Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
I don’t really know what my endgame is in following Kimo. I’m spurred on partially by curiosity, partially by boredom, partially by just not wanting to go home to an empty apartment. And, oh yeah, the fact that he just paid off all my student loans after basically one conversation and a cheek kiss. No one does something like that for someone without expecting something in return. Maybe if I follow him for a bit, I can figure out what his deal is. What weird stuff he’s into. If he’s planning on selling me to a sex cult. That kind of thing.
The longer I follow him, the more I convince myself this is a good idea, especially when I see he’s heading toward Kosciuszko Park, where I just came from. What kind of weirdo hangs out at a park in the middle of a workday? Unless you’re a stay-at-home parent with kids, or you work for the city’s parks and recreation department, it’s suspicious behavior, no? And okay, fine, I just came from the same park, but I was only sitting there for a few minutes to enjoy my birthday pastry. It wasn’t my final destination.
I don’t really have to do much to hide myself from Kimo’s notice. The man is entirely lost in his own world, nodding his head and occasionally wiggling his hips in rhythm with whatever song he’s listening to. Every so often he starts singing, too, off-key and seemingly oblivious to the looks he’s getting from strangers, which range from amused to perplexed.
As I listen to him sing (badly), I realize I know those lyrics. Why do I know those lyrics...? Oh, it’s “Careless Whisper.” I frown at the back of Kimo’s head. Great. Now that song’s going to be stuck in my head all day.
At last, Kimo slows his pace and raises his arm to wave to someone. Craning my neck, I see...not what I’m expecting.
A small group of octogenarians have gathered in the park. They are all faced in the same direction doing some slow, exaggerated movements that I think are Tai Chi, as someone’s portable speaker blasts what is probably meant to be soothing pan flute music.
Kimo takes off his headphones and tosses them and his backpack on the ground before jogging over to join the group. I hurriedly duck behind a nearby bush, peering up over the edge so I can watch him. Kimo chats to an older woman standing off to the side for a few seconds while he removes his suit jacket and rolls up his shirt sleeves. Then he positions himself a few feet away from the others and joins right in with the slow, deliberate movements. His thick quads visibly strain against his dress pants.
...Who the hell is this guy? He doesn’t make any sense to me, this flip-flops-at-the-gym, student-loan-paying, George-Michael-loving, friends-with-the-elderly multimillionaire. I don’t buy this whole act, whatever it is. No one’s this happy-go-lucky, loosey-goosey without some serious skeletons lurking in the closet and...oh. Yep. There he goes, kicking off his shoes to go barefoot in a public park. What a lunatic! Doesn’t he know about ringworm...?
That settles it. This man is either certifiably insane, or he’s up to no good. Either way, I’ve figured out how I’m going to be spending the rest of my birthday.
I’m going to get to the bottom of Kimo Kapono, come hell or high water.
* * *
I’m not proud of what I do next. Or—you know what? No. I am extremely proud of what I do next. After he finishes Tai Chi, I follow Kimo from location to location for the next thirty-two minutes. I’m determined to figure out what his deal is, what nefarious schemes he might be plotting.
Minutes 1–3: Kimo leaves Kosciuszko Park, heading north. He appears to be listening to “I Wanna Dance with Somebody” by Whitney Houston, if I’m discerning the badly butchered, off-key lyrics he’s singing correctly.
Minutes 4–10: Kimo stops to pet a dog tied up outside a bodega. For six minutes. I know that might not seem very long at a glance, but put on a timer. Imagine talking to a dog (that’s not even your dog!) for that long. I’m too far back to hear the entire conversation, but I think it’s mainly, “Good boy. You’re a good boy. Yes, you are a good boy,” etcetera. For six minutes . Insanity.
Minutes 11–15: Kimo goes into the bodega. Observing him through the window, I see him pick out a bag of chips and some chocolate milk. (Chocolate milk—what is he, five?) That takes about thirty seconds. The next few minutes are spent chatting to the owner. Are they friends, or is Kimo just chatty...? Hard to tell through a window. I’m guessing Kimo isn’t saying, “Good bodega man. You’re a good bodega man,” but you never know.
Minutes 16–30: Walking. Kimo is no longer singing for most of it, at least, since he’s busy eating his chips and drinking his chocolate milk, but I can tell from the snippets of synthetic sound blaring from his headphones that he’s still jamming out to ’80s music. Occasionally he’ll stop and play an air guitar while waiting for a light to change, so, there’s that. Mostly, though, we walk, and walk, and then walk some more. I’m thankful I changed out of my work shoes and into my commuting sneakers, though I might actually kill someone for a sports bra right about now.
Minutes 31–32: Kimo at last reaches what seems to be his final destination. It’s a big, warehouse-looking building with darkened windows. Shady. The logo of clashing weapons on the sign automatically has me going into a defensive stance, until I read the place’s name: Dumb-Ax Throwing Club.
Ax throwing? On a Thursday morning? Watching him go inside, I spend the final minute debating whether to follow after him. I don’t know how crowded it will be in there—if I can blend in, or if there will just be two guys and Kimo staring at me when I enter the room. The windows pose a similar problem. They’re so dark that anyone inside will have a better view of me standing outside than I will of anything going on inside.
There’s one window that isn’t as darkly tinted, but it’s small and high off the ground. I move toward it, wondering if I can catch even a little glimpse if I stand on my tiptoes and sort of hoist myself up onto the ledge...
That’s what I’m attempting to do when I hear a sharp bark behind me. “Hey!”
I’m so startled that all my karate training goes straight out the window and I fall backward onto my ass.
I look up to see Kimo towering over me, his face dark and thunderous as I’ve never seen it before. (I mean, we’ve known each other for less than a day, but so far all I’ve experienced is pure golly-gee sunshine.) When he recognizes me, though, his expression immediately clears, and he grins like we’re long-lost buddies. “Mattie! What are you doing here?”
I scramble to my feet, ignoring his offer of an outstretched hand. Once I’m standing again, I refuse to return the goofball smile he’s giving me. Forget defensive. I’m in full-on offensive mode now.
“Following you. Who goes ax throwing in the middle of the day?” I demand to know.
Kimo seems completely undaunted by me coming in hot. Then again, he’s like six-foot-a-billion and stacked and I’m...well, I’m not exactly small, but I feel downright dainty next to him. Like a chihuahua barking at a Great Dane. “The meeting got out earlier than I expected, and I have some time to kill before I need to pick up my niece and nephew from camp. My buddy runs this place so I thought, why not drop by? Plus I left a change of clothes here last time, and I couldn’t wait to get out of this monkey suit.”
That sounds...reasonable enough, I suppose. Regardless, I don’t relent my severe arm-crossing pose. “What about Tai Chi in the park with all those old people?”
Kimo tilts his head, giving me a sly smile. “You have been following me.”
Something about his tone makes me feel flustered, so I intensify my glare. “I already admitted to that, so stop dodging the question!”
Kimo rubs a hand over his mouth, like he’s trying to hide a laugh. “Whenever I’m free in the mornings, I have a standing invitation from Beverly to join her Tai Chi group. I like to go as often as I can. It’s really helped my posture, and I’ll do whatever to get out in nature, you know? Plus, Beverly’s rad. She slept with a Beatle back in the day. I can’t remember which one...I feel like, I wanna say Greg?”
“There’s no Beatle named Greg,” I inform him curtly. Although, okay, now I am intrigued to find out which Beatle it was...but I won’t let him distract me. “I don’t understand you. Who goes around playing with random dogs and throwing axes and paying off a stranger’s student loans?”
His expression shifts again, to something almost coy, like a little kid telling a lie and not quite able to make eye contact with his parents. “Who says that it was me who paid off your loans?”
“It was obviously you, so cut the bullshit. Why did you do it?”
Kimo considers the question a moment, then shrugs. “Why not?”
Why not. Why not? My brain will not compute this man. There is an error in the system. I get being suddenly rich and doing things on impulse, like buying a yacht, or flying to the Caribbean, or buying a castle in Scotland. But just randomly paying off someone’s loans? Not even a family member or friend, but someone you met in a gym locker room the night before?
As if he can sense that my brain is in overdrive, Kimo puts a comforting hand on my shoulder and steers me toward the door. “Come on. Let me buy you a beer. I’ll try to explain.”
“It’s eleven o’clock in the morning,” I protest weakly. Nonetheless, I let him guide me inside.