Robert Walker - Primal Instinct

“ All of the girls didn't look like me. I saw the papers.”

“ They were all like you,” he disagreed.

She shook her head, not wanting to hear this.

“ I mean all of dem was Polynesian girls with long, dark hair like yours, and beautiful eyes like yours, and all about your age. Dat's why I'm frightened fo' you, and I will happily drive you home.”

She considered her options: an hour on a wretchedly smelly old bus without shocks, or Lopaka's kind offer. His smile is handsome, his eyes are a blue volcanic rock with a hint of shining mystery lurking there; promise and danger all rolled into one, she thinks.

“ I… I don't know, Lopaka.”

“ Please. I wanna do dis for you, Hiilani.”

“ But my boyfriend. He's a hothead, he's Samoan.”

“ Don't a bit worry me. I carry a weapon fo' protection.”

“ A weapon?” She is instantly curious.

“ Fo' protection only. Can't be too careful nowadays. I've got”-he hesitates, then whispers in her ear-”several knifes, swords even, some ceremonial ones but others quite useful, some Jap stickers.” Then he whispers, “I've also got some French and Colombian stuff, if you get me, some good smack, if you like- get high? I can make it happen fo' you, babe.”

“ No, no… I don't do dat kine stuff.”

He shrugs. “I don't either,” he lied, “but I keep it round fo', you know, my aikanes.”

“ Here come my bus,” she says. “I betta say good night.”

“ Why're you afraid of me, Hiilani?”

“ Afraid?”

“ Yes.”

“ I'm not.”

“ Den why you no come wit' me?” He begins to whisper, seeing nearby a curiously large, wide-shouldered white woman with a lantern jaw listening intently to their conversation. “I'm not, really. I just don't wan-no problem with my boyfriend, you know?” she says.

Lopaka at first gently presses her in their native tongue, and then begins an insistent tugging on her arm, trying to lead her away from the stop. He pleads almost childishly for her to come away with him, saying that she'd be surprised at what he could show her.

“ She said no, fella!” The surprisingly gruff voice, coming as it does from the heavyset white woman beside them, shocks Lopaka, as does the big woman's burrowing, searching eyes.

“ What?” he asks without thinking.

“ So buzz off,” replies the old lady.

“ No, please.” Hiilani quickly intervenes. “All right, Lopaka. I go with you, but you put me out a block from where I live and no argument?”

“ No argument, I promise,” he lies.

Lopaka places an arm about her, and they stroll off down Muluhia Road toward Kalia Road and his car, Lopaka looking over his shoulder, curious to see the heavyset woman with the horse face stare after them. The bus arrives, however, and the nosey bitch gets aboard, so Lopaka turns his full attention to young Hiilani.

The big woman who'd lumbered onto the bus and out the back door before it pulled from the curb now quick-stepped her awkward way amid the crowd of tourists and thrill-seekers who routinely milled about Waikiki's streets. Beneath the dress and makup, she was Sergeant Nathan “Bigfoot” Ivers. The HPD undercover cop now followed Lopaka and Hiilani, expecting nothing really to come of his hunch. He'd followed similar hunches now for days, working on his own time as well as the department's, his ear to the ground, anxious to learn anything he might regarding the sonofabitching Trade Winds/Cane Cutter who, it was rumored about police circles, was also responsible for the deaths of Officers Thom Hilani and Alan Kaniola.

The getup Ivers wore tonight was particularly uncomfortable, his knee-length hosiery riding down while his skirt, a tent for anyone else, was riding up his hips. He hated decoy work, and he particularly hated wigs and makeup, but he'd do whatever necessary to get a line on the man who killed Alan Kaniola.

The double murder of the two Hawaiian cops out at Koko Head had been a great personal loss for Ivers, who'd trained both of the dead men. Being Hilani's and Kaniola's training officer made it personal.

Hilani was wet behind the ears, as was Kaniola, but both men had been levelheaded. Kaniola, in particular, was a deadly shot with his weapon, even from the hip! He was quick, intelligent and cautious, all traits which should have kept him alive. Ivers wondered if Hilani hadn't done something stupid to compromise Kaniola's good judgment and natural ability to handle himself. He'd really liked young Kaniola. There wasn't a prejudicial bone in Alan's body and he was always laughing, his eyes eternally smiling. He represented the best of the native Hawaiian, both open and friendly while shrewd and aloof when necessary, not to mention his physical virtues. Ivers believed his young protege would be angry if he'd survived to read the kind of crap that was being printed in his father's newspaper these days.

Both Alan and Thom were dyed-in-the-wool police officers who didn't deserve what they'd gotten that night up at Koko crater.

Ivers had been working a one-man crusade to get a line on Alan's killer, but it was as if the ocean had swallowed up the shooter/slasher who'd disfigured Kaniola so badly with that cane cutter. None of the usual tactics of shaking down known street lowlife had worked; no one knew the lone killer. The fiend was a modern-day Jack the Ripper who left no bodies and nary a clue, and he was apparently, as Ivers's FBI contact said, a loner, without attachments, either friend or foe.

Hearing the guy called Lopaka call out the girl's name, Hiilani, had first caught Ivers's ear only because her name was so similar to Thom Hilani's. Then the guy just kept at her to take a ride with him, and while that alone might've been annoying enough, Ivers realized that the creep had been waiting for her to come off work, and that his car wasn't even on this block. When the hair on his neck stood on end, Ivers knew to listen to it. On a hunch, a kind of sixth sense, Ivers decided to follow the stocky, medium-sized man whom the young lady called Lopaka.

He knew enough Hawaiian to catch bits and pieces of what they'd said in their native language, but he'd been unable to hear the whispers in her ear.

He now scanned the avenue for any sign of the couple. He had lost sight of them in the milling crowd. Damned streets here were like a series of cattle cars filled to capacity. Hemmed in, Ivers used his huge purse to whack more than one person getting in his way, saying sorry in the sweetest tone he could muster.

He wasn't even sure he was following the right path when he headed east toward Fort DeRussy, but he knew there were areas around the base where you could park for a limited time without getting a ticket. He played out his cards and came to within forty yards of a battered maroon Buick as it pulled away from the curb. Inside the car, he could see the doe-eyed Hawaiian honey who'd stood at the bus stop, and her eyes appeared glazed and unseeing now, her body rigid and unyielding, a stone mannequin behind the glass. Beside her was a grinning jackal whose eyes lit on Ivers. Something in his eyes told Ivers that if this wasn't the bloody Trade Winds Killer, he'd do until the real thing came along.

Ivers raced now toward the Buick, recalling Alan Kaniola's brief description of the vehicle he'd followed the night he was murdered.

The driver gunned the old engine, and it abruptly shut down on him, simultaneously sending a smile to Ivers's lips and a black soot cloud from the exhaust pipe. The exhaust cloud blanketed a foursome of sailors in their dress whites, who instantly erupted in a flurry of curses and tossed beer cans, the missiles richoceting off Lopaka's car. Ivers was coming full speed, the sailors whistling and gawking at him now. He confirmed that the passenger in the car was sedated, sitting zombielike, not seeing. The driver was cursing and banging on his dash.