Free Hot Lava by Rob Rosen Page A

had no answer.
    At least not yet.
    ***
    The next day, as planned, the limo pulled up just as we trotted down the hotel steps and over to the sidewalk. Liko hopped out, dressed in a pair of smart shorts and a tight, short-sleeved Hawaiian shirt. The gods had clearly smiled on him. And us. His own smile faltered only briefly when he saw that Brandon and I were now a foursome, one of whom was the FBI agent he’d driven upon our arrival and the other a teenager, one he most likely recognized as the street trash everyone thought Koni to be. In truth, we did make an odd menagerie. Liko, the professional that he was, merely wished us a good morning and escorted us to the limo, where a chilled carafe of mimosas awaited us.
    Liko then ran around to the driver’s side and jumped in. His voice greeted us over the speaker. “Aloha, gentlemen,” he said, his voice as smooth and silky as the drinks Brandon and I now had grasped in our greedy little hands. “A good day to you all.”
    “Aloha,” we shouted back.
    “Where to this fine morning?” he asked, the engine revving and the limo pulling away.
    “The North Shore,” we said in unison.
    “Any place in particular?”
    To which I replied, “The most beautiful beach you can think to take us to.”
    He laughed. “You’re on Oahu, sirs. They’re all beautiful. But I think I know just the perfect spot.”
    Then Will added what I’d been dreading since we’d discussed it the night before. “Afterward, Liko,” he said, “we’d appreciate it if you could drive us to two other places; they should be near to one other, and we hopefully won’t be at them for very long.”
    “Whatever you like,” he told us. “You’ve paid for the whole day.”
    Waikiki being long as opposed to wide, we were on the H-1 highway in just minutes, driving west, the Koolau mountain range to our right, sprawling suburbs on either side of us, the ocean now far to our left, mostly out of sight. We cranked up the radio. Journey was blaring, taking me back to a time in my distant, youthful memory. “God, I love Journey,” I said.
    “Who’s Journey?” Koni asked.
    We groaned and ignored the question. “How far to the other end of the island?” I asked instead.
    “About fifty miles, close to an hour’s drive,” Liko replied over the intercom.
    Brandon looked at the carafe and then back to me. “Just enough time,” he noted.
    “Just enough mimosas,” I amended.
    Will turned off the intercom. “Hey guys, remember, this is only partly a joyride.”
    Brandon grimaced. “Then I’ll only get partly drunk.”
    I clinked my glass with his, adding, “And I’ll take the other part.”
    Journey turned to Blondie, and we sat back, rolled down the window, and stared out at the passing scenery. I nodded my head to the rhythm. “Ah, Blondie.”
    “Who’s Blondie?” Koni asked.
    “Shut up, kid,” Brandon admonished. “Just please shut the fuck up.”
    ***
    We turned north, now heading up H-2 toward our destination. The city gave way to rolling countryside, small communities, middle-class houses, and middle-class lives. Koni looked out the window glumly. I patted his hand but didn’t ask any more questions; I’d found that the answers weren’t to my liking.
    Minutes later, we approached a Hawaiian landmark. “Look,” I said, pointing. “The Dole Plantation and Pineapple Garden Maze.” I’d read in our guidebook that over a million tourists visited every year to experience Hawaii’s “premier pineapple experience.” (Which begs the question: what’s an inferior pineapple experience like?)
    Brandon shook his head. “Tourist hell. Besides, you’re lost half the time as it is. Put you in a maze, and we might never see you again.” He hesitated. “Then again...”
    “Hardy har har,” I interrupted him. “I get your point. They also have a massive gift shop.”
    His face noticeably brightened. “Maybe on the way back, then.”
    We soon reached the town of Haleiwa, the surfing