Birds in Paradise

Part 3

Last night another girl went missing. When I heard about it, my determination to find Tina kicked up a notch.

About an hour before sunset, I strolled down the palm-lined boulevards of Waikiki, across the canal, and toward the downtown of Honolulu. Tucked in the middle of an industrial area is a small house with a paper sign on the window that simply reads, "Mr. Fu."

I jogged up the concrete steps and knocked on the wooden door. Almost immediately the door opened a crack. A rheumy eye peered out.

"What you want?" an ancient voice scraped.

"I need to talk with Mr. Fu."

"He not here." The door started to close.

I'd walked a long way and was hot and not in the mood to play games with the man's housekeeper. I thrust my foot between the door and the jamb—a stupid move when wearing flip-flops. However painful, I stopped the door from closing.

"Tell him Kyra Grainger has come to collect on a debt," I said through gritted teeth. My foot throbbed like the devil.

Certainly Mr. Fu would welcome me with open arms. I'd kept him out of jail about a year ago when some young street whelp was trying to frame the old man for murder. He'd paid me handsomely, but still, he'd said himself that no amount of money could repay the debt he'd owed me. Actually, Pete's early morning visit had put the idea in my head. Mr. Fu owed me. And even though he never left this house, he had his finger on the pulse of the city.

"He not here," the she-dragon said. "Move your foot or I'll squish it."

"What?" Mr. Fu never left his house. Never. As in never-ever. Not even for a stroll in his back yard. "Is he—? Is he still alive?"

"He alive, but won't be seeing you, missy. Move that foot."

My foot barely made it out of the way before Mr. Fu's housekeeper slammed the door into the jamb with a thunderous bang.

So much for everlasting gratitude...

I turned around and saw the man who'd been following me standing across the street. He tipped his white hat and smiled.

"Hey!" I called. This wasn't the first time I'd tried to confront my shadow. And just like all the other times, he took off running. I tried to follow him, limping on the foot that was still throbbing. By the time I'd chased him a block, he was nowhere to be found. Gone. Poof. Like a freaking phantom.

I couldn't help but wonder if my shadow in white was the reason for Mr. Fu's refusal to see me. But no... That would be impossible. Mr. Fu was as old as the volcanoes. And tough. Not even the devil himself would be able to scare him.

This sudden change had to do with something else. But what?

In order to find out, I would have to work my way up the Fu hierarchy. And that would take days—days the missing Tina didn't have.

After hoofing it back to the hotel and washing a load of towels that Mamma Jo had dropped into my arms as soon as she'd spotted me, I changed into a black leather miniskirt that looked downright modest compared to last night's spandex number and pulled on a tiny white T-shirt that hugged my generous curves. A pair of FM shoes with heels higher than the Empire State Building made up for the fact that I left off the piles of makeup tonight. I pulled my hair into a ponytail—it made me look younger—and set out for the back streets with Tina's picture tucked into my purse.

My shadow had either found someone more interesting or was doing a better job at keeping hidden. But the damage was done. Every few steps I found myself glancing over my shoulder, watching for him.

Before I could find anyone to question, six men, all reeking of too much drink and too little finesse, encircled me and offered to show me what a real man could do. I was tempted—oh, so tempted—to ask them where they were hiding the "real man" they wanted me to meet. But I bit my tongue and pulled out the photograph of Tina instead.

Only one seemed interested and actually took a look at the photo. He then had to balls to ask for a two-for-one. I patted him on the shoulder and told him that he couldn't handle it.

Wrong move on my part. But, in my defense, it was late, I was tired, and those creeps didn't deserve my respect.

Before I could get two steps away from him, he grabbed my arm, spun me around with that crazy strength drunks sometimes get and slugged me. Hard.

Damn. It hurt. Tears sprang to my eyes. And I was weaving.

The jerk wasted no time putting his hands exactly where they had no business going. The collar of my tiny T-shirt ripped as he tried to strip me right there in the middle of the sidewalk. I suppose he figured I owed him a freebie.

Even if I were that kind of girl, I wouldn't be giving it up to this creep for free. Double the fee, perhaps. No, all the money in the world wouldn't be worth it. His breath stank like the bottom of an over-ripe trash bin.

He grabbed my ponytail and jammed his tongue into my mouth. This sucked. If this was what the women on the street had to put up with, my heart went out to them. I was grateful I didn't have to make a living by putting up with such immature cretins. And with that happy thought, I promptly kneed him in the groin.

"Shit, woman," he wheezed and crumpled to the ground.