story: MAC.ThePearlHarborMurders (part four )

THREE 　Luau Luminaries 　 　The Niumalu was noted for its luaus, which were held once a month. Guests often asked why the hotel didn't hold their version of a native feast every week, but the truth was, it took seven to ten days to properly prepare for the event. 　The central set piece of the affair was itself a daylong chore: the roasting of a kalua pig, hoofs and all. The pig was stuffed with hot rocks, lowered into a barbecue pit called an imu, which was already filled with red-hot rocks, then the unprotesting pig was covered with ti leaves, buried under earth and canvas, and left to slowly cook, hour upon hour. 　The result was melt-in-your-mouth succulence, a tender, delicious, fall-off-the-bone meat the likes of which Hully Burroughs had never tasted. Hully was an ardent supporter of the picturesque ritual-even if O. B. did dismiss the tradition of roasting a pig in an imu as "a lot of silly fuss over cooking some damn pork." 　All day long, hotel manager Fred Bivens and his staff had been bustling around the palm-shaded grounds, in particular dealing with deliveries of foodstuffs. That little Japanese grocer, Yoshio Harada, had been bringing pickup-truckloads of fresh fish and produce over from his shop at the Aala Market in Chinatown. That afternoon, Hully-in his tennis whites, waiting to meet his father on the court-had helped the nice little guy unload for a while, making a few trips to the rear kitchen door. 　Harada-slight, mustached, primly businesslike in a white short-sleeved shirt with a red tie-had an "in" with the hotel staff: his niece, Pearl, was the featured singer with the Niumalu band, which was a popular local attraction. 　"You are very kind, Burroughs-san," Harada said. "Pearl speak very well of you." 　"She's never given me the time of day, though," Hully said, hauling a bushel basket of sweet potatoes. 　"Pearl is popular girl," the grocer said, smile flashing under the neatly trimmed mustache, the little man carrying enough bananas to send Tarzan's pet monkey into a frenzy. 　Actually, Hully was aware that the pretty singer- who indeed had been "popular," dating any number of guys in recent months-was seriously seeing Ensign Bill Fielder, a good pal of Hully's. But he didn't mention this to the grocer, as he wasn't sure how the Japanese gent would react to his daughter dating a haole. 　When Hully wandered over to the tennis court to wait for his dad, he discovered Pearl sunbathing on the strip of sand nearby. Hully and the singer were friendly, but (as he'd indicated to her uncle) she'd always been involved with one guy or another, and he never seemed to get his turn. 　He would've loved to have one: she was a stunning girl in her early twenties, with black hair and a slender, curvy form made obvious by a formfitting pink bathing suit, petite at five-two or -three, with wonderful high cheekbones, a flawless complexion and full lips that always seemed poised to pucker into a kiss. Her father, back home in San Francisco, was Japanese; but her mother, also in Frisco, was white, and the Eurasian combination was exquisite. If he hadn't known of her Japanese blood, Hully would never have guessed its presence, her dark eyes lacking the distinctive Asian almond shape; still, something exotic lurked in those features. 　Before his father showed up for tennis, Hully sat hugging his knees on the sand, next to Pearl, and they chatted. She was on her back, half sitting, leaning on her elbows. 　"I suppose Bill's got your dance card filled tonight," he said. 　Her smile was lazy yet dazzling and as white as her name. "I only get to dance on a few songs-I have to sing for my supper, you know....Is Bill's father going to be here tonight?" 　Colonel Kendall Fielder, chief of Army intelligence, was a good Mend of the elder Burroughs, and frequently stopped by the Niumalu. 　"I think so," Hully said. "He's a regular at these luaus." 　She seemed troubled. "I hope the colonel won't mind seeing his son dance with the likes of me." "He'll only be jealous." 　The smile returned. "If Bill's father breaks us up, how about catching me on the rebound?" 　Hully felt his heart race-foolish though that was. "Why wait?" 　She shrugged, stared toward the vast blue of the ocean, visible through an opening in the palms and across a stubby fence guarding a short drop-off. "I don't think your father would like me much, either. He always growls at me." 　"He growls at everybody. Anyway, he doesn't think for me-I'm free, wuh ..." He paused. 　"White and twenty-one?" The smile was sad now, but no less lovely. "Don't kid yourself, Hully. These are... precarious times. You know Colonel Fielder well, don't you?" 　"Fairly well. He and my pop are tight as ticks." The lovely dark eyes tightened. "Do you think you ... or your father... could introduce us? I'd really like to talk to Colonel Fielder." 　"I'm sure you could meet him." A strange sense of urgency throbbed in the girl's voice. "I really need to see him, alone.... Would you help me? Perhaps speak to your father, and ask him to arrange a meeting?" 　"Well... sure." 　Hully's heart wasn't racing now. The breathtaking Pearl simply wanted his help so she could make her case to her beau's father-which no doubt meant Bill had finally popped the question. And Hully felt sad for her, sorry for her, because he knew how the colonel was likely to respond, in this climate of war clouds, to the notion of his son marrying a nisei. 　Then his father had arrived, and Hully hopped up from the sand and joined the old man on the court. The tantalizing aroma of the nearby roasting pig offered a distraction almost as bad as Pearl in her pink bathing suit, and Hully again lost to his old man, two sets to one. 　As he and his dad headed back to the bungalow for cool showers-the Niumalu's accommodations lacked water heaters, typical here in this land of perfect temperatures-Hully told his father that he'd put them in for the luau. 　They were moving past hedges of hibiscus and morning glory flowering beneath poinciana and jaca-randa trees. 　"I'd rather go to the wrestling match," O. B. grumbled, "and eat hot dogs." 　Hully knew his dad wasn't kidding: they frequently attended the professional wrestling bouts at several local arenas, particularly when the champ, Prince Ali Hassan, was competing, as he was tonight; O. B. found the sport "hilariously exciting," relishing what he termed the "sweaty theatricality" and "hokey sadism." 　"You know a lot of your Navy and Army pals will be here," Hully said, opening the bungalow door for his dad. Nearby, orchids bloomed in coconut shells hanging from a monkey pod. "The brass always turns out for these Niumalu luaus." 　"I'm sure there'll be the usual quota of admirals and colonels," O. B. said, stepping inside. "These admirals are so plentiful they get between your feet and in your hair. I have to comb 'em out every time I come home." 　"What hair?" Hully asked, good-naturedly. "Anyway, you love those Navy guys." 　"Compared to the Army brass, sure," the old boy said, flopping on the couch. "Our Navy is great, but that Army of ours is undermanned and underequipped, if you ask me." 　"I don't remember asking, Pop," Hully said, sitting next to him. "Anyway, Fred said for us, the luau's on the house, as usual." 　"Because I'm a celebrity. You know notoriety gives me a royal pain." 　Hully also knew his father had once loved publicity-it was the adverse publicity surrounding the Burroughs divorce and remarriage that led to this new-found phobia. 　"Anyway, I'm unquestionably the world's poorest conversationalist," O. B. said, folding his arms. "I'm as bad a listener as these idiots are lousy talkers-average man or woman has little or nothing worth saying, and spend much of their waking lives saying it. They exercise their vocal organs while their brains atrophy." 　Hully was used to such rants. Calmly he said, "I'm not going to the wrestling match, Pop. Anyway, you're a great conversationalist, and some very interesting people are bound to be there. You're just not used to socializing sober." 　Burroughs gave his son a blank, almost stunned look; then the old man burst into laughter. 　"You got me," he said. 'Take your damn shower- you smell worse than I do." 　Hully took his shower. 　He was amused by his father's cantankerousness, and delighted by how the old man's despondency had faded over the last month or so. Frankly amazed by his father's new lease on life, Hully had marveled the other day when, walking back to the hotel along a fence line-, his father had jumped up, swung a leg over and dropped down nimbly on the other side. The younger Burroughs had stood there flabbergasted: the fence was chest-high, and Hully knew he couldn't have vaulted the thing. 　Perhaps it was time to get back home, to his mother, in the house in Bel Air. He was well aware she suffered from chronic alcoholism-he'd witnessed her incessant drinking since his childhood. Her periods of sobriety were now very short-a week or two-followed by ten days to two weeks of a bender resulting in delirium tremens and, ultimately, a doctor's care. Hully knew the affliction would follow his mother to the grave- if it didn't send her there, first. 　Nothing remained but to try to make her life as happy and as free of worry as possible, and to keep her from injuring herself. Shortly before he left, he'd fired a maid and driver who were aiding and abetting his mother's bingeing, and taking advantage of her financially. 　Truth was, he was enjoying himself here in Hawaii, and dreaded going back home-he loved spending time with his father, adored Waikiki with its gentle, flower-scented breezes, and had enjoyed several brief romances here ... even if Pearl Harada hadn't been one of them. 　A hundred guests had descended upon the Niumalu by sundown, far more than the relatively few residents of the thirty cottages scattered about the tropical grounds. The tables in the dining room had been rearranged, fit together picnic-style, but Hully and his father-and another forty patrons, inclined toward a more authentic, traditional presentation-sat like Indians on the lawn on lau hala mats, gathered around a long narrow spread of food exhibiting great variety and color, including the exotic likes of lomi-lomi (salmon rubbed and raw, mixed with shaved ice, onions and tomatoes); ti-wrapped breadfruit, yams, bananas and beef; opii (raw limpets); pipikaula (Hawaiian jerked beef); limu (dried seaweed); laulau, parcels of pork with salted butterfish; and two kinds of poi, one made from breadfruit, the other of taro. And chicken and mahimahi and, of course, the delicious shredded pork from the imu. Eventually noupio (coconut pudding) was served, but it took a long while, and a lot of serious eating, to get there.... 　Hully and his father both capitulated to having wine with their meals, passing on the stronger stuff-oke, short for okolehao, ginlike booze derived from ti root and, according to O. B., "every bit as good as horse liniment." Free-flowing oke and wine made the evening even more festive, and casual, and it was plenty casual, with even some of the admirals and colonels wearing the currently popular, colorful silk "aloha" shirts, the women in loose-fitting, equally colorful muumuus, or the occasional kimono-Japanese fashion and culture were much admired locally, despite the threat of war. 　In fact, the top brass themselves were here tonight- Admiral Husband E. Kimmel, commander of the Pacific Fleet, and Lieutenant General Walter C. Short, commander of the U.S. Army ground and-air forces. Kimmel wore a white suit with a light gray tie that vaguely invoked his Naval dress whites, while Short was in a red-and-yellow aloha shirt. 　Hully's father knew both men. Kimmel and Short sat almost directly across from O. B.-the two most powerful military men on the island had arrived together, with petite, attractive Mrs. Short (it was well-known that Kimmel had left his wife on the mainland, so as not to be distracted in his Hawaiian duty... even if his name was Husband). 　As usual, Kimmel-whose strong voice was touched with a Kentucky bluegrass twang-seemed uncomfortable in a casual setting, his broad brow troubled. The admiral was in his late fifties, five feet ten inches of compact muscle and bone, his dark blond hair graying at the temples, with clear, direct blue eyes, a slightly hooked nose, and a sternly set mouth and chin. 　Short, on the other hand, was affable and easygoing, and the close friendship between the admiral and the general puzzled many, as they would seem personal and professional opposites. A slim, wiry five feet ten, in his early sixties, Short had a thin, delicately boned, sensitive face with deep-set eyes under frequently lifted brows, with a high-bridged nose and a thin upper Up and sensuous lower one. 　"Ed," Short was saying, helping himself to two fingers of poi (no utensils allowed at a luau), "how did a fellow with a military background like you wind up an artiste!" 　"Nobody's ever accused me of being an artist before, General," Burroughs said, nibbling a chunk of banana. "Biggest disappointment of my life was when Teddy Roosevelt turned me down for the Rough Riders." 　Short frowned and smiled simultaneously. "I thought you were in the cavalry-the 'Bloody Seventh,' who fought at Little Bighorn and Wounded Knee." 　"That's true, but the press agents would have you believe I fought side by side with Custer." 　"Maybe that's what happened to your scalp," Hully kidded. 　His father laughed at that, continuing, "The only Indians I came in contact with, at Fort Grant, were Indian scouts. No, my cavalry career was undistinguished, General. A flop like everything else I ever tried." 　"Edgar Rice Burroughs," Kimmel said, putting some pomp into the name, "a flop? That seems unlikely." 　"Admiral, I have sold electric lightbulbs to janitors, candy to drugstores and peddled Stoddard's lectures door-to-door. The only interesting job I ever had was as a policeman." 　This was news to Hully, sitting next to his father. "You were a cop, Pop?" 　Burroughs smiled at the admiral and general, pointing a thumb at his son. "You see, my boy has inherited my literary skill." Then he turned to Hully. "Yes, my poetic offspring, I was a police officer in Salt Lake City, my principal duty rousting drunks and hoboes. Even flashed my gun a few times." 　Hully was impressed. "When was this?" 　"Maybe ought three, ought four... don't really remember, exactly. But mostly I was a salesman-a bad one. I was peddling pencil sharpeners when I first took up writing." 　"Had you always had an interest in literature?" Kim-mel asked. 　"I liked Mark Twain, and The Prisoner of Zenda, if you call that literature. I was supervising other salesmen, had a lot of free time, and spent it reading cheap magazines. The fiction I read struck me as lousy, and I figured if other people could get paid for writing such rotten stuff, make room for Burroughs." 　"I like your books, Ed," Short said, grinning, "and I won't have you downgrading yourself... and my good taste." 　"Don't think I'm not grateful, General. No writer alive has taken more potshots than me-there are li-brarians and literary types who consider my stuff a bad influence, particularly on young minds like yours." 　The general laughed, and said, "How on earth could Tarzan be considered harmful?" 　"Well, a good number of kids have fallen out of trees, emulating him... otherwise, I think it's good for their imaginations." 　Mrs. Short said, rather primly, "Don't you think some children have rather overactive imaginations, Mr. Burroughs?" 　"With all due respect, Mrs. Short, the power of imagination is all that differentiates the human from the brute. Without imagination, there's no power to visualize what we have never experienced... and without that, there can be no progress, no invention." 　Hully smiled to himself, thinking of his father's self-characterization of being a "lousy conversationalist." Of course, giving in to a little wine had lubricated his dad's tongue, no question.... 　Kimmel was frowning in thought. "How on earth did you come up with something as imaginative as Tarzan?" 　The half smirk disappeared from O. B.'s face and his response was surprisingly serious-in fact, Hully would never forget what his father quietly, humbly said next. 　"Frankly, Admiral, I suppose it came out of my daily life consisting of such drab, dull business matters. I think I just wanted to get as far away from commerce as possible-so my mind roamed in scenes and situations I never knew." He gestured to the tropical trees around them. "I've never been to Africa, you know- but I find I can write better about places I've never seen than those I have." 　"Excuse me, Mr. Burroughs," said the young Japanese man seated on O. B.'s other side, "but I wonder if you are aware of how very popular you are in my country?" 　This was Tadashi Morimura, who had introduced himself earlier-a diplomat in his late twenties, vice consul of the Japanese Consulate in Honolulu. Like Kimmel, Morimura wore a white suit and a tie; he was a boyish, slender man, his longish black hair brushed back on a smooth, high forehead. 　"Well, I've had good foreign sales for years, though this European war is playing havoc with 'em." 　"My cousin is named Edgar," Morimura said, with a shy smile. "Sir, I know many boys who have been named for you." 　O. B. seemed genuinely touched. "That's the first I've heard of that. But I don't see why a boy in your country wouldn't respond to what kids here do-kids including General Short, of course." 　"You mean the constant urge for escape," Kimmel said thoughtfully, even a tittle pompously. 'To trade the confines of city streets for the freedom of the wilderness ..." 　"I think it's more," O. B. said. "I think on some primal level, we all would like to throw off the restrictions of man-made laws, the inhibitions that society has placed on us. Every boy, of any age, would like to be Tarzan... I know I would." 　"As would I," Morimura said, raising his cup of wine. 　Despite the pleasantness of the evening, the great food, the wonderful conversation, Hully couldn't help but be struck by the surreal incongruity of this social gathering: the commanders of the Army and Navy sharing poi with a Japanese diplomat, when everyone seemed to agree war between their two countries was both inevitable and imminent. 　But Morimura seemed a pleasant sort, harmless, well-spoken, typically polite. 　As the dining wound down, the entertainment increased, the evening alive with flaming torches and swinging swords, and various renditions of the hula from seductive, lyrical swaying to the frenetic hip-twitching version tourists craved. Wandering troubadours with ukuleles and steel guitars sang traditional Hawaiian standards, but also Tin Pan Alley island fare like "Sweet Leilani" and "Blue Hawaii." 　By around ten, the luau proper was over and the guests were milling around the grounds, lounging throughout the lodge, in the rock-garden courtyard, and in the enclosed rear lanai, with its wicker furnishings and soothing view onto a tropical garden. The music, however, had shifted to the big-band music of Pearl and the Harbor Lights on the dance floor adjacent to the dining room. 　Hully and his father split up-he noticed O. B. talking to Colonel Fielder at one point, out on the lawn, and to that German playboy Otto Kuhn, in the rock garden-and the younger Burroughs sat at a table with Ensign Bill Fielder and Seaman Dan Pressman, smoking cigarettes, drinking oke (except for Hully, who had switched from wine to coffee), listening to Pearl and the band do "Oh, Look at Me Now." 　The only concession to Hawaiian-style music made by Pearl and the Harbor Lights was the inclusion of two guitars, one of them steel, and of course the boys in the band did wear blue aloha shirts with a yellow-and-red floral pattern. Bathed in pale pink stage lighting, Pearl-standing at her center-stage microphone, which she occasionally touched, in a sensually caressing fashion-wore a clinging blue gown, with a daring dйcolletage that showed off her medium-size but firm, high breasts to fine advantage. 　"I'm going to tell the old man tonight," Bill was saying. He was a handsome Naval officer in his early twenties with dark hair and a cleft chin-despite his crisply military haircut, he looked more like a kid than a sailor, in his green aloha shirt and white slacks. 　"I can see what you see in Pearl," Hully said, and he certainly could, his eyes returning to the ethereal, erotic vision she made on stage under the pink lighting in the low-cut blue gown. "But you've only been going with her for a month.... Can't you wait-" 　"What, till war breaks out, and I'm at sea, fighting her relatives?" Bill's dark eyes were sharp, but his speech was slightly slurred-too much oke. "There's not going to be a better time to break this to Dad- certainly after we're at war with Japan, it's not gonna be any easier." 　"Bill," his friend Dan said, a blue-eyed blond sailor 　from California, "she's a nice girl, and I mean you'd have to be blind not to see she's a living doll... but you gotta admit-she's been around." 　'Take that back!" Bill said, stiffening. 　"Okay, okay," Dan said, patting the air with his palms. "I didn't mean she was ... fast or anything. Just that she's dated a few guys.... Maybe you should wait a couple months, get to know each other better." 　"Dan's right," Hully said. "Wait a little bit-get past the physical attraction and know each other as people ... just to make sure...." 　"I am sure-Pearl's the girl for me. She's sweet and she's nice and she'll give everything up for me, her singing, everything... just to be my wife and have my babies." 　"Maybe you ought to think about that, too," Dan said. 　Bill glared at him. "What?" 　"What it'll put your kids through-you know, the racial thing." 　"Pearl's half white. Our kids'11 be all American. Dan, I won't hear this kind of talk." 　"Okay, buddy ... I'm just trying to help. You've helped me before, plenty of times-I'm just trying to be your friend." 　Bill sighed and nodded. 　The band was starting to play "I'll Remember April," and one of the guitar players began to sing the lilting ballad. Bill shot out of his chair as if from a cannon, muttering, "This is one of Pearl's free songs," and headed for the bandstand. 　Then he was out there dancing with her, holding her close, gazing into her eyes like a lovesick puppy, and she was gazing back, a beautiful woman who seemed equally in love. It was romantic, and frightening. 　"His father is going to kick Bill's ass," Dan said. 　"I know," Hully said, and nodded toward the entry-way to the lobby. 　Colonel Fielder-slim, casually attired in red aloha shirt and white slacks, his dark hair widow's-peaked, with a narrow face and hawkish eyes and hawkish nose-stood just inside the doorway, staring out at the dance floor, obviously viewing his son dancing with the nisei singer-and just as obviously unhappy. 　Shaking his head in apparent disgust, Fielder exited. 　"It's gonna be ugly," Dan said. 　"Pearl asked me to set up a meeting between her and the colonel-she wants to plead her case." 　'If she thinks batting her lashes at that hardnose is going to do the trick, she's dreamin'." 　Out on the dance floor, something "ugly" was already transpiring. A soldier-a handsome brown-haired kid in a green sportshirt and tan slacks, not very tall but with wide shoulders and an athletic carriage- was tapping Bill on the shoulder-hard-as if to cut in. 　"Oh hell," Hully said, shaking his head. 　"Who is that guy?" Dan asked. 　"Jack Stanton-he's a corporal over at Hickam... used to date Pearl." 　"Ouch." 　"Fact, that's who she threw over for Bill." 　"Double ouch." 　Out on the dance floor, Pearl was desperately trying to keep the peace as the sailor and the soldier began shoving each other. 　"You take Bill," Hully said, getting up, "I got the dogface." 　The crowd was forming a circle around what was clearly about to erupt into a fight, with reactions that ranged from shouts of indignation to squeals of delight. Hully and Dan broke through just in time to see Stan-ton connect with a right hook to Bill's jaw. 　Bill went down on a knee, but came up with his own right hand to the soldier's belly, doubling the boy over. 　And the fight was over before Hully and Dan could break it up, because the soldier-like everyone here- had been to that sumptuous, endless luau, and his stomach ... filled with poi and raw fish and roast pork and a dozen other delicacies ... did not take a punch well. 　The soldier, clutching his stomach, scrambled out of there, struggling not to throw up, heading for the men's room, as relieved laughter rippled across the crowd. Soon the onlookers began to dance again, the Harbor Lights beginning to play "Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy," with Pearl magically back onstage to sing it. 　"I'm going after that bastard," Bill said, lurching forward, and Hully grabbed him around the arms, from behind. 　Hully whispered harshly in his friend's ear. "You get back to the Arizona-you want your dad to see this? Much less get wind of what this fight is about?" 　Bill, oke or not, sighed and nodded. 　"Get him the hell out of here," Hully said to Dan. 　"Sure thing," Dan said, and took charge of his friend, walking him out. 　Then, suddenly, O. B. was at Hully's side. "Did I miss some action?" 　"Just a sailor and a soldier, fighting over a dame," Hully said. 　Jitterbuggers were jumping and kicking before them. 　O. B. asked, over the blaring music, "Fielder's son?" 　Hully nodded. 　The old man shook his head, nodded up toward the pretty girl in the low-cut blue dress, her breasts jiggling provocatively as she sang the up-tempo tune. 　"That little Pearl of the Pacific up there," he said, "is gonna get some poor fool killed." 　And then O. B. turned and went out, leaving his son to marvel at how little got past his old man.

story: MAC.ThePearlHarborMurders (part two.....)

TWO 　A Nazi at the Niumalu 　 　The mile of romance, the Tourist Bureau called it: that white stretch of sand known as Waikiki, extending from the Halekulani Hotel and the adjacent inns and cottages to the concrete War Memorial Natatorium in whose saltwater pool that former screen Tarzan, Buster Crabbe, had set records, warming up for the Olympics. 　Only one major beachfront hotel rested outside those limits, sequestered from the rest of Waikiki by Fort de Russy: the Niumalu, literally Spreading Coconut, loosely Sheltering Palms, of which the lavishly landscaped grounds, six acres' worth, certainly had their share... and the hotel's hand-lettered sign was rather informally nailed to one leaning palm, establishing a casual tone that permeated the place. 　Thirty clapboard guest cottages were scattered about the Niumalu's pleasant jungle, with all crushed-coral roads leading to an impressive if squatty-looking white stucco main building typical of the Hawaiian style of architecture prevalent since the late twenties, with its lampshadelike double-pitched roof, and a porte cochere supported by columns of lava stone evocative of leopard spots. 　The lodge, as the guests referred to the central building, had an open interior with a central rock-garden courtyard just off a nightclublike dining room with a large dance floor and bandstand. The lobby's large, missionlike arched portals also looked out onto the courtyard, and the effect was open and airy, the wicker furnishings adding to a porchlike effect. 　Edgar Rice Burroughs had been Very happy here, with his wife Florence-his second wife-and he had thought she felt the same. 　Burroughs had well known the risks of marrying a younger woman. He had been sixty and Florence thirty-one-as his daughter Joan had cruelly pointed out, Florence was younger than the duration of her parents' marriage. Everyone seemed to be making the assumption that he was discarding his fifty-nine-year-old, overweight wife for the slender shapely former actress, out of the usual crassly selfish, male, sex-driven reasons. 　The truth was more complex. Emma had always been plump, pleasantly so in her young, vivacious days, a "dumpling," as the old parlance went. In the early years of the marriage, even as her tendency toward stoutness increased, her intelligence and charm had made up for her excess weight After all, they had faced hardship, poverty and adversity together, theirs had been a marriage of closeness, of sharing. Emma would read his work and intelligently comment; his triumphs, his failures, had been hers-theirs, Jane to his Tarzan. 　But their interests had diverged, drastically, over the past twenty years. Emma seemed to resent his youthful ways, shared not at all his interest in sports and the great out-of-doors-horseback riding, golf, tennis, certainly not flying. She would chastise him for his preference for the company of younger people, calling him "immature," accusing him of trying to "prove his masculinity." 　The latter, in a marriage that had been sexless for some time, was a particularly cutting blow. But-despite the quarrels, and the recriminations-he had held on, out of concern for how his children might react to separation or divorce. With his business flourishing, he spent less and less time at home, doing his writing at the office, supervising the magazine serialization of his work, keeping an eye on the ticensing of Tarzan and other characters of his to the movies, radio, and comics. 　And all of this was rewarding-he thought of himself as a businessman first, a writer second, an "author" not at all. He had been the first writer he knew of to incorporate-ERB, Inc.-and even started a publishing company, printing his own books, to better maintain control of the product, and to maximize profits. 　And he had made it a family business, hiring Hully as his vice president, using his older son, Jack, a successful commercial artist, as the illustrator of his book jackets and the new "John Carter of Mars" comic strip, based on his science-fiction novels, set to debut this Sunday. He'd even hired his daughter's no-good husband Jim Pierce to play Tarzan on the radio. 　No one could say Ed Burroughs was not a family man, even if he did spend most of his time away from home, at the office. But few on this earth knew-besides his children, if they would admit it-how he had dreaded to come home, at the end of a long day. And even the kids could only guess that behind the happy moments of the marriage-and there had been some, even in the later years-hovered a specter of fear of what he knew would inevitably come the next day or the next.... 　He blamed himself. He'd always been proud of the way he could hold his liquor, and had urged Emma- who had no tolerance for alcohol at all, and whose personality changed radically under the influence-to moderate her drinking. They had been party goers for years, but as Emma's problem worsened, he had cut back on the invitations they accepted, and didn't stay long at the parties they did attend. 　And so Emma had begun to drink at home. Alone- in secret, that open secret the families of all alcoholics know too well. 　He never knew what condition he would find her in-she might be in a vicious state or a comatose one. Whatever the case, countless hours of hideous suffering for both of them followed. Once he flew into a rage and dumped all of her liquor into the swimming pool- of course, since it had no filtration system, the pool had probably only benefited from the alcohol's sterilizing effect. 　He had never wished to make Emma unhappy. But he could not overlook how horribly unhappy she had made him; she treated her pet dog more kindly. Ten years before he left her, Emma had said to him mat she no longer liked him-for some reason, those simple words had inflicted a wound that had never heated. Many people-friends and strangers alike, their appetites for the misfortunes of others fed by lice tike Walter Winchell and other low-life gossipmongers- assumed his relationship with Florence preceded, even initiated, the breakup with Emma. 　It was true he'd known Florence for some years, had admired her at a distance (she was the wife of a Mend, the producer of his ill-fated Tarzan movie, which he'd backed as an antidote to the unfaithful MGM versions of his work). He'd felt unrequited schoolboy pangs of love for her, before she even knew he existed. 　With her fair, curly hair, and her apple-cheeked wholesome beauty, Florence had been a popular child actress in the silent-movie days, a second Mary Pick-ford with a series of two-reelers for Mack Sennett leading to starring roles in features. When talkies came in, she had begun to raise a family with her producer husband, Ashton Dearholt, that good friend of Burroughs. But Burroughs and Florence had been thrown together when his own separation was quickly followed by Florence's husband throwing her over-for an actress he had met on the Guatemala film shoot of the ill-starred Tarzan picture! Hell, even Burroughs wouldn't have dared put together a plot so contrived- but, like two lost souls, he and Florence had drifted together. 　That Florence and Burroughs's daughter Joan had been good friends made the awkward situation ever more strained. Hully and Jack, who had witnessed their mother's alcoholic madness, understood far better, and tried to make peace, but Joan avoided him, for years, and never spoke to Florence again. 　Perhaps it was inevitable that he and Florence would wind up in Hawaii-they had honeymooned there, delightfully, in 1935. But his return to Oahu in 1940 had been in part financially motivated. The pulp magazines-his major serialization market-had lowered their pay rates, due to the squeeze of the Depression, and the European war cut off most of his foreign markets. In Hawaii, he could drop his expenses to a third of what they'd been in California. 　His financial state, too, he knew was his own damn fault-despite his businesslike attitudes toward writing, he was lousy at managing money, and he knew it- anyway, he knew it now. From buying the Tarzana Ranch back in 1919-since sold off for subdivided lots, his precious unspoiled land turned into another goddamn suburb-to the acquisition of cars, horses, and planes, Burroughs was a classic case of a man living beyond his means. 　Considering his earnings over the last thirty years, the creator of Tarzan should have been poised for wealthy retirement. Instead, he was an aging small businessman supporting three grown children, an ex-wife, a new wife and her two children, as well as an executive secretary and stenographer back in California, not to mention a Japanese maid in Hawaii. 　Florence had always said that his fame was not what attracted her to him; she spoke of his self-deprecatory sense of humor, and the "fun and games" of his life, the outdoor sports, parties, dinner and theater. And in the first five years of their marriage, every evening seemed to begin-and, often, end-with cocktails at their own Rodeo Drive home or someone else's. On the rare night the couple wasn't making the restaurant/ club/theater circuit, they were up till all hours playing backgammon, bridge, or mah-jongg with movie-star friends. 　He'd always been an early riser, but the dazzle of a young wife and the bright lights of Southern California had seduced him into turning his schedule upside down-and his writing, the quantity and the quality, suffered accordingly. 　Perhaps he had tried too hard to keep up with his young wife, burning the candle at both ends, and she eventually accused him of trying so hard to act youthfully that he had instead behaved childishly. In Hawaii, he had planned to crawl in and curl up in a hole to write, and pull the hole in after him-but Honolulu was an even bigger party town than Beverly Hills, and when he wasn't playing poker into the wee hours with his Army and Navy friends, he and his wife were at a ??? or a cocktail party or off yachting. 　Florence complained that she had turned into his chauffeur, since he was inevitably too tipsy to drive home after a soiree, and felt she had fallen into the role of the serious, "older" partner, while he was the child. Since his Hawaiian writing was going well-by the end of 1940, he'd written not only a new Tarzan novel but entries in his other two mainstay series, Mars and Pellucidar, with a Venus tale in the works-Burroughs didn't think the nights of revelry were hurting anything. Still, Florence began complaining, not only about his "immaturity," but the Niumalu (one of the nicest hotels on Oahu) which she found lacking, condemning it as "cramped, buggy and damp." She was dismayed when he told her they would be living on $250 a month, the salary he was drawing from ERB, Inc. 　Five years ago, she had viewed him as a dapper, prosperous, respected gentleman, a father figure; now, he feared, she saw him as just another bald, overweight geezer. 　Of course Florence's major complaint had been bis drinking, which led to full-blown arguments, like the time she found he was keeping a carton of liquor under the bed, for easy access. She claimed he was "drank" every night, and-worst of all-she said her children were afraid of him, that he was "taking it out" on them. This he greatly resented. He loved her two kids as if they were his own, nine-year-old Caryl especially, the little charmer. It was true he was harder on eleven-year-old Lee, trying to urge the boy to be more athletic. Florence claimed Lee was afraid of him-though he'd never laid a hand on the child-and that he was showing his irritation to both kids, "acting up," she called it. 　When she packed up, gathering the two children, and announced she was leaving-when was it... eight months ago?-he could scarcely believe it. He had thought Florence's threats were empty, but-as they'd had a premarital understanding that should things not work out, either could "call it off' without objection from the other-he merely escorted mem, numbly, to the Lurline at the dock, a shell-shocked zombie among the Boat Day festivities. 　Nothing had ever hit him so hard. He found it bitterly, ironically amusing that Florence had left him because he was an obese drunk.... How Emma would have relished that. 　His carousing ways ceased. He developed a routine of going to a movie and then to bed early, declining all invitations for poker and parties. He went for days without speaking to anyone, taking his meals in his bungalow, burrowed behind drawn blackout curtains. Despite this deep despondency, he did manage to keep writing, a historical yarn about the Romans, and he finished his Venus tale. 　His only break from this self-imposed incarceration was a painful stay at Queen's Hospital, due to the flaring up of an old bladder condition. For three weeks he was shot full of derivatives of the poppy flower, fed an anesthetic that burned from his lips down his throat into his lungs, got filled full of sulfathiazole until he thought it would run out of his ears, and had a wire inserted in his favorite organ. 　Upon his release, he began to imagine he was having small strokes and heart attacks, but didn't much care. 　He felt he was going to die. He wondered if maybe helping that process along wasn't worth considering. 　A note accompanying a revision of his will-in which he thanked his loyal secretary Ralph Rothmund for his longtime friendship, telling him what a pleasure it had been to work with him-apparently got his three children worrying about his mental state, alone on this Pacific island, and Hully had come to his rescue. God bless that kid, claiming this was a "vacation." They had moved into new digs near the beach at the Niumalu, a bedroom with bath and sitting room (Hully bunking it on a hideaway couch). Burroughs picked up the pace of his writing, even as he and his son enjoyed late, leisurely breakfasts, long lunches, afternoons of driving, horseback riding, fishing, sunbathing and, most of all, tennis. 　He and Hully-and Jack, too, for that matter-had always enjoyed a friendly rivalry, where sports were concerned... swimming, riding, wrestling, tennis. Maybe Florence considered him immature, but Burroughs preferred "young at heart," and enjoyed trying to keep pace with his athletic offspring. 　Hully had extended the friendly competition to quitting drinking, and losing weight. Burroughs knew his son feared his father was becoming an alcoholic, and privately had his own fears in that regard. So he had quit-and quit smoking, as well. Hully was down to 177 pounds, a loss of ten, and Burroughs had dropped sixteen pounds, down to 182. 　After getting back from seeing Frank Teske off, the father and son had eaten a light lunch in the Niumalu dining room, after which Burroughs headed into the bungalow, to get some writing done-he needed to get his hero, Carson Napier, out of one jam and into another. He and Hully would play a round of tennis in the late afternoon on the court on the Niumalu grounds-Burroughs had prevailed yesterday, two sets to one... a spirited game that had exhausted him, though he was damned if he'd let his boy know just how tired he was. 　In the sitting room with its pale plaster walls, near a churning window fan, Burroughs was at his typewriter, working on his new Venus story, when two sharp knocks at the bungalow door drew his attention away from the gargantuan beasts threatening his spaceman. He rose from the typing stand-wearing a white sportshirt, white slacks and tennis shoes (ready for his game with Hully)-and saw a familiar face through the screen door. 　"I know you're a teetotaler now," Adam Sterling said, holding up frosty bottles of soda pop, "but I'm assuming that doesn't include root beer." 　A broad-shouldered six-foot two, his brown hair graying at the temples, strong-jawed, deep-tanned Sterling might have been a hero out of one of Burroughs's own books-in fact, he looked a little like Herman Brix, that poor bastard who almost died playing Tarzan in the Guatemalan jungle for Florence's ex-husband. 　"I can use something wet right now," Burroughs said through the screen. "You want to sit outside and chug those things?" 　Sterting wore a white linen suit and a light blue tie; he'd apparently come from his office in the Dillingham Building in downtown Honolulu. 　"No, Ed," he said, and he was almost whispering, "I'd like you to ask me in." 　"Well come on in, then," Burroughs said, opening the door. "But it's stuffy as hell in here." 　Stepping inside, Sterling said quietly, "Actually, Ed, I need to talk to you-in private. This isn't even for Hully's ears-he isn't around, is he?" 　"No, he went down to the beach for a swim. Probably looking for his next girlfriend." 　Sterling nodded, but-oddly-he took a quick walk around the one-bedroom bungalow, making sure he and the writer were indeed alone. Burroughs watched this not knowing whether to be amused or insulted. 　Finally, they sat on the couch and sipped their root beers and Burroughs wondered what the hell was on the FBI man's mind. 　"How goes the writing?" Sterling asked him. 　He grunted. "Sometimes I think plots are like eggs." 　"How so?" 　"A hen's bom able to lay just so many eggs, and after she's dropped her last one, she can sit on her nest and strain and grunt and never squeeze out another. I'm starting to think a writer is born with just so many plots." 　A smile creased Sterling's face. "Why, have you been straining and grunting?" 　"Hell, yes, and rearranging my feathers; but I'll be damned if I can squeeze out a new plot, and these old ones are starting to smell." 　Sterling shrugged. "I thought that last Tarzan, the one about the secret treasure, was swell." 　"That was a movie, Adam-I didn't write that." 　"Oh. Sorry." 　"It did stink, though." 　The FBI man took a swig of root beer. "You going to the luau tonight?" 　"Those damn things ... They expect you to eat dried octopus and raw fish and disinterred pig, and then there's that library paste they try to disguise under the alias of poi." 　"Yeah, but are you going?" 　"Haven't turned down an invite yet." Burroughs looked sideways at his friend, eyes slitted and amused. "Christ, Adam, I thought I was the worst conversationalist on the planet, till I heard this sorry attempt on your part. Can the small talk-what's this about?" 　Sterling sighed, sat forward, hunkering toward him. "Ed, I need to take you into my confidence." 　"Be my guest." 　"This is very unofficial." 　"Okay." 　"I've been here at the Niumalu for about three months, now. So has somebody else." 　Burroughs thought about that, gestured with a motion of his head. "That German next door, the big spender-Otto Kuhn. He and his wife moved in maybe a week before you." "That's right. He's why I moved in, Ed." 　"Really!" Burroughs got up from me couch, pulled his typing chair over and sat, so he could face his Mend; this was getting interesting. "Don't tell me we have a Nazi at the Niumalu." 　"Something like that. He's really just a goddamned beachcomber pretending to be a retired gentleman of substance. But... he was an officer in the Kaiser's Navy during the Great War, that much we know." 　Burroughs arched an eyebrow. "He's trying to start a real estate business, I understand." 　"That's just talk-before that it was selling furniture; for a while he studied Japanese at the University of Hawaii." 　Now the writer was leaning forward. "Why does a German in English-speaking Hawaii want to learn Japanese?" 　"Our boy Otto has frequent dealings with the Japs- he took one trip to Tokyo in '30 and another in '36. We suspect he's in their employ. My contacts confirm as much." 　"Your contacts." 　"Ed, you put our Mend Colonel Frank Teske on his steamer today. I don't have to tell you he thinks war is imminent... that this island will be under attack, momentarily." 　"What do you think, Adam?" 　"He's right and he's wrong-war is imminent Washington isn't having any luck negotiating with the Japanese. But Frank's wrong, too-the threat on our remote little island is not from the sky, but on the ground." 　"Sabotage. I was just telling Hully the very same thing." 　"Well, you're right. Since the middle of last year, I've been developing a network of contacts in the Japanese community-trustworthy ones, Americans who happen to be Japanese." 　Both of the writer's eyebrows lifted. "Is there such a thing?" 　"Oh yes. The vast majority of these Hawaii-born Japanese are loyal to our Sag. And a number of them have been helping me identify the potentially dangerous sorts among them." 　"What does that have to do with a German like Kuhn?" 　Sterling spoke softly, but with an edge. "When the war begins, we'll be cracking down on disloyal Japs- arrests will be made. My contacts tell me that Kuhn is a 'sleeper' agent-set to take over as top local spy, when and if the top Japanese agents on this island are arrested, after hostilities begin." 　"Your contacts are trustworthy? I mean, can you really trust these nisei?' 　"I trust them," Sterling said. "But I also trust my fellow FBI agents, who've been keeping their eyes peeled. A tittle over a month ago, the Tatsuta Maru arrived in Honolulu, delivering a pair of Japanese diplomats, both of whom met with Kuhn-who then deposited fourteen thousand dollars in cash in a local bank." 　Burroughs took another swig of the root beer. 　"You've convinced me-he's a rat. Where do I come in?" 　Sterling's face was a tight mask. "Things are heating up. This war is coming. I can use another pair of eyes here at the Niumalu ... informed eyes... not to do any spying or poking around, understand-just to keep watch. I'm not here during the day, and Kuhn frequently is." 　"You're not asking me to do surveillance-take notes..." 　"No. Just keep your head up. Stay alert. Let me know if you see anything, anyone, suspicious around Kuhn or his cottage." 　"Glad to help," Burroughs said. 　"All right, then-mum's the word." Sterling slapped his thighs, and rose. "See you tonight at the luau?" 　Burroughs stood. "I'll be there-just don't pass me any of that goddamn library paste." 　The FBI man chuckled, shook the writer's hand, collected the empty soda-pop bottles, and went out, leaving an energized Burroughs behind. 　Feeling revitalized, Edgar Rice Burroughs returned to Venus, wondering if this time he might make it to the fire before it went out. will update soon,,,,regards...thanks.

story: MAC.ThePearlHarborMurders (part one)

　In memory of my father; 　Max A. Collins, Sr.- who served in the Pacific 　"This week a high officer of the U.S. Army remarked that he knows of no place under the American flag safer than Hawaii-more secure from the onslaught of actual war." 　Honolulu Star Bulletin, May 1941 　"There is no chivalry in complete war." 　 Edgar Rice Burroughs 　ONE: 　December 5, 1941 　 　ONE 　Boat Day 　 　In less than forty-eight hours, six Japanese aircraft carriers-220 miles north of the island of Oahu-would launch 350 warplanes in an attack not preceded by any formal declaration of war. Every significant Naval and air installation would feel the brunt of the surprise raid, which lasted less than two hours and cost the United States military three destroyers, three cruisers, eight auxiliary craft, eight battleships, 188 aircraft and the lives of 1,763 officers and men. This figure increased to 2,404 when fatalities ashore-including civilian- were added to the grim roster. 　To the survivors, these deaths seemed more like murder than casualties of war: the unsuspecting victims on the Arizona, a thousand sailors on a single battleship obliterated by a single bomb during peacetime, were victims of a sneak attack one historian aptly termed as "outside the bounds of traditional warfare ... better described as mass murder." 　The first of these Pearl Harbor murders, however, took place not on December 7, but in the predawn hours of December 6... a murder that might have been an early warning signal, had it been properly heeded. 　Making sense of the inherently senseless act of murder is never an easy task; but two men tried, a father and son, and this is their story. 　Hully (short for Hulbert) Burroughs found Honolulu very much to his liking. At thirty-two, a leanly muscular six-footer with an oval, boyishly handsome face and a shock of dark hair, Hully found this tropical town an excellent place for a gainfully employed young bachelor to spend an extended vacation. 　When he had first arrived, in September, Hully- perhaps reduced to a child again, in bis father's presence-had all but raced to the Aloha Tower, adjacent to where his steamer, the S. S. Mariposa, had docked. His pop had humored him, tagging along to the white ten-foot Art Moderne tower with its four looming clock dials, going up the self-service elevator to the observation deck, open to the sky, a view on every side. 　Looking toward the open sea, Hully took in a vista that included a harbor channel dotted with small and large craft, powered by sail or motor. At the west, toward Pearl Harbor, a Dole cannery water tower painted to resemble a huge pineapple rose absurdly above green cane fields, like a World's Fair pavilion. Looking east, toward Waikiki, frond-flung boulevards pointed to Diamond Head. And looking inland, north, he could note the low-slung cityscape of red-tiled roofs and tin-awning-shaded stores rising in tandem with palm trees, pink stucco structures providing pale smears of color amid stark blossoms of red, white and blue; he could see, too, like pyramids piercing an oasis, the austere limestone edifices of the trading houses and banks of the Caucasian (haole) upper class... and the grandly, even ridiculously rococo Iolani Palace... and the Nu-uanu Valley, hugged by the ridges and slopes of the Koolau range.... 　He had soon come to know Honolulu as the tiny colonial city it was, a low-key paradise where your wake-up call was courtesy of a mynah bird, where you drifted down to a white beach for a sunrise swim, where the workdays were short and the evenings endless. 　His father, not surprisingly, took a less romantic view: what O. B.-"Old Burroughs," the nickname Hully, his brother Jack and sister Joan all used for their father, after he took to signing his letters to them that way-saw as Hawaii's appeal was the casual island atmosphere, white sandy beaches and local dress that ran to untucked shirt, shorts and sandals. 　At sixty-six, Hully's pop could have passed for fifty, a rugged man's man, with laughing squinty blue eyes set in a poker face the same oval shape as Hully's, only without the dark hair on top: the old man was bald but for iron-gray bristles at his temples. Ed Burroughs had long been a devout sunbather, and was tanned to a rich bronze worthy of Tarzan himself. 　Which was fitting, because Hully's father was Edgar Rice Burroughs, who was also the father of Tarzan, "the best-known literary character of the twentieth century," according to a recent issue of The Saturday Evening Post. That same magazine had dubbed the unpretentious novelist who created the famed apeman "the world's greatest living writer" ... an irony Hully's pop bitterly savored, since the Post had rejected every story he had ever sent them, including one after the publication of that laudatory article. 　It was a few minutes past noon, and Hully and his father were once again at the dock, seeing off friends who were boarding the fabled Great White Ship of the Matson Line, the S. S. Lurline. Normally, his pop- who disliked crowds-would have disdained Honolulu's famed Boat Day, with its mobbed pier, its barrage of streamers, its confetti snowstorm. 　Pop even rejected the delightfully swaying hips of hula girls, and Hully could well understand why his dad loathed the din of the strumming ukuleles of beach-boys serenading women they'd seduced combined with the blare of the Royal Hawaiian Band. 　Some of these brown-as-a-berry local boys were diving for coins from the top decks. 　"Buster Crabbe used to do that," Hully reminded his father teasingly. Beachboy Buster had been an Olympic star before going to Hollywood. 　"Maybe he made a good beachboy," O. B. said. "But he was still a lousy Tarzan." 　Due to fear of war with Japan, the dock was more heavily guarded than ever before. The authorities-and the haole citizenry-were well aware that 40 percent of Hawaii's population was Japanese; so the nationalized Hawaii Territorial Guard had been called out. Of course, the Guard was primarily made up of Japanese. ... 　It seemed to Hully that the women at the dock today greatly outnumbered the men-military wives, most likely, being sent to the mainland because their husbands suspected the coming war with Japan would soon restrict travel from Hawaii to California. But it wasn't all men: as usual, politicians and businessmen were among the masses, making deals, trading gossip. 　This Boat Day crowd ran well into the thousands, though only eight hundred passengers were departing; and this was typical. Matson Line calendars, marking days of departure and arrival, hung in kitchens and businesses all over Honolulu, and many a housewife and downtown office worker regularly left their respective stations to join in on the Boat Day festivities. 　"Looks like a goddamn ice-cream-salesman convention," his pop had grumbled, referring to the overbearing, sun-reflective whiteness of the crowd's attire- females in white cotton dresses shaded by white parasols, Naval officers in dress whites. Like so many civilian males here today, the Burroughses themselves were in white linen suits-no shorts and sandals for Boat Day-and white Panama hats. Pop had his Panama brim snugged down, so as not to be recognized. 　His dad didn't mind doing publicity-he often posed on the set of the MGM Tarzan pictures, with Hollywood's current apeman, Johnny Weissmuller-when it was structured, a part of his work. When he went out socially, he abhorred the kind of attention the local reporters would stick him with, if they spotted him. 　Typically, Pop had lain back when Hully escorted Marjorie to the gangway, knowing that the photographers would be snapping at her heels like hungry dogs. Marjorie Petty-who for the last five glorious weeks Hully had been dating-was the daughter of pinup artist George Petty; she was, in fact, a living Petty Girl right out of the pages of Esquire, since she was her father's model. It had been an innocent romance, a few kisses exchanged under the gold moon in a purple sky. But Marjorie-enjoying a Hawaiian vacation as a college graduation present-was almost constanty chaperoned by her mother (Petty's previous model), who looked somewhat askance upon the ten-year age difference between the Petty girl and the Burroughs boy. 　Hully had dared a kiss before she boarded-for once, her mother didn't frown-and, a spring in his step, the young Burroughs rejoined bis father, who was standing with the friend he was seeing off, the reason Tarzan's (and Hully's) daddy had braved the Boat Day crowd. 　Colonel Frank Teske of the Army Signal Corps had already seen his wife and infant son aboard to their first-class stateroom, and had returned to invite the Burroughses to join them for refreshments till the "all ashore" was sounded. 　"No thanks," the elder Burroughs said in his husky baritone, as Hully fell in beside him. "I'm off the sauce, and, anyway, I couldn't take those corridors reeking with damn leis, it's like dimestore perfume... not to mention the cigarette smoke." 　Pop had quit drinking and smoking recently, and was of late displaying a reformer's intolerance for the second habit, if not for the first As for the leis, personally Hully got a charge of the full, fragrant ropes of yellow ilima, the sweet-scented loops of mountain maile; not bad for a quarter apiece. 　Colonel Teske was only one of many friends Hully's pop had in military circles. O. B. relished the army bustle of Fort DeRussy, Fort Ruger, Fort Shatter, and Schofield Barracks; a flier himself, he took any excuse for a trip over to Hickam Field. As for the Navy at Pearl Harbor, the elder Burroughs had on the very day Hully arrived taken his youngest boy to Battleship Row for a personal tour of the California, courtesy of its captain. 　Hully had soon learned that his father was thick with most of the brass on Oahu-Hawaii was easy duty for officers, who had lots of time on their hands, and were more than willing to mix with civilians, particularly one as famous as Hully's pop. 　Thirtyish, a knife blade of a man with a pencil mustache, just another white linen suit in the crowd, Colonel Teske said, "I appreciate you coming down like this, Ed. I'm sure going to miss our poker games." 　'I'm going to miss winning your money," O. B. said. 　In the shadow of his own Panama, the colonel's eyes were tight, and he spoke so softly his words barely registered above the din. "I only wish you'd take my advice and get the hell back to the mainland." 　"Come on, Frank," O. B. replied, in his typical staccato fashion. "You know a Jap attack here is a long shot This entire island is a fortress! Every point, every headland fortified... Navy and Army and Navy Air Corps, twenty-five thousand troops! I refuse to worry." "Get yourself on the next boat, Ed." A smirk dimpled Burroughs' cheek. "Well, if a skinflint like you springs for traveling first class, you must mean what you say." 　Shaking his head, Teske said, "First Class was the only accommodation available. There's a record number of passengers on this trip-seventy of 'em assigned to cots in the main lounge!" 　O. B. pawed the air goodnaturedly with a big blunt hand. "I don't deny war's coming. But Honolulu is one of the safest places under the Flag. Teske, you're a damn pessimist!" 　Hully wasn't so sure he agreed with his father. After all, me Matsonia-the Lurline's sister ship-had been recently converted to a troopship; today was the first time in two weeks transportation to California had been available, excluding a few seats on the Pan Am clippers. 　"No offense, Colonel," Hully said, "but you told us there'd be an attack by Thanksgiving, and nothing happened. What makes you think-" 　"You'll probably be all right till Christmas. Oh hell, who knows?' Teske put a hand on O. B.'s shoulder. "You may be right, Ed-or why else would the brass order me to San Francisco?" 　"What are you doing, heading out there, Colonel?" Hully asked. "If you can say ..." 　"Same thing I was supposed to be doing hoe-install radar installations, and run simulated attacks by carrier-based planes." 　"Now that makes sense," Burroughs said. "The San Francisco Navy Yard, there's a target" 　Teske shrugged. "Anyway, I'm glad to get out of this madhouse.... Ed, thanks for the send-off. I'll see you in the States." 　"One of these days," Burroughs said. 　Father and son did not wait around for the Lurline's actual departure, avoiding the hoopla of whistle blasts and a brassy "Aloha Oe," hoping to beat the crowd. They had parked three blocks away, noting more police in evidence than usual-further sabotage fear?-and Fort and Bishop streets were jammed with traffic; it was getting as bad as back home in California, Hully thought. 　Pop drove, as usual-he loved to drive-and they both tossed their Panamas on the floor in the backseat, as otherwise the wind would have whisked the hats away; the top was down on the sporty white '37 Pierce Arrow, a twelve-cylinder with chrome wheel covers. They were heading Waikiki way along the Ala Moana (Sea Road), and traffic had let up some. 　As they glided by the United States Army Transport docks, across from which was the Hawaiian General Depot and the Air Depot, Hully asked, "What exactly does Colonel Teske do?" 　His blacksmith's hands gripping the steering wheel, O. B. glanced over at his son, blue eyes hard. "Besides talk a lot of pessimistic baloney? He's with the Army Signal Corps. Commander of the Army's aircraft warning system in Hawaii." 　Hully had not been privy to the conversations between Teske and his father, but he knew the colonel had arrived only about a month ago, and was a recent addition to the roster of his pop's military pals. 　"So what's this about radar?" Hully asked. They were passing the Myrtle and Healani Boat Clubs. 　"Well, you know what it is, don't you?" 　"Sure." 　"Frank brought radar to the islands, and it's a damn good idea, too. Look at the role it played in the Battle of Britain." O. B. shrugged, wind whipping the white linen of bis jacket. "And I guess I can't blame Frank for his attitude-both the military and the civilians have given him one load of horseshit after another." 　"How so?" 　"Well, General Short thinks mobile radar stations aren't worth operating on a twenty-four-hour basis. To him, they're just a good training tool for the lower ranks." 　Rather enjoying the wind rustling his hair, Hully asked, "What good does radar do if you're not using it all the time?" 　"None-that's Frank's point." 　Just ahead was the entrance to Fort Armstrong, one of five Coast Artillery Defense Batteries on Oahu. 　"You said civilians were giving him crap, too," Hully said. "What do civilians have to do with it?" 　"Plenty, when it's the governor. Him, and the National Park Service. They won't let Frank put his radar setups on mountain peaks, where they'd be most effective-it might ruin the view." 　"Hell," Hully said, snorting a laugh. "I can see why Colonel Teske is frustrated." 　"So can I, son, but he's still wrong about a Japanese air raid on Oahu. And most military personnel, and informed civilians, agree with me, in considering that a remote possibility." 　They were nearing Kewalo Basin, home of sampans in the water and out-several Japanese boatbuilding firms sat along the artificial harbor with its fleet of marine-blue sampans, blending with the water they bobbed in. 　"The threat here," his father said, casting an eye toward the man-made Japanese harbor, "isn't from above-it's from within." 　"Sabotage." 　He nodded, his expression grave, his thick hands tight on the wheel. "I know you don't agree with me on this, Hully, but you can't deny the reality-better than one out of three Hawaiians are of Jap heritage." 　"Come on, O. B.-the majority of them are hardworking, conservative souls-" 　"With relatives living back in Japan," his father finished. "A good number of these issei and nisei are Japanese citizens...." 　Issei were first-generation immigrants, ineligible for U.S. citizenship, and nisei were born in Hawaii, and as such were U.S. citizens. 　Trying to rein in his irritation, Hully said, "The nisei hold dual citizenships, Pop. You know that." 　O. B. frowned over at his son. "Yes, and if war breaks out, what flag will they serve under?" 　Hully gave his dad a sarcastic smile. "And I suppose you think sweet Mrs. Fujimoto is just waiting for a signal from the homeland to slit our throats in the night." 　The junior Burroughs was referring to their efficient, kindly, obviously loyal maid, who happened to be the mother of a friend of Hully's; it was his close friendship with a nisei that had got these occasional near arguments going between father and son. 　Despite the absurdity of it, O. B. said, "How do you know she isn't? How do you know your friend Sam won't stab you in the back?" "Because he's my friend, Dad." This was an old argument, and father and son fell into an awkward silence, punctuated by the whistle of wind and the flaglike flapping of white linen. 　Along this stretch of the Ala Moana, a fantastic, breathtaking view presented itself, including Punch Bowl and Round Top and Tantalus and Kaimuki and Diamond Head, the tower of the Royal Hawaiian Hotel peeking over the tops of coconut and date palms like a kid over a fence. 　Finally Hully said, "Jeez, Pop, I never saw so many women in one place in my Me, as on that dock today." His father nodded. "Wives of servicemen, mostly, I suppose," Hullysaid. 　"Some of 'em. Most of them were prostitutes." 　Hully, not sure his father was serious, looked at him, saying, "What? Really?" 　But O. B.'s expression was matter-of-fact; so was his tone. "Sure. And that's the only thing that makes me think Frank Teske might not be entirely nuts." 　"Why is that?" 　"Well, when the prostitutes around a military base panic, and start headin' for the mainland, you gotta wonder-who is more sensitive to the military mind than a hooker?" 　They were rambling across a long wooden bridge over the Ala Moana Canal, which emptied the city's waste water into the ocean. Their lodgings would be coming up soon, and when the wind blew from the south, no one went down to the hotel's beach to swim- at such times O. B. tended to refer to the otherwise comfortable Niumalu Hotel as "Hovel-on-Sewer." 　Soon they were passing what appeared to be an old Southern mansion set stylishly among the lush shrubbery; but it was actually a Japanese teahouse called Ikesu Villa. 　'Take that place," O. B. said with a nod. "It looks American, but it's Japanese through and through." 　Shortly after, at a fork in the road, Hully's father turned right, into that part of Waikiki which still most nearly remained in its native state. 　"You know," O. B. said reflectively, the antagonism suddenly gone from his voice, "the funny thing is... this is as close as I've ever been to war. I've always been the kind of guy who's late for the thrill-I always seem to get to the fire after it's out." 　Hully took a long sideways look at his rugged, bronzed fattier-a man's man who had been a cowboy and a gold miner, who had served the United States Cavalry in Arizona, who had sailed the Panama Canal. But who-as the creator of Tarzan-had never been to Africa, and not so long ago, when MGM announced its next Weissmuller epic would be shot on the Dark Continent, Hully's pop had been invited to accompany the expedition... only the war in Europe and Africa had changed all that. Africa was off. 　"And now I'm too old," his father was saying, wheeling into and up the Niumalu's crashed coral drive. "One last war, and I'm too damn old." 　For the first time in several weeks, Hully heard the familiar despondency in his father's voice, reminding him why he'd come here for mis "vacation"-a fear in his family that his father might be contemplating suicide. 　And wasn't mat ironic, Hully thought: what a Japanese thing for O. B. to be considering.