the CIA had provided. Outwardly, the 1970s vintage 4 x 4 looked as if it was held together by rust and primer. Underneath the chassis, the engine and the suspension were tip-top. Bolan ran his eyes over the seemingly sleepy island borough. Happy Valley didn’t look like a ghetto, much less a slum. The heartachingly blue skies, lush hillsides and palm trees did a lot to dispel that, but there was obviously trouble in paradise.
The ironically named Happy Valley was a hotbed of drug dealing, prostitution and gang-related crime. At the end of the day, criminals who wanted to make a mark on the island had to come here and pay respect to the locals or try to carve it out of them. The local vibe was very strong, and the code of silence was even stronger. “This is where you did your damage?” Bolan asked.
“Back in the day, Matt.” Koa nodded.
“Then keep your eyes on the road.”
“Hell with that,” Koa countered. He took a right off the main drive. “I want a beer.”
“It’s not even noon!” Hu said.
“You want to meet the local royalty?” Koa asked. “Now is the time.”
“Is this like having cannelloni on a Tuesday with the dons in Jersey?”
“Yeah, except these dons don’t need help to break every bone in your body. Oh, and do me a favor, Matt.”
“What’s that?”
“Don’t piss off the Samoans.”
Hu sighed. “That’s good advice.”
“Don’t piss off the Samoans,” Bolan repeated. “Got it.”
“Good, make that your mantra. I don’t want to die today.” Koa pulled up next to a wall that was blank save for a door and bracket where a sign had been torn off. Bolan noted three bullet strikes in the stucco. “Where are we?”
“Melika’s. It’s named after the woman who used to own it. I made a call, and her daughter owns it now.”
“What’s her name?”
“Melika.”
Bolan’s phone rang. It looked like an old, battered, first-generation ’droid, but it was actually state-of-the-art Farm technology. Bolan answered. “Bear.”
“You’ve stopped.”
“Yeah, Koa wants a beer.”
A picture appeared on Bolan’s phone. It was a satellite image of Happy Valley.
“You want to see something interesting?” Kurtzman inquired.
“Always.”
The satellite image zoomed in. Bolan made out the Land Cruiser. A superimposed green dot blinked on Melika’s. “Really.”
“The tracker you placed on your assailant in Chinatown is in that bar.”
“Well, that’s convenient. If I don’t contact you in half an hour, get worried.”
“I’m worried now.”
Bolan clicked off and nodded at Koa. “Let’s do it.”
Koa took point and they entered Melika’s.
After the brilliant sunshine the bar’s interior felt like a photographic darkroom. Hawaiian slack key guitar lilted over the sound system. A trio of withered old men sat at the bar drinking their social security checks. A giant Samoan man with an Afro held down bouncer and security duties. He gave Bolan and Koa a hard stare. He leered at Hu. The woman behind the bar was tall, Polynesian, and had a smile that lit up the dingy surroundings. Bolan sat at the counter. “You must be Melika.”
“That’s me. What can I get you before you get your asses killed?”
“Primos. The lady will have an appletini.”
Melika shrugged. “Coming right up.”
Bolan locked his eyes with the Hawaiian crime patriarchs holding court at the booth in the far corner. One was built like an aging Olympic shot-putter. The other man filled half the booth like a retired sumo wrestler. Shot-put wore a red-and-blue aloha shirt and his iron-gray hair was cut in a shag. Sumo was a monstrosity in a men’s XXXL pink-and-black bowling shirt and had his hair pulled back into a short ponytail. Bolan kept his face stony as alarm bells rang up and down his spine.
Also seated in the booth was Man-mountain with his hand in a cast and a dressing behind his left ear.
The Samoan moved around the bar and loomed over Bolan. He gave Koa a disgusted look. “You seem a little lost, kolohe.” The Samoan leaned in and mad-dogged Bolan. “And I don’t know who this lolo haole is, but I don’t give a shit.”
Bolan’s cram sessions told him that he’d just been called an idiot white man and Koa had been called a troublemaker. The stone face of the morbidly obese man in the booth cracked as he squinted at Koa in recognition. “Luke?”
Koa nodded. “Uncle Aikane.”
Melika clapped her hands. “Luke!”
The dangerous men in the booth suddenly smiled.
Bolan knew “uncle” or “aunt” was a term of respect in Hawaiian for any elder or better. “Aikane” was the Hawaiian word for friend, and it was a much stronger word than the English version. “Uncle Friendly” the crime lord had just recognized Koa. Bolan was starting to get the impression that Koa had earned himself a reputation way back when.
The Samoan bouncer’s eyes widened disbelievingly. “Koa?”
Koa stared at the Samoan without an ounce of warmth. “Remember you, Tino. From back in the day, and that’s my cousin you’re talking to.”
Tino’s eyes flared. “Hey, brah, I—”
Bolan spun up from his bar stool and hurled a right-hand lead with every ounce of strength he had. The Samoan’s nose was already flat as a squid and took up nearly half his face. Bolan felt the cartilage crunch beneath his knuckles and saw the tear ducts squirt. Tino pawed for the bar and failed to find purchase. He fell backward and landed hard on the ancient linoleum.
Bolan sat on his bar stool and regarded the Primo beer Melika had set in front of him with grave consideration. “Guess I need a new mantra…”
Uncle Aikane held up a huge hand in friendship and as a sign for the violence to end. “Who is your cousin, Luke?”
In Hawaiian, “cousin” could mean any number of relationships both inside and out of kinship. The other side of the coin was that the Islands were small, and a great deal of mixing had been going on. There was a joke that when local singles met they had to compare family trees to make sure they weren’t breaking any laws of man or nature.
Koa stared at Uncle Aikane with great seriousness. “Makaha is my half cousin, Uncle.”
Wheels turned behind Uncle Aikane’s eyes. The massive killer suddenly smiled
