Read Online Mahu Surfer by Neil Plakcy - Free Book Online Page B

clearly Honolulu-bound business types were doing the same before hitting the H2 down toward the city.
     
    The place was decorated in a style I can only describe as island Starbucks; the walls were painted with murals of coffee beans, called kope in Hawaiian, growing on bushes on the slopes of what looked like Mauna Loa and Mauna Kea. There were two groups of overstuffed arm chairs, and a number of blond wood tables and chairs for the laptop set.
     
    Melody ordered a tall vanilla soy latte and I got  their signature macadamia mocha latte in the longboard size, their largest. We snagged a pair of the comfortable chairs and settled down. She was dressed for work by then, a light yellow linen dress and sandals, a lei of shiny brown kukui nuts and a sports watch her only jewelry. With her tanned skin and her sun-bleached blonde hair, she could have been an advertisement for healthy summer living.
     
    Mana’o Company was playing low in the background, encouraging us to “Spread a Little Aloha” around the world, and in one corner of the room a bust of King Kamehameha surveyed us, an electric blue plastic lei around his neck.
     
    “So how long did you know Mike?” I asked, when we were settled.
     
    “About three years. He came to the halau right after he got to the North Shore, as part of his strength training.”
     
    Though most people think halau means a place you can learn to hula, it also means a long house for canoes. “How well did you know him?”
     
    Melody sipped her latte and considered. “Better than an acquaintance, not as well as a friend,” she said finally. “We talked a lot, and I heard all about his background, but I didn’t see him socially. Of course, you can’t help running into people up here; it really is a small world.”
     
    “I’ve heard he was a dedicated surfer.”
     
    “Fierce. It was what he lived to do. Everything else revolved around surfing. How he trained, who he hung out with, how he supported himself.”
     
    “How did he support himself?”
     
    She slipped one sandal off and twisted around so that leg was under her, smoothing the edges of the yellow linen dress. “Part of the reason why he came up here was because he met a shaper at some tournament who offered him a job,” Melody said.
     
    A shaper’s a guy who customizes surfboards by sanding, polishing and shaping standard boards.
     
    “Mike did the scut work, he called it, for this guy, Palani Anderson. Dragging boards around, cleaning up the mess, that kind of thing. He did that for about year, I guess, and then he started having breathing problems from the Fiberglas fumes so he had to stop.”
     
    “Bummer.”
     
    She nodded. “By then, though, Mike was good enough that he was able to start teaching. He worked out of the marina for a while, giving lessons, and then he started landing in the money at tournaments. His career was just taking off when he died.”
     
    “When was the last time you saw him?”
     
    Melody had to think about that one. The foot that was still wearing a sandal tapped lightly on the floor. “It was just a couple of days before he was shot,” she said finally. “I remember he went down to Mexico for a tournament, and so I didn’t see him for a couple of weeks, but then he was back at the halau. I remember he got into a fight with Rich over something and it really disrupted practice.”
     
    “Rich is the guy who hates surfers?”
     
    Melody nodded. “He’s not a bad guy, you know, but he and Mike used to argue about property rights—whether the beaches should be free for everyone, you know, that sort of thing.” She waved her hand a little for emphasis, and I saw she had a small tattoo of a sun on the inside of her right wrist.
     
    “I heard Rich used to be a surfer himself. I’m surprised that his attitude changed so much.”
     
    “Well, he’s a security guard for this guy who owns a piece of beach, and he’s always chasing surfers away. I think some friend of