A/N: Someday, I'll write in a fandom that exists outside of my head. Today ain't that day, though.
This was inspired almost entirely by me wanting to poke fun at the fact that Troy Donahue was cast on both Surfside 6 and Hawaiian Eye. (His turn on SS6 is much better than the way he was poorly shoehorned into the Hawaiian Eye cast during its last season, but maybe that's just my Anthony Eisley bias rearing its ugly head again.) Hopefully the characters' actual interactions, mystery, and overall story hold water. :)
And finally, I'm always excited to connect with fellow fans of these largely forgotten old shows.
Sea breeze and palm trees weren't exactly foreign to Daphne Dutton; she called Miami Beach home, after all. Still, O'ahu seemed so exotic, pregnant with endless possibility. From having a lei draped around her neck as she deplaned, to zigzagging through the Honolulu International Airport, she felt so welcome, but like such a tourist all the same. An outsider.
That was fair. She was.
Baggage claimed, she was soon to be taxi bound with any luck. She stood curbside with her closest friends. If anyone's enthusiasm could outshine her own it was that of Cha Cha O'Brien. She could talk as much and as well as she could sing. The 5-foot-nothing pride of the Fontainebleau Hotel's Boom Boom Room had chattered almost nonstop about everything she intended to see, to do, to experience on the islands. Half-Spanish and half-Irish, she was worldly by birth, but still possessed an insatiable curiosity and relished every opportunity to broaden her horizons.
The rest of the group were decidedly more subdued in their excitement. Detectives were measured, not to mention suspicious, by nature. Daphne knew her friends well enough to understand such sensibilities didn't come with an on/off switch.
Ken Madison was a natural athlete with down home Southern charm and a weakness for children in need. Children, puppies, little old ladies, you name it. Military hardened and east coast aggressive, Dave Thorne was relentlessly uncompromising. He dug his heels in whenever he witnessed anything he deemed a miscarriage of justice, seeming not to care if he was likewise standing in quicksand. Finally, there was Sanford "Sandy" Winfield II. After months of moonlighting for Ken and Dave, the once directionless playboy had proven both his dedication and worth to Surfside 6.
For all of their differences, the trio or Madison, Thorne, and Winfield had at least one thing in common: private investigation was their second act. Before carving their niche as detectives, Ken and Dave had both studied law. Dave had practiced it, Ken hadn't. All the while Sandy wrestled with familial obligation. Daphne understood what it meant to be pigeonholed; he was Ocean Drive, not Wall Street.
"I hate to be a negative Nancy," Sandy piped up suddenly. He exaggerated what Daphne easily interpreted as his 'I told you so' sigh.
She sent a flippant wave and half a warning in his direction. "Then don't."
Unfazed, Sandy continued, "But there's five of us."
"Last I counted," was Daphne's acknowledgment. It was a fact, after all. No use arguing those when she and Sandy could find so much more—or was it less?—to bicker about. She asked, "What's your point?"
"Just that we'll make a regular taxicab look like a clown car."
"Yeah, there's no way we're all gonna fit into one vehicle." Ken's tone was as contemplative as his realization was after the fact.
That much was obvious, and glaringly so, in hindsight. Daphne really should've known better. She should've made arrangements in advance. Still, she wasn't about to let something as trivial as having to split into two groups to get to the hotel spoil the magic of this vacation for her.
She was the one who spearheaded the whole trip, after all. From booking everyone's airfare and accommodations, to making sure there were no scheduling conflicts with the most social of butterflies in her circle, it'd been a tall order. Private investigators and nightclub headliners didn't exactly keep regular working hours. Not to mention whatever Daphne herself was. Socialite? Philanthropist?
A daddy's girl with money to burn and no shortage of matches.
Just as she was mulling over the potential arrangements, the who ought to go with whom of it all, a dashing suited man stepped up. He had a briefcase in one hand and a lit cigarette in the other. His white jacket was spotless, and the cuffs and collar of a silky black dress shirt peeked out from behind it.
The handsome stranger took a drag. Daphne followed the cigarette from its place at his lips as he secured it, once again, between his index and middle finger. A ribbon of smoke swirled, then dissipated as he gestured to a nearby taxicab. It was black and white with the words "Kim's Kab" painted on its front doors. The driver, an Asian man wearing an aloha shirt and straw hat, was already loading luggage into the trunk.
The stranger was coy. Accommodating, but coy. "If I may offer my humble carriage..."
At that, the taxicab's trunk lid shut with a pronounced clunk and the driver turned around. Incredulous, he echoed, "Humble...?! This the best cab in all Honolulu!"
"I'm sorry, Kim. Of course it is," the stranger was placating. That cocksure, yet unaffected attitude would normally repel Daphne but she was intrigued, instead. He looked to her, dark eyes twinkling. A smile spread beneath his perfectly-trimmed pencil mustache. "You heard it straight from the horse's mouth. Well, how about it, ladies?"
"We wouldn't want to inconvenience you, Mister...?" She fished for a name.
"Tracy Steele," was the name given, but the words came, almost wryly, from Dave's mouth. Daphne detected both amusement and warmth in the gravel of his voice.
The man, Tracy Steele by Dave's introduction, returned the favor. "Dave Thorne."
"You two know each other?" Cha Cha asked, gesturing back and forth between the both of them.
"That's right. Tracy and I go way back," Dave confirmed.
Tracy picked up where Dave left off and explained, "We were in Korea together."
Dave, nothing if not well-mannered, knew introductions were in order. He turned first, as he often did, Daphne noted, to Ken. "You remember Ken."
At that, Ken and Tracy shared a handshake and exchanged a nod. Friendly, but only superficially familiar with one another, if Daphne was reading their expressions correctly.
"And may I present Miss Daphne Dutton and Miss Cha Cha O'Brien."
Tracy murmured, "Delighted."
Daphne wasn't sure if this Tracy Steele was more smooth than he was slick. Either way, she wasn't complaining. Tracy then took Daphne's hand and kissed it, holding her gaze all the while. He did the very same to Cha Cha, who was grinning ear to ear and already had her hand extended, wrist bent and palm down. Daphne contemplated hooking an arm around the petite singer to make sure she didn't float away.
Dave cleared his throat. "And, last but not least, Surfside 6's third partner, Sandy Winfield."
Tracy offered his hand, this time, to Sandy. "Pleased to meet you."
Sandy shook it. "Any friend of Dave's."
Then Tracy gestured to the cabbie and offered, "Speaking of friends, this is Kim Quisano."
Kim lifted the straw hat from his head and brought it to his chest. "Nice meeting everyone." He bowed, ever so slightly. Daphne liked him. She had a feeling just about everyone did.
"So," Dave asked Tracy, "are you coming or going?"
"Coming," Tracy replied. "I've had my fill of going for a while. Being gone, that is."
"Then I take it business is good?" Ken guessed.
"Booming." Tracy's next words were clearly intended for just Dave. "You remember Greg MacKenzie?"
"Sure I do. You don't mean he's out here, too? Last I heard he was living in San Francisco."
"Tom and I asked him on as a partner some time ago. He's still got a touch of the wanderlust, but he's settled in well, otherwise. But that's talk better suited to somewhere less... impermanent. How long are you all here for?"
"Couple weeks," Dave was flippant.
Two weeks exactly. Daphne swallowed the urge to point that out. That wasn't to say Dave was incorrect; he was just uncharacteristically vague. Maybe he just hadn't planned his time in Hawaii down to the minute like she had.
"Where are you all staying?"
Cha Cha, grinning brightly, piped up, "The Hilton Hawaiian Village. It's very nice, no?"
"Hey..." Kim's voice trailed off and a look that spoke of being pleasantly surprised formed on his impish face. "That's where me and Mr. Steele going."
"How's that for serendipity? Kim," Tracy called out, "would you be so kind as to help these lovely ladies with their luggage?"
Kim popped the trunk open once more and immediately began hoisting bags. "You got it, Mr. Steele."
"I'll see to it that they make it to the hotel safely," Tracy insisted, positioning himself between Cha Cha and Daphne and putting an arm around each of them. He glanced over his shoulder as he was already leading them to the cab. "And I'm sure another taxi'll be along for the three of you soon enough."
From just behind her, Daphne could hear Sandy's voice, halfheartedly lamenting to Dave, "He's a friend of yours, alright."
Tom Lopaka hung up the phone and crossed his arms. He took a glance around the Hawaiian Eye office—his office. The swimming pool's aqua water was almost eerily still. The sofa, bar, and two of its three desks unoccupied. Because this was a shared office, truth be told, and it had been shared with one less person than Tom would like for the last couple of months. But business was business, from Tracy's extended absence to matters closer to home.
He reached for the intercom's call button and leaned into its speaker. "Moke, can you come in here for a minute?"
"Sure thing, Mr. Lopaka," was the immediate response.
Hardly a second later, the office doors swung inward and the 6'3" Hawaiian stepped inside.
It was just so odd anyone would lodge a complaint against him. Moke'd been with Tom and Tracy practically since the beginning, and was a model employee. Armed guard, secretary, dispatcher, and detective all in one. Whatever the job called for, he answered.
Oh well. Tom supposed the job was now calling for him to wear another hat: disciplinarian. He gestured to the sofa. "Let's hear it."
Moke took a seat. "It?" He pretended not to understand.
"Mrs. Dover, in cottage..."
Moke offered a correction, "Ms."
"Thanks."
"She's in cottage six."
"Thanks," Tom swallowed a groan, "again."
Ms Dover had already proven to be a handful for just about everyone she came into contact with. Inexplicably wealthy, and suspiciously guarded about the source of said wealth, Tom had seen her type before. For someone who shined a spotlight on herself at every turn she was damn determined to cherry pick when it came to her audience. Well, eccentricity was its own reason for being, he supposed.
"Anyway, let's have it."
"Right." Moke suddenly looked like a kid called into the principal's office for shooting spit wads. "She called down to the office yesterday evening and said she heard footsteps and rustling outside her cottage. I went right over and had a look. I didn't see anything—no footprints, nothing."
"You think he got away?" Tom wondered if they should double up on patrols.
"Something like that." Moke's expression was telling, unlike his words. Realizing this, he elaborated, "Anyway, I knocked on her door so I could tell her in person that I'd checked things out and it was all clear."
"And that's it?" Tom had a hard time believing that.
It had nothing to do with Moke's transparency. Tom trusted he wasn't lying; he wouldn't. It just wasn't his style, and even if it was, he'd never be fool enough to try and pull one over on his boss, much less a detective. Tom happened to be both of those things.
"What was her complaint, anyway?" Moke's question was fair, but Tom knew a deflection when he saw one. Or maybe it was his polite way of saying, 'Get on with it, already'.
"Her complaint was that you," Tom pointed for effect, "have no perception of true hospitality."
"If what she showed me is hospitality then guilty as charged."
Something suddenly occurred to Tom. "Hang on, you said you told her in person that you checked things out?"
"That's right."
"She didn't mention that."
"She probably also didn't mention that she answered the door in only a negligee, looked me up and down, said, 'Well, beggars can't be choosers,' and tried to force a sidecar into my hand."
Tom laughed. Then he cleared his throat and, trying to rein things back in to something resembling professionalism, asked, "How'd you know it was a sidecar?"
"I guess I don't, for certain. But that's what it looked like—yellowish-amber colored, with a sugared rim and an orange twist." Tom had to credit Moke on his eye for details, and for knowing his cocktails. Moke continued, "Plus, it was the only thing I had to look at. That is, it's the only thing I was willing to look at, given the circumstances."
"Then you told her...?"
He shrugged. "No thanks."
"Just like that?"
"Pretty much."
This time, Tom successfully resisted the urge to laugh. "Ah, come on, Moke. You show up to her room, bearing news that you've chased off a prowler-"
"There was no prowler."
"We both know that."
"I'm pretty sure she knew that, too."
"You're in uniform, tall, dark, and," Tom gestured aimlessly in Moke's direction, "well, two outta three. And then you turn her down without batting an eyelash."
"Did I do something wrong?"
"No, no. Of course not," Tom assured him, adding, "You're a testament to the outfit. You did exactly the right thing, just in a particularly indelicate way."
"I'll take your word for it."
"As punishment, you get to do all the week's typing and filing."
"So, business as usual?" Moke was accommodating as ever. There was a touch of sarcasm in his tone, though, too. Sarcasm, dipping its toes into the murky waters of bitterness.
Tom hoped he realized how cold and dark a place that really was.
"You sound disappointed," he noted.
"No, that's not it." Moke brushed it off. He sounded like himself again. "I just figured maybe you were calling me in here because you and Mr. MacKenzie needed the help. I mean, with Mr. Steele still out of town and all."
Tom couldn't completely hide his grin. It felt good to be the bearer of good news for a change. "Didn't anybody tell you," he asked his question piecemeal, "Tracy's on his way back right now?"
The taxicab ride to the hotel was pleasant, for lack of a better term. Tracy didn't delve particularly deeply into his past with Dave, insisting, when Cha Cha asked, "I doubt you'd be interested in our old war stories."
Daphne knew Cha Cha was interested, and frankly, she was too. But she also knew that Dave didn't talk about his life before moving to Miami Beach often. Usually only when the past forced him to. He'd been targeted by people from his days in the DA's office in New York City more than once. He ended up engaged in a cat and mouse game with a racketeer he prosecuted on one occasion, and poisoned by a murderous former doctor he'd sent to prison on another. Given that, it wasn't insignificant that he was even less forthcoming when it came to his time in the service.
Needless to say, Daphne understood Tracy's deflection; the polite pass was a staple in her bag of tricks as well. She didn't push it. Instead, she and Cha Cha changed the subject and asked for suggestions on food, nightlife—how best to respectfully take in nature and immerse themselves in the islands' history. Did he recommend anyone in particular if Daphne wanted to charter a boat?
At that, Tracy perked up. "Do you sail, Miss Dutton?"
"Yes, I do. I'm docked right next door to the boys back home." In anticipation of Tracy's next question, Daphne added, "That's how we all met."
She could see his smile in the rear view mirror. "I was wondering how they attracted the likes of you." His gaze, reflected as it were, shifted in Cha Cha's direction. "Or you, Miss O'Brien."
"Well, we're all just old friends." That was to say none of them was anything other than friends. Rather, that Daphne wasn't anything other than friends with any of them. As far as who attracted whom, though, she could only speak for herself. Or who was attracted to whom, that was more accurate.
"I don't have no boat," Cha Cha leaned forward and rested her arms on the seat in front of her, "but Ken, Dave, and Sandy always coming to the Boom Boom Room to hear me sing."
"I would, too."
"Kim sing too." Kim lifted his right hand from the steering wheel one finger at a time to count off, "Kim sing, play ukulele, run taxicab business, solve crime."
Daphne wasn't sure how much of that was true. The man sure wasn't a malicious braggart but that was quite the resume.
Tracy didn't correct him, though. He remained placid, silent. Lost in thoughts that had nothing to do with Daphne, Cha Cha, or Kim, if she had to guess. The mention of Cha Cha's profession made him pensive for some reason.
Daphne wouldn't prod. Instead, she asked Kim, "Whenever do you sleep?"
"When I drive."
Everyone chuckled over that one, and before Daphne realized it, the cab was slowing down.
"We here," Kim declared, as he pulled the car past a spinning sign advertising luaus every Wednesday and nightly performances by someone named Cricket Blake. She had a feeling she and her friends would be attending at least one of those shows. More if she was pretty.
Kim hopped out of the drivers seat and opened the door for Daphne.
"Thank you." Daphne reached for her pocketbook. "How much do we owe you?" she asked.
"Nothing," Kim answered, with absolutely no hesitation. Just as Daphne was about to insist she didn't accept charity, he added, "Mr. Steele owe me."
"Kim's right. I was headed here anyway, and I was the one who extended the invitation." Tracy stepped up. "And I sure didn't do it with intentions of us going dutch."
"Well, we're here for two weeks. I'm sure we'll cross paths again and I look forward to making it up to you," Daphne insisted.
"I look forward to that, too, Miss Dutton. Aloha." With that declaration, beyond sly yet oozing with charm, Tracy Steele took his leave. Daphne kept her eyes on him until he disappeared through a thick set of double doors.
She made note of the sign next to them: Hawaiian Eye Investigation Protection. She hoped not to need such services during this trip, and besides, what'd she keep Sandy, Dave, and Ken around for? Nonetheless, there was an undeniable comfort about it all. What's more, she meant it when she said she hoped she would run into Tracy again. She was confident she would, if he and Dave made good on their intentions to reminisce.
A bellhop approached with a luggage cart, to which Daphne said, "Oh yes, thank you. We'll be right along." This time she was successful in accessing and using some of the contents of her pocketbook. She placed a bill into his gloved hand. He smiled brightly, effortlessly loaded the cart, and strolled off. Bags taken care of and Kim thanked once more, Daphne stepped into the Hilton Hawaiian Village's lobby.
At her side, Cha Cha prattled on. Kim's unrivaled knowledge of all things Honolulu had clearly brought it out in her. "First we try shave ice. Then we have Mai Tai's. Then we have... what was it Kim called it? Loco moco!" Her excitement was infectious. "No. That's no good. First we try loco moco, then we have the shave ice, then we have the Mai Tai's. Not good to drink on an empty stomach."
Well, she wasn't wrong about that.
It wasn't that Daphne didn't share her dear friend's boundless enthusiasm—far from it. This whole trip was her idea, after all. Daphne wasn't just in it for the chamber of commerce, picture-postcard version of anywhere she visited, either. She was well versed on Cha Cha's fondness for back roads and hidden gems—places only the locals knew about. They'd put her in grave peril before. She once stopped at a secluded observation point en route to a meeting with Dave, and what she observed nearly got her killed. She saw a murderer dumping his victim and he saw her see him. He then followed her into a nearby ghost town and terrorized her until Dave showed up and put two and two together.
"First," Daphne declared, "I think we ought to wait for the others to get here."
"No need to wait." Cha Cha was nonchalant, gaze fixed straight ahead. "They're already here."
Well, how about that? Just plain how?
But there was no mistaking who Daphne was looking at, and he was no mirage, either; Cha Cha could clearly see him, too. Cha Cha had spotted him first. At 6'3" and with wispy blonde hair and clear blue eyes, Sandy, and his matinee idol good looks, tended to stand out in a crowd. But there was no sign of Dave or Ken with him. It was just Sandy.
And the pretty blonde on his arm.
Petite and cute as a button, she wore a sleeveless floral print dress, and her long ponytail swished with each step. The camera around her neck was expensive, if the way she also cradled its bottom in her hands was any indication.
That didn't take long, Daphne thought, somewhat dejectedly. Then again, it never did. Somehow, that was less surprising than the fact that Sandy had beaten her and Cha Cha to the hotel. She was also no one to talk, waltzing off with Tracy Steele the way she had and just leaving Sandy (and Ken and Dave) in the exhaust of Kim's Kab.
Daphne imagined she could hear the fast-paced, pointed clicking of her heels as she crossed the lobby toward Sandy and the blonde woman. Logic told her there was far too much else going on to detect such a thing. Too many other hellos and goodbyes, reunions and departures. Aloha, indeed.
Maybe it was the pounding of her own heart.
With Cha Cha still at her side, Sandy stood directly in front of her, wearing a befuddled stare.
Daphne couldn't help sounding a little accusatory as she rattled off a series of questions in rapid-succession. "How on earth did you beat us here? When did you put on that outfit? Where did you come from? And are you going to introduce us to your friend?"
"Beat who where? This morning, Boston, and sure. This is Cricket Blake." He wasted no time in responding. There was an undeniable note of confusion in his delivery, though, especially when he added, "But to whom am I introducing her?"
"Cricket Blake?" The name seemed to spark something in Cha Cha. "From the sign!"
Beautiful, and a performer. Wonderful.
"The very same," the pretty blonde confirmed. She gave Sandy a playful elbow to the side. "Would you look at that? My reputation precedes me. You know, I really think I'm coming up in the world."
"You know the Fontainebleau Hotel in Miami?" Cha Cha was hopeful.
"I've never been there, but sure," Cricket answered. "Everyone's heard of the Fontainebleau."
"Cha Cha O'Brien is the name on the sign there." Cha Cha proudly pressed a hand to her chest. "That's me."
"Well then," Cricket began, but she left the sentence hanging on purpose. Similarly, she let go of the bottom of her camera, trusting in the strap around her neck. She placed both hands on her hips. "We're just gonna have to do a number together, then, aren't we?"
"Oh," Cha Cha was absolutely beaming, "I'd like that very much." But then she clapped a hand over her mouth, elation shifting to something resembling shame. "I forget my manners sometimes when I get excited. This is Daphne, and-"
"And," Daphne interrupted, choosing instead to address the other blond across from her, "Sandy Winfield, whatever you're joking at is positively not funny."
"I'm not Sandy, but," the man directed Daphne's attention to something—someone—approaching from behind, "I'm gonna go out on a limb and guess that he is."
Daphne and Cha Cha spun around, curiously in-sync. At the quarter turn mark, they faced one another for the briefest moment. It was comforting to see Cha Cha was equally confused.
And just like that, the real Sandy was next to them, with Ken and Dave just behind and to either side of him.
"Holy mackerel, there's two of them," Ken marveled, his unmistakable drawl thick as ever. Miami Beach by way of New Orleans by way of Forth Worth, as it were.
"Quick, Sandy, shield your eyes." Dave spoke with urgency.
"Huh?"
Dave lazily rested his forearm on Sandy's left shoulder, leaned in, and loudly whispered to him, "If you see your doppelganger you die."
"That'd sure put a damper on this trip. Better listen to him." To Sandy's right stood Ken, arms crossed and neck craned to meet Dave's gaze and continue his charade. "Unless Sandy's the doppelganger."
Dave shook his head. He was trying to look terribly regretful. "Boy, you think you know a person."
"Enough, you two." Sandy's statement was simple, his tone firm. He shook loose from Dave's light grip.
In the moment, Daphne couldn't help pity him the tiniest bit. Still, it wouldn't be the first time she likened Sandy Winfield to a man with a bad conscience on each shoulder.
Sandy took a half-step forward and addressed the man Daphne had since mentally dubbed Other Sandy. "Who are you and why do you look like me?"
"I could ask you the same thing," Other Sandy retorted.
"And you'd be well within your right to. Sanford Winfield II, but my friends, not to mention these jokers," Sandy cast Dave and Ken each a glance, "just call me Sandy. We're private investigators."
Other Sandy introduced himself. "Phil Barton. My friends call me... Phil. I work for the hotel." Something resembling inadequacy washed over his all-too-familiar features.
Daphne didn't like it.
Phil looked at his watch. "I'll be through with work soon. How about we all meet in the Shell Bar for cocktails before Cricket's show and try and sort things out?"
Anyone who has read my other Hawaiian Eye fic(s) knows I struggle with characterizing Kim. I love Kim and want to do him justice but I also worry I'm not a good vessel for him. This chapter, at least, is probably way too Daphne-centric, but I unapologetically love Diane McBain. I don't want to get too lengthy on the notes (hah) but I do feel like I should address the connection I've implied between Tracy, Greg, and Dave. Tracy was canonically an Air Force veteran, as was Dave. Dave was also somehow simultaneously in the Army AND college while serving in the Air Force but whatever. Old TV shows and their less than stellar continuity, amirite?
I believe (but can't be entirely sure) that Greg was also in the Air Force with Tracy. I have a memory of something along those lines, probably only mentioned in his introductory episode and never mentioned again. I don't know if the similarities in background was laying groundwork for a crossover that never happened, or if it was just that all those old WB detective shows were just intentionally very derivative of one another. If it ain't broke and all that.
Either way, it's safe to assume that Hawaiian Eye and Surfside 6 exist in the same universe because both had crossover episodes with 77 Sunset Strip. Anyway, thanks for reading.
