never had one of those. I'll try it," Ben said with a hint of vocal flattery that caught him by surprise. He’s been out of circulation for so long that he forgot he even had any flattery left in him.
Kitiona brought a Vailima from the kitchen and handed it to him. "It reminds me of home, a little. Vailima is hard to find in the states. There's a specialty liquor store close to the Moscone Center that carries it. It’s a quick ride on my motorcycle,” she finished trying to fill the air with conversation starters.
Ben took a drink of the beer. "It's heavier than I thought it would be. Coming from the South Pacific, I thought it would be more like those Mexican beers, all carbonation and no body. They’re like drinking fizzy water."
Kitiona smiled. "Our rugby players back home wouldn't drink anything else.”
Ben nodded and tilted his head with understanding agreement. Kitiona sat down and asked Ben if he was hungry. "I'm getting there," he responded.
"Another ten minutes and the Palusali casserole will be done."
They both felt a little awkward. There was a 30-second pause and Ben look at Kitiona’s eyes. She looked up from the beer in her hands and their eyes met.
"Ben, I’m not sure were to begin or even how to begin," she sighed.
Ben gave her a closed-lip half smile. He had seen bewildered eyes like hers before. Most of Ben's clients came to him because they were in trouble. Sometimes with the law. Sometimes with another person. What or whoever, he knew the signs of despair.
Ben's opening line always seemed to calm down clients and help them focus. "Summarize your thoughts in a couple of sentences,” he offered.
Ben made the mistake most young lawyers make early in their practices. If he had said to start at the beginning, he could be listening to someone's life history for hours before even getting to the important stuff. So, he opted for the 'reader's digest' version. Then he would ask clarifying questions to fill in the blanks.
With the relief of someone confessing sins to a priest, Kitiona started. "My family was murdered by the people my father worked for."
Ben's eyes and mouth opened slightly. That was only one sentence, but it got his attention. He had heard most everything at one time or another. But twelve years into retirement, he wasn't expecting anything like this.
He took a deep breath. Then he sipped his Vailima. He ordered his thoughts and began thinking like a lawyer. “Why do you think your family was murdered?”
“Because a fire burnt our house down and our house wasn't very big,” she said for starters. “Then there were two strangers hanging around town that left immediately after the fire.”
After a short pause, Ben said, "I can understand how you might put these two things together, but where's your proof?"
"My proof is the fact that someone's trying to kill me,” Kitiona said with a hard tone. Then she relaxed a bit, finally getting her fears out in the open. “Did you see anyone hanging around outside my apartment tonight?”
Ben's mouth opened a little wider. What had he gotten himself in to? Was dinner and some conversation worth enduring a personal conspiracy theory, he asked himself.
“No!” He answered.
Within a few moments he noticed her eyes dart off towards the kitchen. Kitiona suddenly had a startled look on her face. She stood up and he reacted by standing up too.
"I hope I didn't burn the casserole.”
He let the air out of his lungs. Composing himself, he asked, "Is there anything I can do to help?”
"How about bringing our Vailimas to the table," she said, pointing her head towards the dining room.
He picked up the two beers and walked to the table. He asked himself what type of person could be talking about being a death target and still worry about burning a casserole?
Kitiona brought in the Palusali casserole holding it with hot plate mittens. She placed it in the middle of the table and went back into the kitchen for the wrapped, warm sourdough bread. She sat it on the table and pulled up a chair across from Ben.
“We don't have bread that tastes like this in Samoa," she said while putting her hands together.
“That's because the sourdough yeast grows best in San Francisco," he educated her.
She looked at him then bowed her head. He just looked at her. She raised her head up and said, “We must give thanks.” He gave her a warm smile.
They both started to eat. "This is delicious,” he said. She gave him a thank you smile.
Three bites into his meal, Ben's curiosity got the best of him. "Kill you?" he said as if nothing had happened between her opening statements of several minutes ago and now.
“Yes!” She said after putting her fork and bread down on the table. "One day when I was leaving my last apartment, I crossed the street and a car tried to run me down.”
"Did you get the license plate number?"
"No, I was too busy ducking in between parked cars,” she said. "I know they were trying to kill me because they didn't stop.”
"They could have been in a hurry and didn't even see you,” he speculated.
"Yea, but I recognized them. There were two men in the car,” she fired back. "They tried to hurt me back in Samoa. And a couple of nights ago, I saw them again walking behind me near Joe's Restaurant. I went into Joe's and they followed me. I went into the women's restroom,” she paused, "and made myself invisible and lost them."
She took a moment to let Ben process this information. Ben was about to ask her how she made herself invisible. But then he figured, why interpret this fascinating story.
“The next day the same two guys parked outside my apartment. I spotted them when I walked out the front door. I hopped on my motorcycle rode downtown. But they followed me. So, then I lured them on to the Bay Bridge. A few miles down the bridge, I cut across traffic and barely made the Yerba Buena Island exit. They couldn't react in time."
"I came back to the City. I walked around the rose garden at Golden Gate Park for a couple of hours and made sure they weren't following me. I guess they went all the way across to Oakland. Anyways, I lost them.
I went back to my apartment and they were parked across the street, again. Then, I gave my stuff to the Salvation Army, collected my valuables, rented this flat and here I am." She finished with her eyes glancing around the room.
Ben had stopped eating being mesmerized by her story and by how she was telling it. Her mannerisms were so incent, but she seemed so tough. Samoa must be some kind of place to grow up, he thought.
"Ok, let me get this straight,” he started. "You were minding your own business, living in San Francisco, when two men tried to run you down with a car and then followed you on foot to Joe's restaurant and then chased you on the Bay Bridge?"
"Yes," she said, "sort of.”
Chapter 24 Kitiona's Story
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