CHAPTER 12

.12.

The Honolulu Harbor was a chaos of scent and sound on the day the SS Malolo prepared to sail. The air was thick with the smell of thousands of carnation and ginger leis – a floral sweetness so heavy it felt like it could drown you before you even touched the water.

We stood on the deck, leaning against the rail as the Royal Hawaiian Band played "Aloha ʻOe." It’s a song designed to break your heart, and that day, it was doing a surgical job on Jimmy's. He looked back at the green velvet of the Koʻolau Mountains as if he were memorizing the color for a long winter.

"You don't have to do this, Stingray," he said. He wasn't wearing the ruined silk suit or the beach khakis anymore. He was in the black wool of mourning, looking like a dark smudge against the vibrant blue of the harbor.

"I’m a writer stuck with a blank page, remember?" I said, adjusting my smile to make the words lighter. "Maybe what I need is a change of scenery to unstuck it."

The truth was heavier. I could still feel the Kuleana Mr. Kahanamoku had laid on my shoulders. I’d given this guy my breath in July; I wasn't about to let the Hollywood sharks take it away from him in October.

The "All Ashore" whistle blew – a deep, vibrating roar that shook the deck beneath our feet. Streamers of every color snaked from the ship to the pier, thin paper lifelines connecting the departing to the staying. As the Malolo began to pull away, the streamers tightened, stretched, and then snapped one by one. It was a clean break.

We watched the "Pink Palace" shrink into a toy-sized dot. Then the Halekulani. Finally, even Diamond Head began to sink into the horizon.

"The King is dead," Jimmy murmured, his voice lost in the vision of an imaginary wake.

"Long live the King," I muttered back.

We turned our backs on the islands and looked toward the East. Ahead of us lay five days of nothing but the North Pacific – a long, pale blue purgatory that would lead us straight into the heart of the Royal Danish "kingdom" he had been trying to forget.

I looked at Jimmy. He was holding his Leica, but he wasn't taking any pictures. He was just watching the water, with blue eyes as cold as the depths. The "Danish Prince" was going home to claim a throne made of sugar and secrets, and I was the only witness he had left. The only one he could trust.

I reached into my pocket and felt the cold metal of my room key. Five days to San Pedro. Five days to think about what kind of story this was going to be. Without knowing precisely why, I had a feeling that the "pulp" my father despised was about to become too real even for me.