he part of Oliver Wetzel was written
with the actor Tommy Lee Jones in mind. So, to give you the right
idea, I have chosen to include his image in my artwork.
By Peg Keeley
International was packed--as usual. During the winter months, tourists
from the Mainland flowed through; resembling refugees escaping weather
ravaged North America. Ookala noticed the monitor flashing the arrival
of Flight #2361 from Seattle and glanced down at her daughter.
"Hurry up with those leis, Sandy."
The girl tossed six completed flower
leis to her mother.
"Not those. The big ones--the real
ones." Ookala moved the real leis made from sweet scented fresh flowers
to the front. The silk ones sold for $15, the real for $45. Years
of experience told her that the tourists arriving always wanted the
leis and when they stepped off their planes, pockets loaded, they
were suckers for the real thing. The first passengers were coming
through the gate--pasty pale, tired, but eyes glowing with anticipation.
She could pick out the ones who'd buy. Her gaze paused a moment on
the tall, thin man coming in her direction. His look was hard, cold,
his dark, disinterested eyes as black as his thinning hair. A business
man, she deduced instantly, and her interest passed him by. She spotted
the passenger behind him. The middle-aged, freshly permed woman beamed
"Buy beautiful lei, wahine?" Ookala
called to her, exaggerating her accent.
The tourist clasped her hands in joy
and started in Ookala's direction.
Donaldson had spent the last week living in the airport. He'd moved
from gate to gate observing the arrival of every flight that had originally
departed New York. This job was growing boring. He lounged in the
chair near the gate of Flight #2361; sandal-clad feet propped up,
dressed in jeans and flowered shirt with sunglasses perched on top
of his head. He glanced at the photo he'd been keeping in his shirt
pocket to refresh his memory, but by now, he knew the face well. The
tall man Ookala had noticed exited the gate, dressed in a dark blue
suit, brief case in hand. Frankie noted the olive complexion, the
dark features, angular nose and knew he at last had his man. He remained
as he was for several more minutes, knowing that he was not the only
one awaiting the man's arrival. Finally, he rose from the seat and
wandered off towards the row of public phones.
Dropping in his coins, he punched in
the number and when the phone was answered, he muttered: "Cal, it's
me. He's here."
Carew and Duke Lukela waited near the luggage carousel watching the
people move in and out. "I met this guy once," Kim said quietly. "He
works in a different way, but he's good--boy is he good. Nothing phases
him and he's not afraid of nobody. He'd report on the President if
he dug it up and he'd be the one who could. They call him 'The Weasel.'"
He shrugged. "Maybe he looks a little like one, too. Supposed to be
a full-blooded Cherokee. There he is." Kimo motioned towards the blue-suited
man who approached.
They walked towards him. "Oliver Wetzel?"
The man turned, his penetrating eyes
boring into Duke. Then he spotted Carew and there was a momentary
flash of recognition across the somber face. "Carew, good to see you
He mumbled a response, the gestured
towards Duke. "Duke Lukela, Oliver Wetzel."
"Lukela, huh?" Wetzel said and instantly
memorized the face and name. He spotted his bag as it popped out of
the chute and slid down onto the slowly turning carousel.
"I've heard a lot about you," Duke
said, attempting to make conversation.
"Yeah?" Wetzel glared at him again.
"Most have. And it's all bad."
Duke blinked, speechless, trying to
decide if Wetzel was kidding or not. There was something disquieting
about the tall man, as if he was guarding a deep secret--or power.
Yes, he nearly dripped with the aura of total power. "Want to get
a bite to eat?" Duke asked, attempting to recover.
"Frankly, I'm dog tired," Wetzel replied
with a glance at his watch. "My body thinks it's 1:00 a.m. How about
had set outside the windows of the state Capitol building as Governor
Moyer sat placidly behind his huge desk hearing without listening
to Steve McGarrett's argument.
"This isn't a good time for this kind
of thing. I have two major investigations underway. One has been in
progress with a man undercover for over two months. We're this close."
Steve pinched his thumb and index finger together. "I don't have time
to baby sit some celebrity. If you'd given me at least a week or two
to plan, maybe we could have done something. Not now."
He's not a celebrity, McGarrett," Moyer
replied, his placid facial expression never changing. "It's not just
your department. Wetzel is here to check out the entire law enforcement
division of the state."
"Is he even aware that we don't operate
like the rest of the country?" Steve fired back. Without waiting for
a response he added: "I'm in the middle of a major smuggling investigation--I
don't have time to dabble in a rookie officer who might smoke a joint
of marijuana. It's small potatoes. Let HPD deal with this Wetzel guy,
but keep him out of Five-0."
"No can do," Moyer snapped back. "It
was an all or nothing deal."
"Deal?" It's day like this I really
miss Jamesson. I knew how he thought, he understood Five-0. He understood
me. We didn't have these damned little power plays every week.
Moyer tried to look friendly, but it
failed. "Look, Steve, Wetzel is a good man. At the Governors' Convention,
we were all deeply impressed with what he's accomplished. He's rooted
out drug operations functioning at the top state level in four states--including
California. He spent nearly a year there cleaning house."
Good God, could I tolerate that guy
here for a year?
"By the time the DEA and ATF got done
singing his praises, we'd have looked like we had something to hide
if we didn't invite him."
"When did you know he was coming?"
Moyer pressed his lips tightly together
as if to say he was not going to be challenged by his senior law enforcer,
then seemed to change his mind. "I knew he'd be here sometime this
month. He called me from Kennedy International twenty-four hours ago,
announcing he was on his way. That's the way he works."
Steve ground his teeth. "How else does
There was a loud bang of the door outside
to the secretary and the young woman's shrill voice proclaiming: "Wait!
You can't just walk in there!"
The door to the Governor's office burst
in with such force, Steve instinctively slid his hand inside his jacket
for his pistol.
Oliver Wetzel blew into the room, Dan
Williams at his heels. Wetzel glared at Moyer. "I got into town two
hours ago--I wanted to sleep. What the hell is the problem here?"
Moyer good-naturedly extended a hand.
"Al Moyer, and this is Steve McGarrett, chief of Five-0."
Wetzel ignored the hand. "What's the
McGarrett turned on him, anger flaring
not only at Wetzel's rudeness, but his arrogance. Wetzel was as tall
as he was, and they now stood in each other's face, nose to nose.
"While you are in this state, you will operate my way," Steve declared.
"I didn't ask you to come here, I have a full case load, so stay out
of our way. Any questionable activity you unearth I was reported to
me first--not the news media or anyone else-"
" Hold it right there!" Wetzel
announced loudly. "Let me fill you in on a few things. I am a professional.
I carry a badge." He flipped it out of his jacket and back in in a
mere fraction of a second. "And I run my own investigations my own
way. I don't answer to anyone here--except the Governor. This is,
unless he turns out to be a user. I was invited here by Moyer who
knew he was going to waive the rules."
McGarrett glared at Moyer. It's going
to be a long four years. He shifted his seething expression back on
Wetzel. "Who do you work for?" he asked in a menacing way.
"DEA, FBI, ATF, CIA, you can fill in
the blank anyway you'd like, but if you're looking for my boss--I
answer to no man--you got that, McGarrett? No man."
Dan Williams felt like he was watching
two rams butt heads. "Heaven help us," he muttered.
Wetzel turned his attention to him
and a quick grin broke across his face, then was gone. "He's right,
McGarrett. Heaven help you all if you're hiding something. If you're
not?" He suddenly turned away and gave an innocent shrug. "We're all
on the same team then, aren't we?"
slammed the door to his office so hard, the pictures on the wall by
Jenny's desk rattled. He was beyond words to describe how he felt.
The bulletin board that for two months had been collecting the tidbits
of information about Mayan Shipping and Cargo stood before him. This
is what I need to do, where I need to be, not playing politics with
the like of Moyer! He heard the door open behind him but did
"We really going to put up with Wetzel?"
he heard Danno's voice ask.
He did not move, but said with much
more calm that he felt, "We are going to do just what we do every
day, Danno." He gestured towards the board. "There is a ship full
of drugs going to arrive a matter of days. Kono's been in there too
long to take any risks with him now." He walked over to his desk,
and finally looked in Danny's direction. "We do just exactly what
we did before." He rapped a knuckle on the desk. "Get Kimo in here."
Carew appeared almost instantly.
"What do you know about this Wetzel?"
He shrugged. "Just what I said before.
Straight shooter. A bit unorthodox. The tenacity of a bull dog. Once
he gets hold of something, he doesn't let go."
"He plays outside of the rules. How
does he swing that?"
"He's got this angle with computers."
Kimo shrugged again. "Something about
"Arpant," Steve murmured.
"He wrote a major work on this thing
about a year ago. Claimed Arpant would be introducing the communications
wave of the future." Kimo smirked. "Seems like a fad to me."
Steve thought about the idea. He was
well acquainted with Intelligence and the Defense Industry's communications
systems that had been developed to keep channels open in the event
of war. He was not sure how this translated into law enforcement.
"Get me a copy of that paper. I want you to keep an eye on him, Kimo.
I don't need him stirring things up and accidentally blundering onto
a crime scene."
Kimo looked less than pleased. "He
is a cop, Steve, not some untrained novice. He might actually do some
good. Are you so sure there isn't one dirty cop on all of Honolulu?"
McGarrett's look darkened. "The issue
is not a dirty cop, it is unleashed, absolute power without restrictions.
The ends do not justify the means."
Kimo decided to let go of this little
debate. Nobody wins against McGarrett. "Well, I'll try to keep
him out of your way." But he had no idea how he would do that and
was aware that with Steve drawing the line and daring Wetzel to step
over it, the latter would gladly do just that.
stepped out of the forklift as the break whistle blew. His grimy T-shirt
was soaked with sweat and oil. I thought I became a cop to get
away from a life style like this, he kidded himself. He made his
way along with the trail of fifteen other workers to the bank of vending
machines in the shade of the large white warehouse. He dropped in
his change, selected a Coke and guzzled it down in less than a minute.
It did little to relieve his discomfort. "It's too hot," he muttered
to a co-worker.
The man agreed. "Tell you, Big Joe,
you gotta get yourself up to the imports. This domestic stuff too
hot, too hard. Boss man, he picks the hardest workers to go up to
imports. Dey sleep when it hot in air-conditioning. Dey work when
Kono nodded. One of the first things
he'd learned on this undercover was that Robert Bedson's front man
picked the workers that were promoted to imports. These men actually
lived on the dock in an air-conditioned building where they slept
during the day and worked at night. Oddly enough, the import workers
never stayed very long. Kono had never figured who except that there
was general dissatisfaction about working nights. "That what I need
to do, get me into that bunch." He eyed the older man. "You know how
to do that?"
He smiled a broad grin that revealed
crooked, stained teeth. "Aye. I have friends. I could help you--"
he lingered over the end of his sentence.
Kono knew what he wanted. I handed
the man a hundred-dollar bill.
He continued to stand there.
"I ain't made of money, man. Gi'me
the money back and forget it," Kono snapped.
He jumped angrily away, money still
clutched in his hand. "All right. You give me some time, yes?"
bar was for the locals. Tourists never heard about it, never came
and the patrons liked it that way. And, unlike other bars, they had
Rita. She made it worth coming. She'd shown up one night about two
months ago and started singing as Tony, the hired piano player, had
made his music. Andy liked it so much that after the first week; he'd
hired her. He didn't pay much, but the guys all tipped her well.
Danny came in and Andy waved a hello
and gave him a beer. "You late tonight," Andy observed. "Rita was
starting to worry."
"Yeah, well it's been a bad day," he
remarked and sat down on the bar stood to listen to her song. He knew
himself well enough to know he was a sucker for singers.
The phone rang and Andy picked it up.
She stopped singing and went to it.
"This is Cal. It's time."
"Uh," she said slowly. "I don't know,
"You don't know what?" His voice was
"Well, I've done some thinking and-"
"No thinking, girl. You're getting
paid and now it's time to come through. You got me? If you don't,
it's not just me who's unhappy. Understand?"
She sighed and glanced around, hand
clutching the phone anxiously. "Yeah, I know. Okay. How long do I
"Now, Rita. We only get one shot at
She hung up, a scowl on her face, and
slowly wandered back behind the bar to Andy. "Beer."
"Sure, Honey. Why the long face?"
"Oh, nothing." She looked up and spotted
Danny at the counter. "Hey, when did you get here?"
"A few minutes ago."
She pulled a bottle of rum from under
the counter with a shot glass and carried them to the counter with
her beer. "You look like you could use your 'Hard-Day-at-the-Office'
special," she offered, sympathetically, setting the bottle and glass
down in front of Danny's beer.
"You don't look so great yourself,"
he observed, pouring the rum into the glass.
"My mama wants me to give up bar singing
and go to the night clubs--make bigger money and a name for myself."
"Yeah?" He dropped the shot of rum
into the beer. "What do you want?"
She waited as he drank the beer. "I
like it here," she replied innocently. "I like singing with
Tony. People are
"You've got security here," he agreed,
"but not much future."
She sighed. "I suppose so. If I was
in a big club, would you come see me?"
He smiled. "You bet I would." The alcohol
flamed through his gut, burning away the day's stress. He gave her
hand a quick squeeze. She's a nice kid. Maybe the fame wouldn't spoil
her too much. But he feared for her. Mali was once like this, a
very very long time ago. The memory of Mali that always lurked
in the wings of his mind made an attempt to come on stage. He asked
for another beer.
Rita smiled and jumped up to fill his
order, ignoring the disapproving expression on Andy's face. Danny
is not what I thought. God, I wish I didn't have to do this.
chose to ignore Wetzel. He knew he had more important things to deal
with that Moyer wanting to play cops-n-robbers with the Lone Ranger.
It was before seven a.m. when Kimo
reported. "Wetzel's got himself set up in a basement office under
the capitol building. Just tappin' away on that computer of his."
McGarrett gave a slight nod. "Maybe
we'll get lucky and someone will lock him in there."
"He's not really a bad guy, Steve," Kimo offered. "If you could put
aside how this started, you might actually like him."
He delivered a sharp look. "It has
nothing to do with how this started. The limitations are set up for
"Yeah, so smart lawyers can get crooks
off," Carew interjected. "Everyone's clean, right? So, what's the
Steve wanted to argue the point, but
just then Danny entered. Instead Steve gave him his attention. "Have
you talked to Kono?"
"He thinks he'll get into the crew
tonight. Says Bedson's man came looking foe recruits last evening
and he put in his name."
"Keep in close contact with him," Steve
"He says the workers are pretty talkative,
just don't know much. The turn over in the import division is pretty
quick. Usually gone in no more than three weeks."
"Nobody seems to know. Maybe Bedson
has some of them ship out with the boats or pays them enough that
they split town. Maybe they just disappear to drink up their pay.
Given the local work ethic, it's hard to say. In any event, they aren't
turning up on the docks talking." Danny poured a cup of coffee and
popped two aspirin.
"Could he be knocking off two or three
guys a month?" Kimo asked.
"It would be hard to keep that many
bodies quiet," Danny answered, popping two aspirin that he downed
with the hot coffee.
"Maybe we should send the Weasel in
there," Kim kidded.
"Weasel?" Steve asked.
He grinned. "A nick-name."
Rita outside of Andy's at about three o'clock in the afternoon and
waved her over to his car. She hesitated, a scowl on her face and
cast a fearful look around. No one was in sight, no one to help. Resigned,
she stepped closer to the car.
"Get in," Cal ordered.
She stood by the passenger door, making
no move. "What do you want?"
"I'm doing what you asked. It takes
"Too much time with you. Get in," he
repeated, sliding his hand inside of his jacket.
She opened the door and got in, her
"Shut the door."
She tried to swallow her panic, knowing
that once the door closed, she would be at Cal's mercy. "I said I'm
doing what you asked. Now, what do you want? Andy is expecting me."
"If you don't shut the door, you won't
live long enough to put your foot on the curb."
Defeated, she pulled it shut. Is
he going to kill me? No, he needs me, doesn't he? "Why did you
come here?" she asked, trying to mask her dread.
He pressed the accelerator and the
car moved away from the curb and merged into traffic. "We need to
be certain if your commitment," he commented as he made a turn.
"What do you mean?"
He headed for the entrance ramp to
the expressway. "This is a one time chance, Rita. Perhaps you don't
see the big picture." He gave a slight laugh. "Damn, you'd better
not see the big picture." He stole a glance at her. Good, she's scared.
She ought to be scared. "Don't take this so personal like. It's not
your mark we care about."
"Don't call him a mark."
Cal scowled. "What?"
"I--I just didn't know I'd start to
feel this way," she murmured, looking down at the car floor.
"Yeah," he muttered, "I thought as
much. There's good money going to you, you know. Your mark's just
the bait for something bigger."
"I know," she whispered. "I feel like
He chuckled. "Hell, girl, you are Judas!
And you've already been paid your thirty pieces of silver. I told
you to use the big, dumb Hawaiian dude."
"I couldn't, he's not been around."
Cal negotiated his way through the
merge onto the freeway. "I'm telling you, Rita, you mess this up and
there won't be any excuses. You little, dark wahine girls have a real
weakness for hoale men. You made a bad choice."
There was silence in the car. Rita
gazed out of the window as the car left the city. As the countryside
became less populated, her panic grew. "Where are you taking me?"
she finally whimpered, her attempt at bravado forgotten.
Cal glanced at her again and gave a
grin. "If you ask me, you made a great choice--if you were a professional.
But my boss thinks you are out of your league." He pulled the auto
off to the side of the road. "So, I'm going to offer you a little
help to make your story convincing."
She looked puzzled.
Cal punched her face with all his might.
He hit her repeatedly as she threw up her hands to ward off the blows.
Her screams and pleas went unheard.
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