As Victor Yamamoto had expected, Denise Chan was not sitting at home letting her phone ring. Like David Chan, Yamamoto looked through the rooms. On the way out, he too saw the note on the pad about an appointment last Wednesday evening at Café Bon-Bon.
He walked toward the door. It opened. Yamamoto stopped, drew his revolver.
A man staggered in. Yamamoto saw blood seeping from his abdomen, even with the pressure the man applied.
Yamamoto grabbed him, helped him sit.
“Who are you?”
The man, head bowed, grunted a muffled reply.
He propped up the man’s head. “Who are you? What are you doing here?”
The man opened his eyes. “Denise, my friend. She stay?” Then he passed out.
Yamamoto called for an ambulance, then went through the man’s pockets. A couple dollars, some loose change. No wallet.
The ambulance arrived. Whoever this was, he was still breathing, barely.
Yamamoto followed them down. He jumped in his car and headed to the station to await word from Chan.
Parking was becoming a real pain. There were only so many reserved spaces for police vehicles, and with crime growing as quickly as Honolulu grew, so did the police force. The Department was looking for a bigger space. Downtown would be great. Most of the criminals stuck to the Chinatown area like flies on shit, but still no word on a building.
Yamamoto parked in a loading zone two streets over. He chuckled, picturing Chris Andaya laid out on a slab. It seemed like he and Chan had wanted to nail that asshole since the beginning of time. He had to give Andaya some credit, though. He’d been one smart fucker. Pinning anything on him felt like playing pin the tail on the donkey with a live donkey, chasing it around, blindfolded.
And Andaya had powerful friends to shield him. Like that Yu clan of Korean garlic munchers. More assholes who needed wiping.
The note about Rudy the barber having made an appointment for him at 9:00 this morning sat on his desk blotter.
Rudy was dead. Who would kill him? Did someone know he had information for Yamamoto?
All of a sudden Yamamoto looked up. He scanned the room, taking in every face.
“Eh eh!” Yamamoto shouted. Two dozen heads turned toward him.
He held up the note.
“Eh, who wrote this note on Thursday and left it on my desk?”
* * * * *
Aloha #WriterThursday, I hope everything is progressing smoothly for you with sheltering in. Today’s #WritingPrompt is
Use it in some way to inspire some writing, a sentence or two, any style, maybe a haiku, and then post that piece on your site and link back to me, or simply leave it as a comment below. I have so much time that I’d love more than anything else to spend reading : )