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First the sleeves, then the stockings, then the skirts, then the main portion of the garment covering the legs, successively disappeared, until the low-necked, sleeveless, legless one-piece suit became "the thing"; and women clad in garments scantier than the scantiest on the ballet stage, were parading Kalakaua avenue in the vicinity of the Moana hotel, to the scandal and disgust of some; the devouring gaze of others; and the interested inspection of whomsoever chose to inspect!
"Can't wait to read your story." They split the bill and left Hee Hing's, promising to get together soon. Joe went straight to the Moana. "Gilbert, I've got trouble." "What's her name?" Good old Gilbert. Joe was upset. He had thought of Mo as a possible partner, or lover. He had leaned on her without realizing it. It wasn't to be. Wilcox. Was it always about money? No, that wasn't fair.
He had short grizzled hair and a round head with compact Asian features. He was sitting on his heels, motionless. He could have been 55 or 75. A small cardboard box on the ground next to him was neatly packed a can of soda, a knife, a bag that probably held his lunch. The sound of traffic on Ala Moana was muted. The sun was full but not yet hot.
He was half an hour early at the Moana, wearing his best blue aloha shirt, his mustache trimmed, his fingers drumming on the bar. Gilbert brought him a Glenlivet and left him alone. At five minutes to five, Daisy walked out of the hotel and down the wide steps.
He spent an hour in Shirokya admiring the packaging and design, listening to Japanese music, and feeling proud of the evident care taken with details. If you're going to do something, do it well. He crossed Ala Moana Boulevard to the yacht harbor where rows of large sailboats were moored behind a stone breakwater. "Salty boats," he said to a guy who was smoking at the end of a long dock.
The day after Christmas, he was at the Moana leaning back with a beer and thinking about Sperandeo's book on stock trading when someone asked, "Caffe Ladro?" The woman he'd seen in Seattle was standing a few feet away, looking at his T-shirt. "Ah, Moira." he said, standing up. She was trying to place him. "Winifred," she said. "Last month. Moira was a guess."
They swept up to the front of the hotel and arranged to meet at the banyan bar in an hour and a half. Joe called Mo. "The eagle has landed. Can you make it, 6:30 at the Moana? I'll probably be there a bit before." "See you there." He went over to the International Marketplace and lost himself in wandering groups of tourists.
Two or three minutes and he was done, asking each person's name, titling the drawing beneath its over-sized head, signing it and wrapping it in clear plastic. He was magician and entertainer, eyes blue and shrewd, working hard, keeping the crowd alive. It was six o'clock before Joe realized it. He scooted back to the Moana. "Glenlivet and water, please, Gilbert."
"Stick that in an envelope address envelope, seal it, and write outside: 'Kindness purser S.S. Moana. The mail to Papeete is closed, but I'll see that the Moana's purser delivers it to the bank," Cappy ordered. Ten minutes later Cappy dashed up to the entrance of Greenwich Street Pier and found Matt Peasley waiting for him, with Captain Murphy.
He didn't want to wait for change, so he left a large tip and walked up Ala Moana Boulevard, relieved, but with the odd feeling that he was walking toward her rather than away. At 4:00 that afternoon, the phone rang. "Hi, Joe, it's Alison. I was bad this morning; I'm sorry. I don't know what got into me." "What do you mean?" "You were busy and I bothered you. I've been lonely, I guess.
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