Surfing Detective 02 - Wipeout by Chip Hughes Read Free Book Online Page B

appreciated.”
    “By the way,” I said, “do you know my attorney friend, Tommy Woo?”
    “Tommy? Yeah, I know him. But he’s a sore subject around here.”
    “Why?” I asked.
    The attorney cleared his throat. “One evening my former wife and I were at a party at O‘ahu Country Club—a very elegant white-tie affair—and Tommy was playing piano. On his break Tommy comes over to where we’re sipping Dom Pérignon with a CEO friend, of a Big Five company, you know, and Tommy says, “Hey, Bill, did you hear the one about the Siamese twins hookers who offered a ‘double-your-pleasure’ guarantee . . . ?”
    “Siamese twins hookers?” I recalled one of Tommy’s crudest jokes.
    “Yeah, the punch line made the CEO turned blue, I tell you. And my former wife, well, she looked as if she’d been bitten by a snake. That Tommy Woo, he’s a prize all right.”
    I had to laugh. “I’ll let you know if I find your car.”
    When the trust attorney hung up I wondered what Tommy Woo would say about stuffy Grossvendt, his blue-blood ex-wife, and the Big Five CEO. I pictured Tommy adjusting his tortoiseshell glasses with a flourish, puffing cherry blend in his meerschaum pipe, and uttering profoundly: “If they can’t take a joke, f– ‘em.”
    This mysterious car business wasn’t making much sense. The convertible was registered in California, turned up in Hawai‘i and was purchased below wholesale by a Honolulu dealership, then sold to a Bishop Street attorney,
then
stolen from him two days later. Could it be linked to Corky McDahl?
    I phoned information for Balboa, California, and got the number for Damon DiCarlo, the registered owner. DiCarlo’s address was on East Ocean Front. From what I remembered about real estate in this pricey area of Orange County, Ocean Front was an exclusive seaside lane on the Newport peninsula. It adjoined the Balboa Channel and the famous body board spot called “The Wedge,” a powerful, treacherous shore break that can hammer the unwary. Wicked huge swells pump up against a rock jetty, then slam the steep beach, spraying sand and foam every which way. It is one easy spot to break your neck.
    I placed the call to DiCarlo. After four rings a melodic, Brando-like voice said: “Damon here. You know the routine. Leave a message and I’ll call . . .”
    I left my name and number, mentioning the BMW he sold. I wondered if this Damon would bother to phone back a complete stranger in Hawai‘i.
    Then I checked the local directory and called all the surf shops Alika and I had visited in Hale‘iwa. Still no sign of Corky’s board. The candy cane had seemingly vanished. I wondered if the Sunset Beach woman who first found the board had kept it, and if so, why? By all accounts, it had been badly damaged. Were she and Corky’s alleged red-haired girlfriend one and the same? I wasn’t even sure if this elusive redhead existed.
    Gradually I began to picture Summer’s marriage to the California surfer as less than ideal. The young couple certainly remained apart for long stretches. But could they really be scamming the insurance company? I had a deep sense that Summer was not type to do such a thing. She was nervous, yes, and anxious. And she was evasive about certain details. Yet an underlying naive sincerity in her character seemed at odds with the idea of fraud. But I had to factor in the dark-suited men who “escorted” her in that hearse of a Mercedes. And that brought up questions.
    They weren’t simple questions like “Did Corky really die?” or “Did Corky skip out on his wife and new baby?” These were more complex questions buried beneath the one she and the insurance agent were asking. Trouble was, I wasn’t sure what they were.
    It was time to fit in a quick session in Waikiki. I hopped into my Impala and headed for Classic Surfboards on Kapahulu Avenue to get some wax.
    Classic Surfboards is a groovy, sixties-style surf shop lined with more used boards than new, and