Flea doesn't know, can't guess. "He's rich enough, I know that."
"Where's his money come from? Tourists?"
"Chickens, actually. Yeah, chickens. Fryers, actually. He raises and sells chickens to restaurants and grocery stores. And he owns a chicken processing plant next to City Park. It's not a big operation, but most of the farmers go through him."
I was amused. "A chicken farmer. Well, why not? His money's as good as yours, right, Flea?"
We passed a roadsign of a leaping deer with a bullethole through his chest. I noticed that the sight of the deer with a bullethole made Flea wince.
"So he went to you. Flea Nichols. The bookkeeper."
Flea sank into despair. "He didn't know anybody in Vegas, even, and you know how long I lived there."
"Income tax preparation, that was your front, wasn't it?"
"I was always legit on that, Mister Paoli."
"What's he got on you, Flea?"
"Checks," Flea reluctantly admitted.
I was stunned by his stupidity. "You kited bad paper?"
Flea was embarrassed. "Yeah, well ... See, getting him an interview with you, with whoever got sent, is the only way I can get those checks back. He threatened to turn me in to the Sheriff's Office--"
"How did he know about you?"
"All I know is, he retraced my steps, everything, and found out about my record, all the time I served, and started leaning on me--"
I was ice. "Have you been using your real name, Flea?"
"Why not?" Flea whined. "How would anybody over here know I did time?"
I snorted at such incredible stupidity.
"Hey, I came over here straight, and I swear it, I been straight, really."
"How come you don't leave over here?"
Flea said, "I love it too much, Mister Paoli. I love Maui a lot. I want to stay and stop running in circles like some hamster in a cage."
"Here?" I looked out the window at Maui, as if for the first time, to see what Flea found in Maui. "What's here?"
Flea continued, "Maybe, when you get to a certain age, you just start thinking about settling in."
I stared at him with disbelief. "A two-bit shit like you saying that?"
"Can you help me?"
I wouldn't commit. "Calling us was the only thing you done smart. And that still might not be enough. Who knows what this guy's got going down."
Flea was almost pleading. "This guy's got this deal going down, Mister Paoli, and he's got me hassled into the middle of it, and I don't know what else to do!"
I snorted my contempt. "I can believe that."
Suddenly Flea reached over and turned off the ignition. The car died, and it slowed like a slug on the highway.
Flea was frantic. "You can't leave me helpless like this."
The Mustang stayed stopped in the fast lane of the highway. A few cars came up behind us, then went around us. Some assholes even tooted their horns.
I ignored them all and made no move to restart the Mustang. I stared, amazed and surprised, at the desperate Flea.
"I got no chance of surviving without you in on it!"
"Why should I help you? Who are you, Flea? Hey, nobody calls you Flea because you're a big man."
"Mister Paoli, please!"
I stared for a long moment at Flea. Amused at seeing a new, even more desperate side to Flea, I decided I wanted to see more of this new man.
"Okay, I will look around--"
Flea was surprised. "Then you'll help me?"
I shrugged. "I won't go that far.
"Thank you, thank you, Mister Paoli--"
"I'll look around," I cautioned Flea. "Nothing more--"
"Thank you," Flea gushed, "thank you, Mister Paoli."
"One thing first, Flea. While I'm here, you call me Michael Bishop. Don't call me Paoli, understand?"
Flea agreed instantly. "Yes, sir, Mister Paoli." Then he corrected himself. "Yes, sir, Mister Bishop!"
I stared with sad, menacing eyes. I started the Mustang.
Paradise Bowl was a bowling alley set off from the highway, between an auto muffler shop and a karaoke saloon. It was a two story building that could withstand a hurricane or an economic boom. The parking lot was crushed lava and half-filled with older model cars. a sign out front said "Bowl Where The Pros Bowl."
Flea kept me from leaving the Mustang. "Ah, Mister Pao-- Mister Bishop!" He was frightened. "After this is all over ... I mean, I'm being straight with you on this whole deal ... " He started pleading. "Don't blame me, okay, Mister Paoli, please?"
I made no promises.
We left the Mustang and walked towards the building.