The Komodo Cafe: A Novel by Michael Hodjera

By Michael Hodjera

A brush fire consumes the Malibu home of socially challenged, best selling sci fi writer Buckminster Brand Sinclair. Succumbing to the impassioned entreaties of his literary agent, he reluctantly agrees to take a temporary hiatus from writing and finds himself on a tiny island in the middle of the Pacifi c, ostensibly for some much needed rest and relaxation. He meets there an intriguing group of ex-pats from different corners of the world. What they share in common is a potent secret. The Komodo Cafe chronicles Buckminsters initiation into the mysteries of Empyrean Island and its inhabitants. But what he discovers about his new found neighbors pales in comparison to what he begins to realize about himself in this comic adventure thriller from the author of the Elvis trilogy and Sleeping Gods.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Apr 30, 2013
• ISBN: 9781475986815

Michael Hodjera

Michael Hodjera is the author of a trio of books featuring the fictional present day adventures of Elvis. One of these, The Fear Merchant, was a Darrell Award finalist. A songwriter and composer, he lives in the Santa Cruz mountains. Sleeping Gods is his fourth novel. To learn more visit michaelhodjera.com.

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CONTENTS

Prologue

THE STRANGER

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

GALAPAGOS DREAMS

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

Twenty-Two

THE STORM CHASER AND THE PIRATE

Twenty-Three

Twenty-Four

Twenty-Five

Twenty-Six

Twenty-Seven

Twenty-Eight

Twenty-Nine

Thirty

Thirty-One

Thirty-Two

Thirty-Three

Thirty-Four

Thirty-Five

THE STORM

Thirty-Six

Thirty-Seven

Thirty-Eight

Thirty-Nine

Forty

THE ISLAND

Forty-One

Forty-Two

THE CHOIRBOY

Forty-Three

Forty-Four

Forty-Five

Forty-Six

Forty-Seven

Forty-Eight

Forty-Nine

Fifty

Fifty-One

Fifty-Two

Fifty-Three

Fifty-Four

Fifty-Five

Fifty-Six

Fifty-Seven

THE ARBITER OF FATES

Fifty-Eight

Fifty-Nine

Sixty

Sixty-One

Sixty-Two

Sixty-Three

Sixty-Four

THE INTERVIEW

Sixty-Five

Sixty-Six

EPILOGUE

Special thanks to Gail Barta for her help in preparing

this manuscript for publication.

For the JJ

In wildness is the preservation of the world.

—Henry David Thoreau

Animals are the soul of the planet.

—Felicity Harris PhD.

PROLOGUE

The dream was always the same.

He sat in an antechamber of some kind. He was the only one in the room. On the wall across from him were framed photographs of Gerald Ford and George W. Bush. He couldn’t help but wonder if the photos were different for every individual who sat in the waiting room, if these portraits were there just to make him feel at home, or if these minor politicians were, for some inexplicable reason, highly regarded here at the ends of the universe.

The room was narrow and impossibly tall. The ceiling was so high it seemed to disappear in wisps of fog. At least thirty feet up, windows glowed with the light of alien suns.

He didn’t know why he was here. That was part of the problem. The other part was that he couldn’t remember who it was he was there to see. It seemed he had known once upon a time. But now his mind slipped around that memory as if mind and memory were two similarly charged poles of a magnet, deflecting one another whenever they got close.

The feeling being here was akin to having been summoned to the principal’s office for some transgression he couldn’t recall. The difference was one of scale. If one were to multiply that feeling a thousand times, one would have had an approximation of what he was going through. He felt as if he were going to implode, like a supernova collapsing in on itself on its way to becoming a black hole. The analogy may have been closer to the truth than he suspected.

How long had he been waiting? Days? Years? Millennia? He couldn’t be sure. But he knew, or rather sensed, one thing. No matter how long the wait, if it postponed the inevitable, it was worth it. It was better to endure an eternity in the reception room, despite George and Gerald, than face the creature on the other side of that door. He could hardly have been more anxiety-ridden if he were in the antechamber to hell, awaiting an audience with the Prince of Darkness himself. And who could say for sure this was not the case?

That all-too-familiar feeling of panic gripped him, choking the air out of him. He could almost feel the heat from the flames of Hades on his hands and face, hear the crackling and snapping of the hellfire, feel the incendiary roar as a vibration in his bones. He looked on aghast as black smoke began curling under the door and defusing throughout the waiting room. It was an oily, evil thing he beheld, invading his eyes and sinuses. It was the end of all that was good and right with the cosmos. It was the end of any possibility of happiness… .

Gasping, he awoke on sweat-drenched sheets on his bed in his house atop the rolling hills of Malibu, California.

His relief at having escaped the recurring nightmare was short lived, however. Lights danced on the wall of the bedroom opposite the window. He pulled himself slowly up on his elbows, mesmerized by the spectacle he beheld outside. On the ridge just above the house, a wall of flames leaped and danced demonically, whipped by the fierce arid winds that blew in from the high desert. He stood transfixed at the sight, overcome by a sense of unreality. This couldn’t be happening. It was as if his nightmare had spilled over into his waking life.

The sound of sirens and helicopters intruded into his awareness. Somewhere nearby a bullhorn could be heard, a nasal sounding voice repeating, If anyone is inside the house, you are ordered to evacuate immediately. You are in extreme danger. Repeat, you are in extreme danger. Vacate the premises immediately for your own safety.

He became suddenly aware of the sensation of scorching heat singeing his arms, chest, and face and the deafening roar of the conflagration as it began to consume the rear of the house. Panic seized him. It was his dream coming after him, trying to push into his reality, his life! He shook his head. He needed to get his fear under control before it overwhelmed him completely. If he didn’t get out now, he realized, he would die.

Not bothering to pull on his jeans, he grabbed his housecoat, which was draped over his desk chair, and pulled it on as he ran for the front door.

THE STRANGER

one

We have company, said the German woman with the regal bearing pensively. She was gazing skyward through a side window of the Komodo Cafe, the island’s only commercial enterprise. The modest structure was made from spindly tropical hardwood trunks lashed together, while the roof was a thick woven mat of cane grass. An imposing mahogany tiki stood just outside the cafe’s entrance. From a distance, it looked like one of many representations of First Man found throughout the South Seas. However, on closer inspection, the totem bore a striking resemblance to Winston Churchill, down to the distinctive stogy clamped in its teeth.

Framed by tall grasses, the cafe was located back from a flawless white sand beach that extended around the southern perimeter of the island. Fifty yards to the north was a section of swampland. The island was at its narrowest here, little more than the width of the road that it supported. Swamp and roadway were part of an isthmus that connected the mountainous north end of the Pacific island to the palm tree-covered south end. Just beyond the bog, the land rose to a peak a couple of thousand feet in elevation. The sun rose from the side of the cafe that faced the bay, and an unobstructed view of the sunset was afforded through the west-facing windows across the shallows. A quarter of a mile southward along the east side was a tiny pier where a couple of dinghies were moored, while out on the bay a luxury yacht worthy of an Onassis was anchored.

The patrons of the Komodo Cafe and its bartender/owner were congregated along the east-facing windows. Out over the calm waters beyond the inlet, a mid-sized seaplane banked into the westerly wind and dropped toward the surface of the ocean about a mile out. It hovered over the water a moment before settling heavily in a spray of foam like an overweight heron landing in a wetland slough.

Pilot could profit from professional flying lessons, remarked the man standing next to the German woman dryly. His name was Uli and his wife’s name was Uschi. They could have been twins—tall, slender, Teutonic. The two were even dressed alike, she in a long flowing dress of white muslin. He in a loose fitting white linen shirt and matching slacks. They looked like acolytes of the same sect.

Everyone considered the flying boat, a Grumman G-111, as it taxied toward the dock.

He is the writer? Ka’ayla, the voluptuous bartender asked with a slight East Indian inflection. Her skin was flawless, and her thick wavy hair was pulled together next to her face, cascading down the front of her tank top almost to her waist. She had a bindi on her forehead and a diamond stud in her left nostril. The one who bought the Fitzgerald place?

I don’t know who else could it be, Uschi said without turning around.

So, said Ka’ayla, he owns the house. Which means he owns the mountain it sits on top of. He must have charmed a few rupiahs into his bank account to manage that. Does anyone know what he writes?

A striking seven-foot-tall Native American stood from a stuffed chair near the fireplace and stretched his back. In his early forties, he bore a notable resemblance to the actor Gregory Peck and even possessed the calm, studious air of an Atticus Finch. Sci Fi mostly, from what I’ve heard, he said. Post apocalyptic, intergalactic, faster-than-light, no holds barred, laser gun shoot ’em ups. You must have heard of Stoker. The Space Gangsta series? They’ve made at least a half dozen movies based on that character by now.

Not the ones with Seraphina, the warrior princess, in them! Ka’ayla said, her dark eyes widening. "That writer?"

None other, said Joe, who everyone fondly referred to as Injun Joe.

Something Sinclair, wasn’t it? Spinmaster, Buckspinster, Westminster… ?

Buckminster, supplied Joe. Buckminster Brand Sinclair.

I only ever saw the movies, Ka’ayla remarked. By God, the creator of Seraphina! What must he be like?

I heard an interview with him once, back in Aussieland, Chloe, a petite blonde with green eyes that missed nothing, put in. She was dressed in a short, spring-green shift that revealed tanned legs which terminated, incongruously, in clogs. Seemed like an OK guy. Bit of a space cadet, no pun intended. Couldn’t stop blinking. I just hope he gets along with Felicity, seein’ as they’ll be sharing the island between them now. She glanced over at Ka’ayla. Everything except for the Komodo Cafe, of course.

Of course, said the latter with a curtsy.

A toast! interjected Uli boisterously. To free enterprise!

Wasn’t he a musician too, once upon a time? Uschi asked, ignoring Uli. Before he made the big time as a writer?

What? You think you may have dated him? Ka’ayla said impishly. During your celebrated modeling career?

"I didn’t date every living musician back in those days, Uschi said with an easy smile that dazzled even now. Her shoulder length platinum hair tended to fall in front of her face making her appear much younger than her fifty-plus years. Just those that had sold a million records or more. I suppose it’s possible. I’ll be the first to admit, I don’t remember much about my years in front of the camera. It was a blur. That is, until my Uli rescued me from the clutches of ignominy and dissipation."

I had a weakness for distressed damsels even then, said Uli with a flourish. Like his partner, he was in his fifties but appeared younger. He had blue eyes that twinkled with amusement and mischief. His face was deeply tanned and his hair sun-bleached nearly white. It’s the Calvinist in me. But Calvinist or no, I would do it again in a heartbeat. He made puppy dog eyes at his wife, who just rolled her eyes.

I think you might be thinking of what’s-his-name, Chloe cut in. The one with the hair?

Ah, said Uli knowingly. The famous hairy whats-his-name.

Used to have his poster in my room growing up back in Brisbane, Chloe said. You know who I mean. The shaggy fellow with the beat up Stratocaster. Or was it a Les Paul? Can’t remember which now.

What I am wondering is what business he could possibly have here, Ka’ayla said, voicing everyone’s unspoken concern. And why now of all times?

No one had an answer.

Injun Joe cleared his throat. I read somewhere his house burned down, he said, during one of those big wildfires they get in Southern California in the summer. Word has it he barely escaped with his life.

Crikey. A wildfire. That’d get you moving, chirped Chloe. But why come all the way out here to live? You’d think he could have found something a bit closer to home.

Maybe that was the idea, Joe pointed out. To get away from it all. Find a small, relatively unpopulated island in the Pacific and decompress. Maybe he has connections out here somewhere—Australia, Indonesia, Hawaii—take your pick. Empyrean Island looks pretty good if what you’re looking for is a little R&R off the beaten path. At least on paper.

Do you think he will be staying long? inquired Ka’ayla. She seemed suddenly worried. Do you think he will be safe?

Injun Joe nodded solemnly, immediately understanding her misgivings. Because of what happened with Fitzgerald, he said quietly.

Everyone was silent. Only the faint hum of a generator hidden in the tall grasses outside the cafe could be heard.

Finally, Uli spoke up. It was a fluke, what happened with Fitzgerald, he said gently. An accident, plain and simple. It was nobody’s fault. We all understand that. I would not be concerned. It’s extremely unlikely something like that could ever happen again.

two

A bright-yellow inflated raft laden with crates navigated the distance from the seaplane to the dock. A skinny guy, his face framed by curly hair, was visible seated in the prow of the boat.

Perhaps he ran afoul of his creditors and is, how do you say it, on the lam, Uli said, scratching his jaw thoughtfully. ‘Write what you know.’ Isn’t that what they teach in creative writing classes? Perhaps he really is a gangster. Maybe that’s why he’s so successful at writing those kinds of stories. It takes one to know one.

You are hilarious, Uli, said Uschi. By that reasoning, crime writers would all be on their way to Sing Sing, if they aren’t there already.

Not if nobody has managed to catch them yet.

And it’s space gangsters, he writes about, for your information, Chloe put in. Do you figure he hangs out in outer space, too, for deep background?

Hey, protested Uli. I was just passing wind… .

Blowing smoke is the expression I believe you’re after, said Chloe dubiously.

Why do we not simply agree to put our best feet forward, Ka’ayla pleaded, show our guest the respect he deserves, shall we? No pranks. No practical jokes. No disparaging remarks. Let us comport ourselves with dignity, OK? How long has it been since we have had any new blood on Empyrean? Besides, there is a reason he is here. There must be.

You’re just grateful to have another paying customer, Uli remarked, with an overbearing smirk. Someone to buy those expensive umbrella drinks and smoothies you sell.

The ones you consume on a daily basis, usually without complaint? chided Ka’ayla. And it is not like you cannot afford them, Mr. Moneybags. My prices are not unreasonable. Besides, I’m not forcing anyone to buy anything. I cannot help it if my drinks happen to be irresistible.

It helps the Komodo Cafe is the only bar in a few hundred miles, Uli pointed out. Not to denigrate your wares in any way, Liebchen.

You had better not, warned Ka’ayla. I reserve the right to refuse service to anyone for any reason. It says so right here. She tapped a sign above the bar meaningfully.

It also says you won’t serve anyone who isn’t wearing shoes and a shirt. I have yet to see you enforce that rule.

You had better be most careful how you tread. You are walking on shaky ground there, Mister.

I’m just pulling your leg, Ka, Uli said, relenting with a sigh. It was sport to him to test people’s limits. To his credit, he knew when to quit. You know we all love you, Schatzi, and the Komodo Cafe, too. Where would we be without you? Life would be unbearable. Unimaginable.

Ka’ayla wasn’t quite mollified yet. She continued to glare at him for a several long seconds.

Meanwhile on the dock, boxes were being offloaded, among them a bag of golf clubs. The slim man first spotted in the boat detached himself from the group of porters, who continued to wrestle with the cargo, and jumped awkwardly onto the sand, pausing to get his bearings and then making a beeline for the bar. He was dressed in khaki shorts, flip flops, and a Hawaiian print shirt.

Injun Joe glanced up, amusement dancing in his eyes. Here he comes, he said. Remember what our hostess said. Best behavior, now. He threw Ka’ayla an ironic smile. This ought to be good, he thought.

three

The writer halted abruptly at the south-facing entrance to the cafe like he’d hit an invisible wall and did a double-take. His mouth open, he took stock of the eight-foot-tall Churchill-like tiki that stood just to the right of the swinging screen door. He shook his head once hard, as if trying to dislodge something stuck in his ear. He gave the tiki a cursory once over while the porters marched past the cafe and up the hill, struggling with his things. Then he entered the Komodo Cafe.

He blinked as if he had just entered direct sunlight instead of the reverse. He immediately sensed the interest directed his way from around the small open-air room. As a world renown writer of popular fiction, one would have thought he’d be used to the attention. But he actually appeared shy, tentative, as he clove instinctively to the mahogany bar that ran along the west side of the cafe. He ordered a sarsaparilla.

We have got a bottle of Dad’s root beer here somewhere, I believe, said Ka’ayla. She failed to mention it had washed up on the shore with the tide several years ago, along with a Scandinavian troll doll. It is vintage. But I am sure it is still good.

Dad’s, said Buckminster Sinclair abruptly, as if suddenly remembering something important that he’d forgotten. Yes, Dad’s. That would be fine.

My name is Ka’ayla, the bartender said in an effort to put him at ease.

Buckminster, said the writer sternly, reaching across the bar to shake her hand. How do you do.

While he waited for his drink to arrive he surreptitiously studied the interior of the bar. It couldn’t have been more than 600 square feet in size, the walls snugly lashed ohia tree trunks draped with brightly colored weaves, trinkets and masks from all over the South Seas. The thick blanket of cane grass overhead was supported by wooden joists that made triangles with heavier mahogany crossbeams at intervals. A pair of fans with dark wooden blades rotated slowly from the rafters.

The stone fireplace was an anomaly. It was by far the most substantial construction on the premises, and while the rest of the cafe appeared ready to take to the skies with the first gust of wind, the fireplace wouldn’t have been out of place in a Bavarian castle that had stood for centuries. Buckminster vaguely wondered what use anyone would have for a fireplace at this latitude, but said nothing.

Three stuffed chairs made a semi-circle around a coffee table in front of the hearth. Magazines were scattered across its surface—National Geographic, The New Yorker and Time. Recent editions of the New York Times and the Sueddeutsche Zeitung were also present. The word cozy came to mind.

Out of the corner of his eye, Buckminster took in the lanky Native American, who was folded into one of the stuffed chairs, facing away from him. He had the Wall Street Journal open in front of him and appeared to be studying the stock listings intently, as if they might contain the secrets of the ages. The Teutonic couple was seated at a round cocktail table next to a screened window behind him, talking in hushed tones, silhouetted by the sunlight shining in off the bay.

While Buckminster Sinclair was observing the clientele of the Komodo cafe, they in turn were discreetly sizing him up. They saw a man in his mid-forties, of average height, fit though thin, with a decent start on a stubbly beard. His hair was more pepper than salt and hung in ringlets toward his shoulders, which were raised slightly as if to ward off a blow that was imminent but never arrived. It was the posture of a someone who either spent a lot of time at a computer or was ill at ease in the world or both. In any event, it was clear even at this early stage that here was a man who was a stranger to relaxation. He had the gaunt, haunted look of a hermit.

He cleared his throat in the silence and pretended to occupy himself with the view. The view, it must be said, was stunning, especially to a first-timer. Open ocean stretched toward the eastern horizon behind him, while before him, through the windows behind the bar, the western horizon beckoned across endless sparkling waves. It was easy to imagine the Komodo Cafe as a flatboat from this perspective, surrounded by water on all sides. A mild breeze wafted in through the windows and rustled the grasses on the roof.

Chloe approached the writer, her hand extended before her. She cocked her head to one side and in her flat Aussie accent said, Welcome to Empyrean Island, mate! Her declaration was reinforced by good-natured grunts of greeting from around the room. I’m Chloe. Her green eyes regarded him with an intensity that was disconcerting.

Er. How do you do? said the harried writer, reflexively taking the extended hand.

He tried to take his hand back, but Chloe held it fast and instead led him into the room with it, as if leading a partner out on a dance floor.

These are the von Felsenbachs, Uschi and Uli, she said introducing the tall, elegant woman and the equally noteworthy tall, blond male. They own the floating monstrosity you see out there in the bay.

The writer shook the proffered hands, noting the relaxed yet formal bearing of the Germans. The woman, Uschi, looked uncannily familiar. But try as he might, he couldn’t recall where he had seen her before.

And over here on the sofa, I present our tribal representative of the Cherokee persuasion, Joseph Thundercloud, Chloe said. Mr. Thundercloud achieved a certain notoriety for setting up casinos in the Carolinas not long ago, before retiring at a relatively youthful age.

Joe unraveled himself from the sofa to his full height, his head inches from the Casablanca-style fans that swatted half-heartedly at the tropical air in the room. The fans appeared to be more for decoration than anything. The trade winds seemed to provide adequate cross ventilation. The blades moved slowly, which was a good thing because if Joe had a growth spurt, he’d be in danger of decapitation. Just ‘Joe’ is fine, he said genially, offering his hand as he leaned down from the clouds. Or Injun Joe, as I’m sometimes known in these parts, He had the bearing and charisma of a movie star, but the man’s unpretentious manner had the effect of putting those he met at ease.

And I believe you’ve met the one, the only, the proprietress and the star of the Komodo Cafe, Ka’ayla Kar. No worries. Her middle name doesn’t start with a K.

Buckminster blinked, his countenance stern, as if he were trying to decipher some secret code in Chloe’s words. Suddenly his face lit up like a blast of sunshine that startled everyone in the room. I get it! he said. Her initials aren’t KKK!

No moss on this one, remarked Chloe sotto vox. Then to the room she said, Everyone, this is Mr. Buckminster Sinclair!

The writer appeared perplexed. How did you know my name?

Doesn’t everybody? Chloe said cheekily. You’re hardly unknown to anyone who has read a book or gone to the movies in the last couple of decades.

I hadn’t expected that out here… . So far from… .

Civilization?

No. I mean I didn’t mean it like that, he said uncomfortably.

"No worries, mate. No offense taken, I’m sure. In fact, I think I speak for all of us by saying we take a certain pride in being somewhat removed from the mainstream. We wouldn’t have it any other way.

Not to say we’re bumpkins here, exactly, just because we live back of Bourke, she added quickly. Then again, I suppose that’s up to you to decide. Let me point out, just for the record, that we do have a few modern conveniences here on Empyrean Island. We have Internet access, for example, via satellite. And we are known to get the odd phone call now and then. And I do mean odd. She laughed easily. And we have the occasional, though sporadic, newspaper delivery. Not to mention we have the Komodo Cafe featuring state of the art coffee drinks, smoothies, and alcoholic beverages at reasonable prices. She shared a knowing grin with Ka’ayla So you see we are in fact quite cosmopolitan despite the remoteness of the location.

I have no doubt, said Buckminster clearing his throat. No doubt at all. So then. You all live here on the island?

More or less, said Chloe. It’s certainly the hub of activity around here, that’s for sure. There are a few atolls nearby that appear and disappear seasonally. But this is the only stable landmass in this section of the Pacific for hundreds of miles in any direction. Joe and I have cabins in the woods on Felicity’s property. And the von Felsenbachs, generally repose on their yacht. She indicated the very sleek and expensive looking vessel anchored in the bay with a nod of her head.

You mentioned a Felicity.

Felicity Harris, your next door neighbor? ‘Next door’ may be a bit of an exaggeration. She owns the southern half of the island, the flatlands as we call them.

The author looked at her uncomprehendingly.

Strange, Chloe thought. Surely the real estate agent would have mentioned Felicity. How was it possible he didn’t know about her? She backpedaled. The writer seemed fragile to her, like porcelain that might crack if handled too roughly. Felicity’s amazing, she added hastily. She’s the genuine article. A retired biology professor. A veritable fount of knowledge about the island and all the species of plant and animal life out here. She seemed to hesitate as if she might be overstepping the bounds of propriety. Anyways, she went on, "she tends to keep to herself. The whole northern end