Free Mahu Surfer by Neil Plakcy

Mike’s—maybe his girlfriend—was surfing there and Rich frightened her. So they got into an argument and we had to cancel the practice.”
     
    “And that was the last time Mike came to the halau?”
     
    She sipped her latte, thinking. “Yes, because I didn’t hear he’d been killed for a week, and I worried that he’d stopped coming to practice because of the argument.”
     
    She drained the last of her latte and patted her mouth with a napkin, then stood up and slipped her sandal back on. “I’ve gotta get to work. If you come back to the halau again for practice, I can introduce you to some of the other people who knew Mike.” She pulled a business card out of her purse and handed it to me. Her last name was Isaacson, and she worked for an investment firm in Honolulu.
     
    “Deal.” I stood up with her, cracking my back. “I got a good workout today.” I wanted to thank her for the information, but since I was playing it that I was helping her out all I could do was smile.
     
    I left Melody and headed back to Hibiscus House, where I showered and ate my Pop Tarts, thinking about my day. I decided I had to learn more about Mexpipe, which meant I had to find someone who had surfed there. I pulled out the printout I’d made the day before at The Next Wave of the top finishers, and scanned the names, looking for any I recognized.
     
    Pay dirt. My cousin Ben’s name was there. I made a point of keeping an eye out for him that morning at Pipeline, and when I saw him taking a break I went over to where he was hanging out on the beach with a couple of friends.
     
    He’s good-looking, in a scrawny, surfer way. There isn’t an ounce of fat on his six-foot something body, and he wears his black hair loose, down to his shoulders. His father was a haole Aunt Pua married in a quickie ceremony in Vegas, who left her life, and our family circle, shortly after Ben was born. So, like me, Ben has just a slight epicanthic fold around his eyes, and his skin takes a tan well.
     
    “Yo, cuz, how’s it going?” he said as I came up. “You guys know my cousin Kimo?” he said to his friends.
     
    We nodded all around. “You got a minute?” I asked. “I wanted to talk to you about something.”
     
    “Sure.” He and I walked down the beach a little to a refreshment shack, where we both got bottles of water. “Your folks still upset about what happened to you?” Ben asked, as we sat down on benches overlooking the water.
     
    “Pretty much. I talk to them every night and you know my mother, she’s full of ideas for me.”
     
    He laughed. “Boy, I know that. You should hear my mother talk.”
     
    “I never imagine Aunt Pua as the type to tell anybody how to run his life.”
     
    “That’s because you’re not her son. That laid-back act is for the rest of the world. Not for me. She keeps telling me I could be teaching surfing at a resort and making good money.”
     
    “My mother keeps telling me things like when the next LSAT test is. ‘You can still go to law school,’ she says. ‘Lots of people go back to school in their thirties.’”
     
    “Man, those two will never change,” Ben said, shaking his head. “So what’s on your mind, dude?”
     
    “You went to Mexpipe, didn’t you?”
     
    “Sure. Did better than I expected, not as good as I hoped.”
     
    “What’s it like?”
     
    He took a swig from his water bottle. “Zicatela’s the beach that everybody surfs. Six to fifteen foot ground swells; lots of tubes. Wipeouts can be really bad. There’s this break called the Point, and you can get some long, fast, challenging rides.”
     
    “How’s Mexpipe itself?”
     
    “Lots of good surfers show up, and the waves can be awesome.” He shifted around on his bench. “Big party scene, too.”
     
    “Yeah?”
     
    “Toga party, bikini contest—I mean, they try to make it fun.”
     
    “Lot of drugs down there?”
     
    He nodded. “I don’t do anything more than pot, and never when