Mele Kalikimaka Mr Walker by Robert G. Barrett Page A

that almost obscured the sign above the front saying Honolulu Police Department. It was a big, cream, three-storey building on the corner of Hale Makai and Beretania, with steps and green railings out the front, set into a gentle green slope with enough trees and shrubs to make a nice park. Opposite was a gallery, some other small office blocks and a long, single-storey building with a sign saying ‘Goodwill’ above the door. Going by several racks of old clothes in the window Norton tipped this to be some kind of St Vincent’s store or whatever. They cruisedpast to where the sloping park separated the main building from an underground parking area that looked almost like a bomb shelter. Mick turned left, stopped at a boom gate, showed his ID, then drove inside, where he manoeuvred the Buick into a parking spot and switched off the engine.
    â€˜This way, mate,’ he said, opening his door.
    â€˜Yeah, righto,’ answered Norton, doing the same.
    The parking area was huge and there were plenty of people driving or walking around. Now and again a huge Harley-Davidson would rumble past carrying an equally huge cop straddled across the seat all in black with a white helmet and dark sunglasses, just like in the movies. Mick seemed to know everybody and everybody seemed to know him; they’d wave and call out and Mick would do the same. Mick clipped a photo ID onto his shirt as they walked across to a solid metal door where he slipped a card into a slot. The door swung open and they stepped through.
    Inside was bright, modern, air-conditioned and carpeted, with fluorescent lighting overhead. It was neither garish nor spartan and reminded Les of most office buildings he’d been in — except this one smelled new and swarmed with cops of both sexes in neat black uniforms. As soon as they spotted Mick their faces would seem to light up and it was all:
    â€˜G’day, mate.’
    â€˜Ger day, mate.’
    â€˜Good day, mate.’
    â€˜Gar day, mate.’
    â€˜Gur day, mate.’
    To which Mick would smile and reply:
    â€˜G’day, Stan.’
    â€˜G’day, Vince.’
    â€˜G’day, Wes.’
    â€˜G’day, Yolanda.’
    â€˜G’day, Rodrigo.’
    There was also a fair bit of banter and camaraderie, obviously because Mick was the only Australian cop there. But Les detected that Mick was pretty popular all round, which would probably be because of his sporting abilities and the fact he was a straight-up bloke who would back his fellow officers to the hilt. No doubt the word was also out that Mick was getting the shitty end of the stick with his Diamond Head assignment and they were taking the piss a bit there as well.
    Les followed Mick along one corridor, then into another and another, past offices, closed doors and partitioned-off areas, into another partitioned-off area with a woman sitting at a desk surrounded by filing cabinets. They greeted each other then Mick went to a filing cabinet, flicked through some envelopes before pulling one out which he checked, then he smiled over at Les.
    â€˜At least I’m drawing some overtime, cruising around Diamond Head trying to see what I can see.’
    â€˜Something,’ nodded Les.
    â€˜Come on, this way,’ said Mick, pocketing his pay envelope.
    They walked down another corridor, past a gym, then turned left at a water bubbler into another corridor. The police station had a good feel about it and an air of not being a bad place to work. The other thing that struck Les was how neat and tidy all the cops were in their shiny black shoes, crisp white T-shirts and blackuniforms with creases sharp enough to slice rump steak. Not like some of the cop shops Les had been to in Sydney, where they flopped around in daggy blue shirts, their guts hanging out over daggy blue pants that slid over old riding boots topped off with a half pie cowboy hat clamped on their melons. Another corridor took them into an enclosed