Read Online Surfing Detective 02 - Wipeout by Chip Hughes - Free Book Online
Authors: Chip Hughes
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Corky’s wave-riding buddy.
“I can’t guarantee they will.“ She shoved the card deep into a pocket of her jeans.
If she wasn’t hiding something, someone was. Why else would she be so rude?
I knew the North Shore wasn’t all good vibes and big waves. There were drug-related crimes and violence, like everywhere else. Recently at a birthday party at Laniakea two men were stabbed to death and several others beaten senseless. The culprits slipped away into a dark underworld the tourist bureau doesn’t advertise. That makes the North Shore not a place to go poking around into other people’s business, especially the wrong people. You might end up dead.
Up the road from Sunset Beach I stopped in at the Foodland in Pupukea, a chain supermarket, and larger than you’d expect in this country setting. I wandered around until I found the crack seed display. I pulled from the hanging rack a small package of my favorite
Sweet Li Hing Mui
—pungent, sweet-sour dried plum pits—and headed for the checkout line. A local guy, who from the width of his shoulders looked like he surfed, rang me up. I pulled out my wallet containing the photo of Corky. Handing a couple bills to the clerk, I flashed the picture.
“Evah see dis guy?”
“Dat’s da guy wen’ wipe out at Waimea . . .”
“Corky, yeah. Evah see his girlfriend? Redhead.”
“Maya? Ho, nice!” He smiled suggestively, almost a leer.
“Yeah, Maya. Know where I can find her?”
“
She live on da beach at Sunset . . .”
“Yeah, but her roommate say she gone.”
“Gone?”
“Any idea where?”
“Maybe upcountry Maui?” the clerk said. “I t’ink she from Makawao.”
“You sure?”
“Dunno fo’ sure, brah.” He shrugged.
“T’anks, eh?”
He was still leering at the thought of Maya as he handed me my bag.
Ten
The bell tower at the Mission of Saints Peter and Paul loomed ominously over Waimea Bay as I glided by, heading for Hale‘iwa town.
About halfway there, a black Mercedes with dark windows flashed by in the opposite direction. I couldn’t have sworn it was Summer’s “escorts,” but the men in the front seat looked hauntingly familiar. Were they going where I had been? Ke Nui Road? Pupukea Foodland?
At Surf n’ Sea in Hale‘iwa I stepped into the repair shop in search of a shaper from Oregon named Skipper who surfed occasionally with Cousin Alika. Although not born in Hawai‘i
,
Skipper knew North Shore breaks and boards as well as many local surfers.
Surfboards in various degrees of ding repair leaned against the walls of the shop. The air was thick with the chemical odor of uncured resin. The floor felt sticky under my feet and was plastered with castoff strips of cotton-soft and resin-hardened fiberglass cloth. Skipper wore a surgical mask beneath his grey eyes and close-clipped hair of peroxide orange. A diamond stud in his left ear lobe glittered.
While I watched, Skipper squeegeed uncured resin onto the deck and one rail of a surfboard—a gun with a slot-like hole in the deck where another surfer’s fin had apparently dug in. In other words, the board had been “skegged.”
When he was finished I showed Skipper Corky’s poorly patched board and severed leash.
“Any idea who might have repaired this candy cane?”
“Ugly.” Skipper shook his head. “No shop in Hale‘iwa did this. I’d bet it was patched in somebody’s garage. Maybe that guy out in Mokule‘ia? I’ve never met him. He’s military—from Schofield Barracks.” Skipper eyed the board. “How much did you give for it?”
“Three hundred.”
Skipper rolled his eyes.
“I needed the board for a case I’m working on,” I explained, “the death of that California surfer who wiped out at Waimea on Christmas Eve.”
“I remember that guy,” said the shaper. “Too bad.”
“You knew him?”
“Not really. Just to say hello. He brought in his lady once.” Skipper raised his dusty brows.
“Nice.”
“What was her name?”
“I
“I can’t guarantee they will.“ She shoved the card deep into a pocket of her jeans.
If she wasn’t hiding something, someone was. Why else would she be so rude?
I knew the North Shore wasn’t all good vibes and big waves. There were drug-related crimes and violence, like everywhere else. Recently at a birthday party at Laniakea two men were stabbed to death and several others beaten senseless. The culprits slipped away into a dark underworld the tourist bureau doesn’t advertise. That makes the North Shore not a place to go poking around into other people’s business, especially the wrong people. You might end up dead.
Up the road from Sunset Beach I stopped in at the Foodland in Pupukea, a chain supermarket, and larger than you’d expect in this country setting. I wandered around until I found the crack seed display. I pulled from the hanging rack a small package of my favorite
Sweet Li Hing Mui
—pungent, sweet-sour dried plum pits—and headed for the checkout line. A local guy, who from the width of his shoulders looked like he surfed, rang me up. I pulled out my wallet containing the photo of Corky. Handing a couple bills to the clerk, I flashed the picture.
“Evah see dis guy?”
“Dat’s da guy wen’ wipe out at Waimea . . .”
“Corky, yeah. Evah see his girlfriend? Redhead.”
“Maya? Ho, nice!” He smiled suggestively, almost a leer.
“Yeah, Maya. Know where I can find her?”
“
She live on da beach at Sunset . . .”
“Yeah, but her roommate say she gone.”
“Gone?”
“Any idea where?”
“Maybe upcountry Maui?” the clerk said. “I t’ink she from Makawao.”
“You sure?”
“Dunno fo’ sure, brah.” He shrugged.
“T’anks, eh?”
He was still leering at the thought of Maya as he handed me my bag.
Ten
The bell tower at the Mission of Saints Peter and Paul loomed ominously over Waimea Bay as I glided by, heading for Hale‘iwa town.
About halfway there, a black Mercedes with dark windows flashed by in the opposite direction. I couldn’t have sworn it was Summer’s “escorts,” but the men in the front seat looked hauntingly familiar. Were they going where I had been? Ke Nui Road? Pupukea Foodland?
At Surf n’ Sea in Hale‘iwa I stepped into the repair shop in search of a shaper from Oregon named Skipper who surfed occasionally with Cousin Alika. Although not born in Hawai‘i
,
Skipper knew North Shore breaks and boards as well as many local surfers.
Surfboards in various degrees of ding repair leaned against the walls of the shop. The air was thick with the chemical odor of uncured resin. The floor felt sticky under my feet and was plastered with castoff strips of cotton-soft and resin-hardened fiberglass cloth. Skipper wore a surgical mask beneath his grey eyes and close-clipped hair of peroxide orange. A diamond stud in his left ear lobe glittered.
While I watched, Skipper squeegeed uncured resin onto the deck and one rail of a surfboard—a gun with a slot-like hole in the deck where another surfer’s fin had apparently dug in. In other words, the board had been “skegged.”
When he was finished I showed Skipper Corky’s poorly patched board and severed leash.
“Any idea who might have repaired this candy cane?”
“Ugly.” Skipper shook his head. “No shop in Hale‘iwa did this. I’d bet it was patched in somebody’s garage. Maybe that guy out in Mokule‘ia? I’ve never met him. He’s military—from Schofield Barracks.” Skipper eyed the board. “How much did you give for it?”
“Three hundred.”
Skipper rolled his eyes.
“I needed the board for a case I’m working on,” I explained, “the death of that California surfer who wiped out at Waimea on Christmas Eve.”
“I remember that guy,” said the shaper. “Too bad.”
“You knew him?”
“Not really. Just to say hello. He brought in his lady once.” Skipper raised his dusty brows.
“Nice.”
“What was her name?”
“I
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