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.

The Weasel

By Peg Keeley

Honolulu 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 with delight.

"Buy beautiful lei, wahine?" Ookala called to her, exaggerating her accent.

The tourist clasped her hands in joy and started in Ookala's direction.

Frankie 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."

Kimo 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?" Duke asked.

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 again."

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 the hotel?"

The sun 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?" Steve demanded.

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 he work?"

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 problem?"

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?"

Steve 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 not turn.

"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?" Steve demanded.

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."

"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.

Kono 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 it's cool."

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?"

Kono nodded.

Andy's 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. "Rita!'

She stopped singing and went to it. "Hello?"

"This is Cal. It's time."

"Uh," she said slowly. "I don't know, Cal."

"You don't know what?" His voice was harsh.

"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 have?"

"Now, Rita. We only get one shot at this."

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 friends here."

"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.

McGarrett 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 a reason."

"Yeah, so smart lawyers can get crooks off," Carew interjected. "Everyone's clean, right? So, what's the problem?"

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 advised.

"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."

"Gone where?"

"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."

Cal spotted 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?"

"Get in--now."

"I'm doing what you asked. It takes time."

"Too much time with you. Get in," he repeated, sliding his hand inside of his jacket.

She opened the door and got in, her heart racing.

"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 Judas."

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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