Black Mask Magazine (Vol. 31, No. 1 — January, 1948)

I rounded the jutting rock and was proceeding slowly when my headlights picked up a sedan parked cater-cornered across the road. The little fellow standing beside it held up his hand in the semi-helpless manner of a driver in distress. I couldn’t have passed if I had wanted to, so I came to a stop and cut the ignition. He was a stranger to me, but as he stepped out of the glare of my headlights, I saw a look of recognition on his face and saw his hand go into his coat pocket.

I couldn’t start the motor and back up the hill as fast as lead could fly, so I did the next best thing. I exited through the opposite door, getting my gun out at the same time. It was a good move except for one thing. A dark figure materialized out of nowhere on my side of the car and a brown hand holding a .45 smashed down on my wrist, sending my gun spinning. I half-straightened, saw that he was Hawaiian, about six-three, at least two hundred and fifty pounds. That gave him height, weight and reach over me, not to mention the gun or his little pal. Naturally I was supposed to lie down and roll over. He was still pulling his gun hand away from me when I dove out of my half crouch. I grabbed his gun wrist with my left hand and butted him in his big belly. We were on the dirt shoulder of the road a yard from the drop over the edge. He grunted, fell backwards, his feet reaching desperately for a firm footing, and toppled over the edge. I hung onto his gun arm and let him pull me over with him. I might as well get my neck broken rolling down the incline as stay at the top and get shot in the back.

We plunged in a tangle of arms and legs down the rocky slope. Once when I happened to be on top, the darkness was lit up as Shorty tried a shot. It went harmlessly over our heads. I remembered the sheer drop at the bottom of the incline. If I was lucky and the big Kanaka didn’t fall on top of me, I could come out of it with a sprained ankle or a broken arm. If I let go now, I would be caught in the middle of that dark slope between two guys with guns. If he was too dumb to drop the gun and try to save himself, I was going to have to hang on and take that fall.

He must have gotten that idea about the same time. I felt him let go the gun, spread-eagle and brace himself. He was below me at that point and my hands and head were leading my feet down the slope. I saw what had given him the idea. The headlights of an approaching car were moving slowly up the lower portion of the road. After the car negotiated the hairpin turn and started upward, it would find the way blocked by our two cars. The occupants would no doubt be curious about what was going on.

I let go, threw both arms around a clump of pamakani and allowed my body to slide around below my head. The big Kanaka braced himself, rose and reached for my feet. I hung onto the bush, drew my knees up and let him have both feet in the face. I have always heard that the Hawaiians are a noisy carefree race. This one didn’t utter a sound and he had plenty of cares as he went backward head-over-heels and tumbled over the drop twenty feet below. I heard the grinding of gears and looked upward in time to see the sedan speed past the oncoming car near the hairpin turn.

Outside of a skinned nose and a big jump in blood pressure, I was all right. I scrambled back up the slope and reached the top just as the car which was probably responsible for saving my life went by without stopping. His lack of interest was all right with me. I found my gun, holstered it and got rid of the grass and gravel that had worked down my collar, climbed in the coupe and headed down the hill. The little guy in the sedan had not been interested in the fate of his pal. I was.

I found his body at the foot of the drop by the side of the road. By the way his neck was twisted he must have landed on it. I saw that I hadn’t exaggerated his size. He was wearing a green sport coat over a canary yellow sport shirt. The tropical worsted trousers yielded a wallet with three dollars and a driver’s license that said he was William Kahalawai and lived in the Hillside Hotel in the Kakaako district. He had a dime, a quarter and a room key in one pants pocket, and a pack of cigarettes and two packs of book matches from the Hobron Club in another.

The pockets of the coat yielded an item of interest — a pair of suede gloves. Hawaiians don’t wear gloves. In fact, I can’t imagine a reason for anybody in Hawaii wearing suede gloves except perhaps to pull a trigger on a murder gun. I looked down at his big feet. They were encased in soft woven-leather sandals with flexible rubber soles. Ideal for climbing a slanting coco palm. I got the towel-wrapped tin out, eased the box into his coat pocket. I got back into the coupe, shoved the towel in the dashboard compartment, and headed for Waikiki. A visit to the Hobron Club was indicated.

The lights were dim in the Hobron Club, the bar was bamboo and the walls were covered with lauhala matting. A row of booths lit by imitation fishermen’s torches lined the long wall opposite the bar. Throw-nets and green glass floats were scattered here and there and the seven piece orchestra wore mess jackets and pikake leis. I climbed up on a bar stool and ordered a Scotch and water. The evening trade had packed the place. There were about thirty tables surrounding the medium-size dance floor and everybody seemed to be having a good time.