Wild, Hard, Sweet | Page 9

They like us island boys--we got any money.'
They passed a Del Monte cannery and streets lined with industrial buildings. A small Chinatown. Several blocks of office buildings and banks. A large double-decked shopping center across from a park bordered by palms. A glimpse of the horizon, edge of light blue and darker blue. They drove into a district crowded with hotels, and the driver stopped in front of a mid-sized building.
'Here you go, Brah. Hale Aloha. Waikiki.'

7

The Jag was parked by the front walk, British racing green dusty from the long drive. EN GARDE, the name of his father's boat and one of his investment funds, was barely readable on the license plate. Harry felt a familiar prick of irritation mixed with affection. As he approached the house, he saw his father through the bay window, a glass in his hand, holding forth. Harry made a face and entered.
'Ah, my son the smuggler,' his father said.
'How did it go, Dear?' His mother was dressed for dinner.
'No problem. Eagleton did his thing. Ten thousand bucks. Community service, 200 hours! I guess The George Foundation will be hearing about Chief Larsen's youth center project after a decent interval.'
'Thank goodness!'
His father extended a hard hand. Harry shook hands but didn't play the grip game. His father was bigger than he was. He had a high bony forehead, curly chestnut hair, a way of looming over you, Ben George here. Harry had his mother's fine bones, dark hair, and chiseled features. His mouth was like his father's, wide. There was a similar set to their shoulders.
'Help yourself.' His father pointed to the sideboard.
Harry lifted a decanter of sherry. 'Mother?'
'I'm fine for the moment, thank you, Dear. I am so relieved.' Harry put the decanter down and poured himself whisky, adding a little water, feeling his father's eyes on him. In a moment his father would say, That's the way it's taken in Scotland.
'That's the way it's taken in Scotland.'
'And Cumberland,' Harry interrupted.
'By Georges,' his father said. Maybe this was going to work out, Harry thought. 'Rum runners.' Uh, oh. 'Supernumaries of the underworld.' Nope. 'I'm not against making a buck, mind you.' His father gathered steam. 'But I'm not wild about wasting it.'
'It was a mistake, Ben,' his mother said.
'Yes,' his father said. He frowned. 'Your mother and I will split the amount.'
'I'll pay you back.'
'How are you going to do that' Borrow it from your mother?' A small flash passed behind Harry's eyes.
'Well, well,' his father said. 'I think you're annoyed. Maybe you're a George after all.'
'You think you're so tough.'
'Well, like Muhammed Ali said, the ones is strong enough, ain't fast enough; the ones is fast enough ain't strong enough.' His father's mouth twisted.
'Ben. Harry! Stop this.'
'It's all right,' Ben said. He stretched one arm out, loosening a large shoulder. He kept in shape, Harry had to admit. He liked looking good on his boat.
'You'll get it back with interest,' he said flatly.
His father shrugged. 'You're my son, not an investment. Don't worry about it. It's just--it's tough out there. There's always somebody trying to screw you. You have to get them before they get you; it usually takes money.'
'No one has gotten you yet.' His mother switched to approval.
'Not recently,' his father said. Ethel appeared in the doorway and asked if she should put the crab cakes on.
'That would be marvelous,' his mother said. 'Harry, I will have a taste more.'
Dinner was less contentious. Half way through, his father came back to money again. 'So, what next, Harry' Was all that Bowdoin tuition for naught?'
'No way. I got a tooth knocked out, and we destroyed Hamilton in the finals.'
'Well done.' His father had played football at Hamilton but not hockey. Harry was too small for football, but he had been skating since he was two, all through prep school and Bowdoin. He took a pounding in the corners, but he kept after it. His skating saved him; he was a split second faster than most and had perfect balance. They called him a natural skater. Mostly it was that he had started so early.
'I'm working on some deals. Legal, you'll be glad to hear.'
'Good, good.'
The deals might be legal, but the front money wasn't. Harry had a laundry problem.
He excused himself, went upstairs, and lay on his bed. It hadn't been a bad day, really. The court hassle was over with. He'd have paid off his father on the spot, but then he would have had to explain where the money came from. He'd put that money to work, pay him later.
He fell asleep and dreamed that an old man, the father of a friend, was stumbling across a field to meet him. The man crossed under a fence and became a pigeon. Dark blood flooded through his breast feathers. Harry