“It’s a tiki,” Connie said. “It’s three foot high and carved out of some sacred Hawaiian tree.”
“I thought a tiki was one of them thatched huts they got in the Bahamas,” Lula said. “They serve the best drinks at them tikis.”
“Different tiki,” Connie said.
“Do you have a picture?” I asked.
“No, but I think if you’ve seen one tiki you’ve seen them all. How different can a tiki be?”
“I never seen one,” Lula said.
“I have,” I told her. “They had one at the hotel when I was in Hawaii. They sort of look like a piece of a totem pole.”
“This might be a good time to get Logan,” Connie said. “He’s probably still hanging out under the bridge.”
“You got big bags under your eyes,” Lula said to me. “You sure you didn’t have a night of hot love with Ranger?”
“Positive. I got food poisoning and threw up three times.”
“Bummer,” Lula said. “That probably put a crimp in his style.”
I hung my messenger bag on my shoulder and turned toward the door. “I’m off.” I looked at Lula. “Are you coming with me?”
“Yeah, I’m hoping to see the tiki.”
I took Hamilton to Broad and turned off Broad at Third Avenue. The Freemont Street Bridge was two blocks down Third. It was a good location for someone like Logan because it was close to a city soup kitchen, and the blocks around the soup kitchen had a lot of panhandling potential. I parked on the street, and Lula and I got out and walked across a rough patch of rogue weed and assorted trash. The bridge itself spiraled overhead, connecting Third Avenue to the freeway. A slum had developed under the bridge, with cardboard box huts and plywood shanties. Three men stood smoking in the shade.
“It’s like a little town here,” Lula said. “I bet it could be cozy in one of them cardboard boxes except for the rats. And probably they got no cable.”
“They’re also missing indoor plumbing.”
“Maybe they got a box designated for that.”
The men watched us approach. One of them looked drugged out and crazy. The other two just looked tired.
“Howdy,” Lula said. “How’s it going?”
“The usual,” one of them said. “What’s up?”
“We’re looking for Brody Logan,” Lula told him. “Is he here?”
No one said anything, but one of the men nodded toward a small bedraggled tent. I gave him a couple dollars and went to the tent. I squatted down and pulled the flap away. “Brody?”
“What?”
He was wearing a faded orange T-shirt and jeans, and sitting cross-legged in front of the tiki. Two red patches instantly colored his checks, and his eyes went round in what I took for panic. I introduced myself and showed him my ID.
“Oh man,” he said. “Give me a break. I’m real close.”
“Close to what?” I asked.
&nbs
p; “To getting this guy home. He’s like a tiki, you know? He’s supposed to be living in this cool shrine, having the good life, takin’ in the volcano vibes. Problem is some idiot snatched him and smuggled him out of Hawaii in a bag of dirty laundry. Seemed like a good idea. Like the tiki would be a conversation piece and get the dude chicks. And like the tiki would enhance the dude’s tent. But turns out the tiki isn’t turned on by Jersey. So now he’s bummed and havin’ like a hissy fit and bringing this idiot dude bad juju.”
“Are you the idiot dude who smuggled him out?” I asked.
“Yeah. Wow, you’re smart. How’d you know that?”