Time Risk: A Time Travel Novel, page 11
But first, a short nap. She opened the window, switched on the ceiling fan, crawled under the sheet, and rested her head deep into the pillow. Thirty minutes is all, she told herself.
Thirty-five minutes later, Rachel had changed into her second outfit: a tan and white striped blouse with three-quarter length sleeves, which mostly hid her wound, and a matching tan pleated cotton skirt. She studied the low-heeled pumps and hoped they were more suitable than the oxfords.
Inside her straw handbag, she carried her wallet, a fake driver’s license, and three rings she planned to pawn at the nearest shop. Tucked away in a hidden pocket of her skirt was the Temporal Beeper.
She left the hotel and started toward town, glancing back over her shoulder. Although she was on edge, she also felt a sudden pang of excitement. She had made it to Honolulu, and she felt alive, alert and ready for the next challenge.
CHAPTER 21
Ravenous, Rachel sat at the counter of the Edgewater Hotel coffee shop, devouring a club sandwich and chasing it down with a watery cup of coffee.
Afterward, she strolled through the narrow streets of the Hotel Street neighborhood, with its low stucco and granite buildings, shaded by tin awnings. She was still becoming acclimated to the retro cars, with their broad running boards, ornate front grills, and gleaming chrome trim. And there were so many jeeps, and so many military personnel roaming the streets.
Often, she glanced back over her shoulder. Twice, she saw a man clad in khaki pants, a short-sleeve Hawaiian shirt, and a straw hat. He moved along the sidewalk, glancing left and right. A little too obvious, Rachel thought. He was weaving through the crowds of sailors as they strutted past a rowdy strip of taverns and pool halls. She knew from her research that this area was a red-light district during the war, but it did not seem dangerous at this time of day, and surely it was the right place to find a pawnshop.
Already feeling vulnerable and on edge, the last thing she needed was to be shadowed. While she didn’t regret coming to Greg’s rescue, it had taken its toll. Instead of being a nobody, just part of the crowd, she was now a “person of interest.” She’d have to lose the guy before she visited David Whitlock the following morning.
Rachel wandered the sidewalks, observing servicemen purchasing fringed satin pillows that said, “I Love You Mother O’ Mine,” and photographs of bare-breasted women holding up patriotic slogans.
She strolled past a Filipino tattoo parlor, where an artist pricked the skin of a sailor’s thick forearm, while he tossed back a bottle of beer. Two buddies stood over him, smoking cigarettes, beers in hand.
Rachel wondered if those sailors, and others like them who strolled by, would be among the casualties on one of the battleships attacked on Sunday, perhaps the USS Arizona, the USS West Virginia, or the USS California.
Rachel searched for a pawnshop as she ambled by cafes: the Black Cat, the Bunny Ranch and Swanky Franky, where fresh-faced servicemen crowded inside to buy hot dogs.
As she strolled by Wo Fat, a Chinese restaurant, she paused at the front window to peer inside at the garish décor, while using the reflection of the glass to see if she was still being followed. She didn’t see the man, but she was nearly certain he was there.
Rachel continued on, growing more acclimated to a city she’d studied on a wide 3-D TV screen back at the lab in 2024. She was aware that the Japanese consulate was about a mile away on Nuuanu Avenue. North of the consulate, on Alawa Heights, was the Shuncho-Ro Teahouse. It was the favorite restaurant of Japanese spy Tadeo Yoshikawa, the place where he became notorious for his heavy drinking and geisha courting. It was said he spied on Pearl Harbor from a telescope installed on the second-floor balcony of the Teahouse.
Rachel had studied his photo carefully. It would be easy to track the man down and, at the right time, take him out with her Smith & Wesson .38. Would that change history in any dramatic way?
At a pawn shop on Kalākaua Avenue, she hocked two diamond rings for a total of $350, not as much as she’d anticipated, but it would be enough money to keep her going for a couple of weeks, if it came to that. And she had more rings to hock in her waist belt.
On Fort Street, Rachel bought a skirt, a pair of culottes, an aloha blouse and two other tops, and a dinner dress with long sleeves, as well as sandals, heels, and white gloves.
She’d asked the pleasant native Hawaiian woman salesclerk about nearby doctors, and she was told there were two on Bishop Street, not far away.
As Rachel turned onto Bishop Street, she again became aware of the man tailing her. A newspaper was tucked under his arm and, whenever she glanced back, he’d hesitate, look away and peer into tourist shops and cafes, as if they held great interest. Rachel was sure the guy wasn’t a pro. Who was he working for?
Rachel fought the impulse to approach him. Maybe when she arrived back at her hotel where she could drop her shopping bags, she’d confront him. And then she changed her mind and decided to lose him, just for fun. She increased her pace, darted left and then right onto side streets. Entering a woman’s shop, she asked the clerk if she could use the bathroom. She found a backdoor and exited into an alley. Five minutes later, she returned to Bishop Street and glanced around. There was no sign of him.
There was a nameplate on the doctor’s front door: Dr. Emiko Sato, M.D., General Practitioner. Rachel recognized it as a Japanese name. She pushed open the door and entered a clean, tidy office, with a round coffee table covered with magazines, surrounded by comfortable, green leather chairs. Two people sat waiting, a gray-haired man, and a young, pretty woman. The man appeared to be Japanese, and the woman was Hawaiian.
At the reception desk, the petite Japanese woman, with folded hands and averted eyes, listened to Rachel politely. Then, in a mild, accented voice, she said, “Dr. Sato see you soon. You wait.”
Rachel sat by an open window, its delicate curtain, patterned with soft pink and white cherry blossoms, billowed gently in the fragrant breeze.
Forty minutes passed before she was called in. With her shopping bags in hand, Rachel entered Dr. Sato’s treating room.
Dr. Sato was a thin, quiet, and wary man. Rachel sat in a heavy wooden chair while he took her pulse and blood pressure. When he raised the sleeve of her blouse and removed the Band Aids, he made a little sound of surprise.
“Knife cut. How?”
“Cooking,” Rachel said, firmly, matching his brevity.
He lifted his eyes, studying her, not believing her.
“Do I need stitches?” Rachel asked.
“Yes. Best. Maybe six to ten. Still maybe small scar.”
A half hour later, Rachel left Dr. Sato’s office with eight stitches, a sterile dressing, and a bandage securely wrapped around the wound.
Before returning to her hotel, and seeing no sign of the man who had been following her, she found a hardware store and purchased several tools she might need for her mission, including an ice pick, a pocketknife, a screwdriver and wire cutters. Then she hurried back to the hotel.
Back in her room, she applied some make-up and styled her hair in a pompadour, sweeping it upwards and back from her forehead. Then she slipped into her new outfit: a mid-length dress with a tropical flair. It had a slightly fitted bodice, a modest V-neckline, and sleeves long enough to hide her wound. The waist was cinched with a slim, matching belt, and she paired the dress with white gloves, low-heeled peep-toe shoes, and an inexpensive pearl necklace and earrings set she’d packed. She took her wide-brimmed straw hat from the suitcase, and at five minutes to seven, she went down to the hotel lobby to await Greg’s arrival.
She fidgeted with her sleeves, feeling self-conscious and uncertain if her attire was appropriate for the evening. The salesclerk had said she looked attractive in the dress. Did she care if she looked attractive? Yes, she did. She was a woman, after all, even if she did find most men boring or self-absorbed. Occasionally, one would stroll by, and she would study his shoulders or his ass or his eyes. Sometimes, she’d even flirt, and sometimes she liked being with a man, and sleeping with a man. Sometimes she regretted it, but most of the time, she didn’t.
But dressing up had never been her thing. Despite the salesclerk’s assurance that the dress was the perfect choice for her dinner date at The Halekulani Hotel on a Thursday night, Rachel still felt like a fish out of water—or more accurately, like a woman out of time and place. She hoped the straw hat with the exotic ribbon trim gave her a sophisticated look, but a glance in the hotel lobby mirror suggested to her that she appeared more like a tourist trying to blend in. Okay, maybe that was a good thing?
Greg entered the hotel lobby with a broad smile on his tanned face. He wore a very smart-looking light beige linen suit, white shirt, a silk navy blue tie, lace-up two-toned shoes and a light-colored straw Panama hat. In his hands, he carried a pink and white lei.
“This is your official welcome to Hawaii,” he said. “So take your hat off.”
Rachel did so, and he placed the lei around her neck. “They are dendrobium orchids, Hawaii’s finest,” he said.
Rachel smiled. “Thank you, Greg. They’re beautiful.”
His eyes widened with surprise and then delight as he studied her hair and outfit. “Well, now, look at you, Rachel, whose last name I still don’t know. You look absolutely lovely. A touch of Lana Turner, with a bit of Kathrine Hepburn.”
With a puzzled expression, Rachel stared at him. “And you...” she began, struggling to recall any popular male stars from 1941 besides Clark Gable and Humphrey Bogart, and then she gave up. “... You remind me of my high school quarterback, who never asked me out.”
Greg narrowed his eyes in disdain. “What an idiot. Well, he’s asking you out now.”
Greg offered her his arm. “Shall we go?”
Outside the hotel entrance, a taxi waited.
“Don’t you have your own car?” Rachel asked.
Greg made a face of apology. “Well… No. I went on a bender a while back and smashed into an Army colonel’s staff car. Around two weeks ago, I went on another bender and broadsided a Navy captain’s car. They revoked my license.”
“Were they okay, the colonel and the captain?” Rachel asked.
“Oh, yes. They had me tossed in jail for a week each time, and there were no hard feelings. Well, at least none where I was concerned. I can’t be responsible for how they feel, can I?”
Greg held the back door of the taxi as Rachel ducked inside, then he joined her. Greg told the driver their destination, and the driver slapped down his meter and cranked the car into gear. The vehicle lurched forward, leaving the parking lot.
Rachel glanced back over her shoulder, peering out the back window, then she looked at Greg. “Do you know we’re being followed?”
Greg faced ahead. “Yep.”
“Who are they?”
“Not entirely sure.”
“How long have they been following you?”
“Not sure.”
“Maybe you should find out.”
“The hell with them. Everybody’s on edge these days.”
Rachel eased back in her seat. “Has it occurred to you that maybe, for your own safety, you should leave Hawaii and return to the mainland?”
“Once or twice… maybe even thrice, and I like the sound of that.”
“But you’re not going?”
Greg looked at her, pointedly. “No, I’m not. I have one doozy of a story I’m working on and I’m going to file it tomorrow. I’ll tell you about it over dinner.”
Rachel glanced to the left as they merged into traffic. Who did the people following them think she was? Maybe a girlfriend? She was fine with that. In fact, it might make for a solid cover, especially after the fight in Wahiawa.
CHAPTER 22
Rachel and Greg left the cab and made their way to the entrance of the Halekulani Hotel. Rachel admired the whitewashed facade and Spanish-style architecture, including the red-tiled roofs and arched doorways. Surrounding them were lush tropical gardens, abundant with coconut palms, hibiscus, and plumeria plants.
As they stepped into the opulent hotel lobby, Rachel’s eyes were drawn to the gleaming brass and marble accents; the wicker chairs, teakwood tables, and lavishly patterned fabrics. Elegant ladies in chic dinner gowns seemed to float by as if carried on a soft breeze, their companions erect and commanding in their formal military uniforms.
At the dining room entrance, Rachel and Greg were greeted by a formal maitre d’ in a tuxedo, who offered Greg a stiff smile of recognition before escorting them across polished hardwood floors, illuminated by the soft glow of crystal chandeliers. Overhead, ceiling fans lazily stirred the gentle sea breeze and the stringy clouds of cigarette and cigar smoke.
As they proceeded past tables draped with crisp white linens, gleaming silverware, and delicate china, Rachel observed that Navy, Marine, and Army Air Corps officers, sitting with their wives and girlfriends, cast cold glances at Greg. In return, he offered them a little bow of his head and a crooked grin.
The maitre d’ led them to the terrace, which offered breathtaking panoramic views of the Pacific Ocean and the romantic evening sky.
Once they were seated and handed menus, Greg spread his hands in proud satisfaction. “Well, Rachel, isn’t this paradise?” he exclaimed.
Rachel nodded, glancing around the terrace. She remembered that Admiral Husband Edward Kimmel, commander of the Pacific fleet, would dine at the Halekulani Hotel two days later, on Saturday, December 6th, the night before the attack.
Because he ignored prior intelligence warnings, Admiral Kimmel would face accusations of inadequate preparation for the assault. He was demoted in rank and finally took an early retirement in 1942.
Greg ordered a bottle of Chablis, and for appetizers, Rachel chose shrimp cocktail and Greg, Oysters Rockefeller. While they ate and sipped the wine, Greg talked about his work, his travels, and his childhood.
“I was this crazy, energetic kid, who grew up in the swamps of Florida. I went running through palmetto groves, dodging backyard snakes, taunting alligators, sunning myself on rocks with turtles, and was just wild about girls from the time I was six years old. I couldn’t wait to get out of there and travel, and so travel I have. Yes, and how I’ve traveled, and seen things no one else has seen.”
Rachel listened politely and with genuine interest. When they were half-way through their entrées of grilled mahi-mahi, a striking woman, likely in her thirties, glided over with a cigarette in hand. She wore an enchanting, ankle-length, off-the-shoulder, silky blue gown and long pearl earrings. Her raven-black hair was styled in soft waves and pin curls, her lips were a delicate dark red, and her eyes sparkled with sultry confidence.
Her attention locked on Greg. When he saw her approach, he rose, smiling.
“Victoria Gilbert. Aren’t you a real dish in that gown? You ought to be in pictures.”
She offered him her hand. They had a quick, friendly shake, and then Victoria swung her gaze to Rachel. “Hello, there. I’m Victoria.”
Rachel stood. “I’m Rachel.”
“I don’t know her last name,” Greg said. “… And it’s killing me.”
Rachel smiled at Victoria. “No, I haven’t told him my last name.”
Victoria said, “Smart girl. But why are you hanging around with this skunk of a reporter? You should be hanging out with riffraff reporters like me.”
Rachel didn’t know what to say, so she didn’t speak.
Greg said, “Rachel, in case you don’t know who this globetrotting, celebrated reporter and photographer is…”
Victoria interrupted. “…You already told Rachel my name, Gregory, old boy. Let’s not be redundant, as you can sometimes be when your editor has nodded off while reading your latest tirade about the coming Pacific war.”
He ignored her, looking at Rachel. “Rachel, Victoria works for the Honolulu Advertiser, a rag that never dares to express an opinion more substantial than what I read this morning. And I quote: ‘Let’s continue to showcase the Aloha spirit to the world by providing exceptional hospitality and preserving the pristine landscapes that make our islands so special.’ End quote.” Greg narrowed his mock-serious eyes at Victoria while rocking on his heels. “Oh, my. That is very provocative reading, Victoria. Did you write it?”
Victoria winked at Rachel. “Actually, Greg, I didn’t write that piece. We like to share the workload, unlike at your paper, where you seem to shoulder the mediocrity all by yourself.”
Greg laughed. “Victoria, I love you. Are you going to honor us and sit for five minutes… or less?” Greg said, with a boyish grin.
“Why not? My beau over there, Navy Captain Lance Alcott, comes from Boston, and his accent is a killer. He won’t miss me. He and his officers are talking about war, and they’re demanding my opinion. Abruptly, I glanced your way and said, ‘Oh, look, there’s my old pain-in-the-ass friend, Greg Stone.’ You should have seen their smiles fade and their faces fall into dark disapproval. I love it.”
Greg waved down a waiter, who brought an extra chair, and they all sat. Victoria took a puff on her cigarette, then stubbed it out in the ashtray.
“Do you know what they’re saying over there, Greg? Those officers? They think newspaper men are mostly miserable pinkos and drunks. They were quick not to include me, and I told them I was insulted. Then I pouted and ordered another bottle of Champagne.”
Greg’s expression hardened. “To hell with them. The war is on their back porch, and they won’t even listen to the experts.”
Victoria grinned at him. “Do you know what an admiral said, seated at the head of the table? He said, ‘I’m a committed battleship man and not a fan of the flattops, even though I’ll give them a nod, just for the hell of it. The future of the Navy might just go to the airplane, but I say it’s a risky business flying out there in the middle of the ocean, trying to land one of those damned things. That’s for the young daredevils, isn’t it?’”
