Sauce for the Gander

Frank Maeda sat outside a small coffee shop at the corner of Kapahulu and Kalakaua Avenues in the faded heart of Waikiki. His table was underneath a large hau tree, and, although it was only 10:30 in the morning, he was grateful for the shade. Across the street and to his right, Kuhio and Kapiolani Beach Parks were already jammed. Despite the almost overpowering aroma of coffee, he could just detect the faint tang of iodine from the ocean.

To the delight of local surfers, the trade winds had picked up over the course of the last few days, engendering a strong south shore swell. Those same breezes now carried the high-pitched commotion of a group of schoolchildren queuing up at the entrance to the Honolulu Zoo across Kapahulu and kitty-corner from where Frank sat. The voices of the children did battle with the rich tones of Cyril Pahinui singing about the Po Mahina or “Night Moon.” The coffee shop’s speakers were mounted above the establishment’s doors.

Arthur Raimondi hadn’t been happy when Frank called and insisted on meeting in Waikiki.

“Dammit, Maeda,” the real estate mogul had objected. “You know what parking is like over there!”

“Listen,” Frank responded, “it’s there or nowhere. Besides, you’re coming from home, right? It’ll only take you five minutes from Kahala.”

Frank couldn’t help feeling a perverse sense of pleasure as he sipped his coffee and imagined Raimondi doing laps up and down the congested streets of Waikiki, trying to find a parking spot. It wasn’t just that he had wanted to inconvenience his client—put the man at a disadvantage from the start—or that he simply didn’t like the arrogant son-of-a-bitch. Both of those things were true. Maeda’s real motivation was that he most definitely wanted a public place for what would certainly be their final meeting.

Not for the first time, thoughts of meeting with Arthur Raimondi made Frank wish he could have a drink, a real drink. But he wasn’t going to let the asshole knock him off the wagon. From their first phone conversation, however, the dude had gotten on Maeda’s nerves.

“My sources tell me you’re good,” Raimondi had said, “that you were, quite possibly, the best investigator HPD ever had … when you weren’t curled up inside a bottle, that is!”

Frank had let that pass. What could he have said? It was true, all of it.

“I appreciate the call, Mr. Raimondi. I do. But it’s like I told you. I don’t do that kind of work. Plenty of other investigators do. I can give you the names of a few who would be willing to take the case.”

“I don’t want anyone else. I want you. And, if you know anything about me, you know I generally get what I want. Besides, my sources also tell me that the recent economic downturn has hit you hard. Take the job, dammit. You need the work. I hear you haven’t got two nickels to rub together. Believe me, I’ll make it worth your time.”

Once again, Maeda had been in no real position to argue, so, against his better judgment, he began working for Arthur Raimondi.

As Frank was lost in thought, Cyril Pahinui gave way imperceptibly to Jake Shimabukuro doing a spirited rendition of Thriller. Maeda cursed himself for letting his guard down when he looked up to see his client pulling out a wrought iron chair and taking a seat across from him.

Raimondi cut quite a figure. His immaculately styled dark hair was graying at the temples. His deep, tropical tan was set off spectacularly by a white silk Tommy Bahama aloha shirt. It was easy for Frank to see why so many local “movers and shakers” had the man marked for a career in politics.

“OK, Maeda,” Raimondi raised his voice to be heard over the No. 22 bus that was pulling away from the corner of Kapahulu a few feet away to turn and make its way up Monsarrat toward Diamond Head. “This better be important. I’m a busy man.”

“It’s important, alright,” Frank responded with just a trace of sarcasm.

“Well, get on with it then. Tell me you finally have something on that bitch, would you please! Otherwise, she’ll take me to the cleaners in the divorce settlement. It’s been almost two months. It makes me wonder what you’ve been doing with all the money I’ve paid you. Frankly, ‘Frank’, I’ve toyed with the idea of firing you … of hiring an investigator with a little more ‘imagination,’ if you know what I mean.”

Wordlessly, Maeda slid the photograph across the table and took a sip of his tepid coffee.

It took Arthur Raimondi a moment to process what he was looking at.

“Damn you,” he said, looking around furtively. “Where did you get this?”  A vein throbbed in the man’s neck. Frank was becoming concerned that his client might have a stroke. “I haven’t been paying you to follow me!”

“No,” Frank replied quietly as he pushed his chair back and stood up. “But your wife has.”

---

It had bothered Frank to give Raimondi his money back. Still, he thought as he strolled up Kalakaua Avenue in the bright sunshine, there were ethics involved after all! Besides, Sharon Raimondi had compensated him quite generously for his time, quite generously indeed.

In the “bad old days,” Frank would have celebrated the successful completion of a case with a drink … or two or three. Funny, all he thought about now was heading into Chinatown for a shave and a haircut. He wanted to look his best. If Frank were reading the signs correctly, he figured he’d be seeing a great deal more of his former client’s soon-to-be ex-wife once her divorce was final.