The Pearl Harbor Murders

ELEVEN

The exceptionally beautiful weather and the lopsided victory in this afternoon's football game coalesced into a night of rampant partying, excessive even for a Saturday in Honolulu. The city was rife with private parties and public revelry, and alive with music, from radios bleeding syrupy Hawaiian strains, seemingly designed to make lonely men feel even lonelier, to a lively battle of the bands at the Naval Receiving Station at Pearl Harbor, where the U.S.S. Arizona band was going over big, with the upbeat likes of "Take the A Train." Hotel ballrooms, like the Royal Hawaiian and the Ala Moana, were offering fox-trots, while swing music emanated from the town's less stodgy bandstands, like those at the Niumalu or the dance hall at Waikiki Amusement Park.

Swing also jumped from jukeboxes up and down Hotel Street, where sailors and soldiers swarmed in ribbons of white and khaki. A fleet of rickety taxis, wheezing buses and rattletrap jalopies charged down the two-lane highway connecting Pearl Harbor and Honolulu, conveying the invading horde to their dropping-off spot: the Army and Navy YMCA, at the eastern end of Hotel Street, a suitable starting point for an evening of good-natured debauchery.

Awash in garish neon, flickering under the strobe of fluorescent bulbs, Hotel Street was a glorified alleyway lined with low-slung stucco buildings wearing tin awnings like gambler's shades. To boys longing for home, the midway that was Hotel Street seemed to echo carnivals and state fairs, this rude collection of taverns, trinket counters, massage parlors, photo booths, pool halls, shooting galleries, curio stores, tattoo artists, and dime-a-dance joints.

Along the narrow sidewalks of every block were one or two barbershops, the barbers invariably young attractive Japanese women, and at least one lei shop, with pretty Hawaiian girls stringing flowers. Other sorts of "leis" were available, as well: hotels whose rooms all had the shades drawn-the Rex, the Anchor, the Ritz-attracted lines down the block of sailors and soldiers waiting to choose between two varieties of "room": three dollars for three minutes, or five dollars for an extended stay, up to ten. Relatively safe, too: the local police, in turning a blind if well-paid eye, insisted on weekly blood tests for these unofficially sanctioned soiled doves.

Hully and Jardine had recruited Sam Fujimoto to join on their Hotel Street expedition. Sam knew both

Ensign Bill Fielder and Corporal Jack Stanton, the former better than the latter, but in either case enough to recognize either in this sea of uniforms. Starting at the west end, Hully and Jardine, who were on a first-name basis now, took one side of the street, while Sam took the other-they had agreed to rendezvous at the Black Cat Cafe in an hour and a half.

"You figure whoever killed Pearl Harada," Hully said to the Portuguese detective, "killed Terry Mizuha, as well."

They were shouldering their way down the tight, teeming sidewalk, faces around them flushed with neon-theirs, too.

"Probably," Jardine said.

"Why was Terry killed? What could he have known?"

Jardine shrugged. "It's possible this Terry was a real eyewitness … which may be more than can be said for Otto Kuhn."

A group of sailors slouched under a tin awning in front of a cafe, laughing, smoking, caps at jaunty an-gles, pant legs flapping in the almost cool breeze.

Hully said, 'Terry wouldn't've had to be an eyewitness to be dangerous to the killer. Everybody knew he and Pearl were best friends. She might have confided in Terry about something that allowed him to know, or anyway strongly suspect, the murderer's identity."

Jardine nodded. "There's another possibility."

"Which is?"

They were passing by a shooting gallery where soldiers were throwing baseballs at milk cans, and sailors were playing Skee-Ball and pinball.

"Perhaps," Jardine said, 'Terry Mizuha wasn't strictly mahu-maybe he was even closer to Pearl than we've been led to believe."

"Oh, that's crazy…."

"Is it? Gates have been known to swing both ways, on this island. Suppose this jealous sailor pal of yours, or that soldier, came upon Terry and Pearl, together on the beach?"

"What, and confronted by a sudden act of violence, Terry fled?"

"Yes … and was afraid to come forward, for fear of looking a coward-hoping his silence would buy him a free pass from the killer."

"I don't buy it, John."

The detective summoned a thin smile. "Well, it's your own damn fault, Hully."

"My fault?"

"You're the one that started me thinking-I was content with Harry Kamana as the murderer."

Looking for Bill and Stanton, Hully and Jardine tried various taverns-the Two Jacks, the Mint, the New Emma Cafe-wading through clouds of cigarette smoke laced with the smell of stale beer, sorting swarms of sailors and soldiers, who were crowded at tables, packed in booths, flirting with Oriental waitresses, whom they so greatly outnumbered. None of the fresh, young, happy, sad faces belonged to Bill Fielder or Jack Stanton.

Hully and the detective checked tattoo parlors, where boys sat bare-chested under bare bulbs as Filipino artists inscribed American flesh with hula girls, anchors and "Mother." They tried curio shops where this sailor bought a fringed pillow cursively designated "Honolulu," and that soldier purchased a monkey-pod carving. They tried storefront photo studios, where gobs and GIs posed with pretty, grass-skirted Hawaiian girls who had no interest in a date. They tried cafE's-the Bunny Ranch, Lousy Lui's, Swanky Franky-where servicemen who had gotten drunk too fast tried to sober up just as quickly. No Fielder; no Stanton.

They tried a dime-a-dance joint, a barnlike second-floor ballroom not unlike a church hall or an Elks club. A small combo-piano, guitar, drums-played slow tunes; tables were scattered on either side of the heavily varnished, underlit cavern. Many of the girls were surprisingly good-looking, Hully thought, a variety of Japanese, Chinese, Puerto Rican, Hawaiian and combinations thereof-also the occasional white girl-in low-cut, shoulder-baring evening gowns. No liquor was sold on the premises, nor was it allowed to be brought in.

"These girls don't look like prostitutes," Hully whispered to Jardine, as the two stood on the sidelines.

"They aren't," the detective said. "See that blonde over there?"

Jardine was indicating a dazzling blonde dancing with an older man, a Filipino.

"She's somebody's wife, I'll lay odds," the detective said. "These are nice girls. They aren't allowed to date the customers-aren't allowed to leave until closing, when their mothers or their husbands pick them up."

But Hully wasn't looking at the blonde, anymore. He was nodding toward a soldier. "Hey-that's him…. That's Stanton."

Corporal Jack Stanton was dancing with an attractive if overly made-up Japanese girl in a low-cut blue satin gown that would have made her the hit of any prom; she was holding the boyishly handsome, brown-haired soldier close, her small fist tightly clenching a curling strand of tickets. She looked just a little bit like Pearl Harada, particularly to somebody drunk, like Jack Stanton.

When the tune ended-"Moonlight Becomes You"-Jardine went out onto the dance floor and tapped Stanton's shoulder, as if he were cutting in.

Stanton glared at the little fedora-sporting detective, but when Jardine held up his wallet, displaying his badge, Stanton swallowed and nodded, with morose inevitability. Hully couldn't hear what either man was saying-he had secured a small table at Jardine's request-and watched as the broad-shouldered, athletic-looking Stanton walked subserviently along with the diminutive detective, over to the waiting table.

Hully pulled out a chair for the corporal.

Suddenly Stanton's submissive attitude shifted; he seemed to bristle at the sight of Hully, saying, "I know you."

"I know you, too, Jack." Hully gestured to the chair and, in a not unfriendly way, said, "Sit down."

Stanton was scowling. "You're Bill Fielder's friend."

"I'm one of them."

Jardine said to Stanton, "Sit down." Not so friendly. Stanton sat. He was inebriated, but short of sloshed. Jardine sat on one side of the soldier, Hully on the other.

The detective said, "I brought Mr. Burroughs along to identify you. I could have embarrassed you by going to your commanding officer and requesting a photo, you know."

Stanton's eyes narrowed. "Why didn't you?"

"I wanted to hear your story."

"What story?"

"The story of you and Pearl Harada."

Stanton swallowed. Then he put his elbows on the table and began to cry into his hands. The shabby little combo was playing "Fools Rush In."

Jardine gave the corporal a handkerchief. Stanton thanked Jardine and used it, drying his eyes, blowing his nose.

Then the detective said, "You and Bill Fielder got into a tussle over Pearl Harada last night. Want to tell me about it?"

Swallowing again, Stanton shrugged, saying, "It wasn't much of a 'tussle'-I punched him and he punched me. Then it got broke up. That's all."

"Why did you punch him?"

"Because … Pearl was my girl. I wanted him to stay away from her."

"You mean you were still seeing her? She was dating you, at the same time as Fielder?"

He shook his head, glumly. "No … no. She broke it off with me, weeks ago. I just… couldn't get her out of my mind. Couldn't accept it. She was… so beautiful. So much fun… sweet… talented… smart…"

Jardine waited until Stanton stopped crying again, then said, "You were seen arguing with her last night."

"I know." Stanton worked up a sneer. "By that fairy Mizuha. He told you, right?"

Jardine's face was as impassive as a cigarstore Indian's. "The way this works is, I ask the questions. You argued with her?"

"It… it wasn't really an argument. I was … a little drunk. I yelled at her." The soldier leaned against an elbow, hand to his forehead, as if taking his own temperature. "She just looked at me, like … like she felt sorry for me. And maybe a little … disgusted… after I wouldn't stop yelling. I almost think that's what hurts most of all."

"What?"

"That she died thinking I was a jerk."

More tears followed, then Jardine asked, "Where were you, around twelve-thirty, one o'clock?"

"Back at Hickam."

"What time did you argue with Pearl?"

"Midnight-right after the band got finished."

"Where did you go, after the argument?"

"I told you-Hickam. I took a cab. I was in my rack by twelve-thirty, or damn close."

"You were in the barracks?"

"Yeah."

Jardine was jotting this down in his little notebook. Hully realized these assertions would be easily

checked: the cab could be tracked; and whether or not Stanton had been in the barracks at the time of the girl's death. Pearl had been alive at twelve-fifteen, when she'd taken her leave of Hully's father, at their bungalow. And Hickam Field was twenty minutes from Waikiki.

If he was telling the truth, Stanton couldn't have been Pearl Harada's murderer.

"I want you at Central Police Station at ten o'clock Monday morning," Jardine said to the corporal. "For a formal statement. If you need to have your commanding officer call me, I work out of the Prosecutor's Office at City Hall."

And Jardine handed Stanton a business card. Stanton held it between thumb and middle finger and stared at it like a chimp trying to figure out a math problem.

Stanton's expression was one of astonishment. "You don't really think I… listen, I didn't… Do I need an attorney?"

"That's up to you, Corporal. If you were a prime suspect in my mind, I'd be taking you in right now."

He was shaking his head, his eyes as intense as they were red. "I wouldn't have hurt her. I would never have hurt her. I'd sooner kill myself. Do you have any idea what I'm going through? What it feels like inside my head right now? Inside my gut? My heart?"

"Monday. Ten o'clock."

"I thought Harry Kamana did it. Didn't you arrest him?"

“Ten o'clock. Monday."

Jardine rose and Hully followed suit.

"What about Fielder?" Stanton asked, still seated. "Where was he when Pearl was …?"

"We're going to find that out," Jardine said. He touched the brim of his fedora, in a tip-of-the-hat manner, and headed for the door, Hully trailing after.

Just as they were going out, Hully saw Stanton heading back out to the dance floor with the Japanese girl, the combo playing, "I Got It Bad and That Ain't Good."

The Black Cat was a long, open-faced cafE that benefited from its proximity to the YMCA across the street, where buses and cabs had brought-and would later pick up-sailors and soldiers … anyway, those who weren't sleeping it off in a room in the big, rambling, palm-surrounded Y.

Sam Fujimoto was at a table right on the street with two sailors-one of whom was Bill Fielder. The other was Dan Pressman. The Black Cat served liquor, but all three were drinking coffee.

"Nice work," Jardine said to Sam, pulling up a chair, Hully doing the same.

Bill sat slumped in his chair, his expression dour, his handsome features puffy, his dark hair uncombed. Blond, blue-eyed Dan Pressman seemed more alert, and was watching Bill the way a parent watches a child. Hully's hunch was that Bill had been tying one on, and Dan had laid off the booze, to keep an eye on his friend's safety and welfare.

"Found Bill and Dan down at the Tradewinds," Sam said.

"Rough joint," Jardine said, and showed his badge to the two sailors. "I'm Detective Jardine. How are you doing, Bill?"

"My fiancee was murdered," he said, just slightly slurring his words. "How the hell you think I am?"

"When did you see Pearl Harada last, Ensign?"

Dan said, "Detective, if you want to question Bill, don't you think it'd be more appropriate if you waited till he's-"

"I'll talk to him now," Bill said sharply. "Right now. I'm sober-sober enough. And I don't have a goddamn thing to hide."

"You should have a lawyer," Dan said. "This is a murder case."

Bill batted the air. "They already caught the guy. Didn't you catch the guy?"

"Harry Kamana is in custody," Jardine said. "When did you see Pearl last, Ensign?"

"At the Niumalu. I left about a quarter to midnight. … The Harbor Lights were still playing."

Jardine gazed out from under the shadow of the fedora brim. "She was your girl, wasn't she? Why didn't you hang around to spend some time with her, after?"

"I wanted to talk to my father. I was spending the weekend with my folks-and I knew I'd have the chance to talk to Dad about… about Pearl and me. About us getting married."

"Did you talk to him?"

"Yes." He shook his head, rolled his eyes. "Oh yes indeed."

"It did not go well?"

He grunted a humorless laugh. "It did not go well."

"What happened?"

Bill leaned forward, weaving slightly; his words remained slurred but coherent. "Just a shouting match. My mother tried to calm both of us down, but… I went to the guest room, slammed the door. That was the end of it."

"What time was this?"

"I got home just after midnight. We must have argued till one o'clock, one-fifteen."

Jardine glanced at Hully: this would seem to be an alibi for both Bill and his father. . unless one was covering for the other.

"Ensign Fielder," the detective said, "I mean no disrespect … but you were not the only man in Pearl's life."

Bill slapped the metal table and the coffee cups jumped, spilling a little. "You're wrong! I was the only man in her life."

Jardine's voice was a persistent near monotone. "What about Jack Stanton? Harry Kamana?"

Bill gestured with an awkward hand. "They were old boyfriends. I didn't say she was a… a nun. But we were engaged-she wasn't dating anybody else, wasn't seeing anybody else. Just me."

"How would you have felt if you found her in the arms of another man?"

The ensign bobbed forward. "Would it make me want to kill somebody? Is that what you want to know? Sure, Detective …"

Touching his friend's arm, Dan said, "Bill-easy, now … watch what you're saying…."

"I'd have wanted to kill the son of a bitch who was with her… not Pearl. Never Pearl. But that didn't happen, Detective, and it wouldn't happen, couldn't happen. She loved me, I loved her. We were engaged. She was going to be … my wife."

"What if you found her in the arms of Terry Mi-zuha?"

Bill blinked. "Why would she be in that queer's arms? What the hell kind of stupid question is that?"

Jardine handed Bill a business card. "That's my office number at City Hall. But I want you down at Central Police Station at eleven o'clock Monday morning. Can you remember that?"

"Yeah." Bill was looking at the business card, trying to make his eyes focus. "Why do you wanna talk to me again?"

"I want your formal statement. I don't think you did this thing, Ensign Fielder, but you are a suspect. You may wish to bring an attorney along."

Bill's head was rocking, slightly. "I don't understand this-Harry Kamana did it! He had goddamn blood all over himself! Somebody saw him do it, right? Why…"

"We can discuss this Monday. Show up sober, Ensign."

Then Bill was on his feet, raving, ranting. "You let that bastard Kamana out, I'll kill his ass! You understand? You wanna arrest me for a murder, you'll get your chance…."

Dan also got to his feet, latching onto Bill's arm. "Take it easy, Bill. Just stop talking, goddamnit."

A male voice chimed in: "Did you kill her, Fielder? Did you murder my girl?"

As if he'd materialized, Corporal Jack Stanton was standing next to the table. Now Hully and Jardine were getting to their feet, as Stanton grabbed the startled Bill Fielder by his khaki blouse, with both hands.

"Why did you do it, Fielder?" Stanton demanded, his eyes crazed. "Was she throwing you over? Coming back to me?"

Bill threw the first punch. Then the two heartsick, drunken servicemen were slugging away at each other, flailing, stumbling out into the street, mostly missing, occasionally connecting. Within seconds a crowd of sailors and soldiers had formed around them, cheering them on.

Jardine was shaking his head, giving Hully a look. "Oh hell," he said wearily.

It was only a matter of minutes before the crowd turned itself into a brawling mob, sailors belting soldiers, soldiers smacking sailors. Fielder and Stanton were no longer visible, swallowed in the sea of white and khaki, with shouted obscenities mingling with cries of pain.

The gunshot froze them all.

Then their eyes turned to the little Portuguese detective who had fired his.38 revolver into the air. The sailors and soldiers did not have time to process this before the MPs and Shore Patrol descended, blowing whistles, shouting admonitions, arresting a few of them, the bulk scattering.

Hully found Bill Fielder in a pile on the pavement,

barely conscious, fairly battered; Stanton was nowhere to be seen. Hully and Dan Pressman-who had not gotten involved in the fracas-walked Bill to the table and sat him down.

Dan said to Hully, "Listen, I need to catch a liberty ship. You want me to haul him back to the Arizona?"

"No-I'll baby-sit him tonight," Hully said. "Clean him up, and let him sleep it off."

Jardine was talking to the Shore Patrol and the MPs, showing them his badge.

"You guys always have this much fun on Hotel Street?" Hully asked Pressman.

Dan grinned. "Every time."