bad thing.

Especially when it’s me.

BIO:

To get the skinny on Paul and his work, visit his blog here: http://diariesofamodernmadman.blogspot.com/