Mahu Vice m-4

by Neil S. Plakcy

  “I found him in the back alley,” Tico said, leaning close to my ear. The back of the center faced a narrow alley. “He was scared of his own shadow. I coaxed him inside, cleaned him up, and let him sleep in the back room.”

  “Doesn’t he have family?”

  “Not that I know of. There’s a Chinese girl at the travel agency next door, and all he’d tell her was that he’d run away from somewhere.”

  “You should call social services. They can find out what’s going on.”

  “In a few days,” Tico said. “I gave him a safe place to sleep, I feed him every day, and he collects a few bucks in tips. He’s safe enough, for now.”

  He began to snip at my head, and black hair fell around me. “Now let me work my magic, young man. You need some help here.”

  I relaxed to Bruddah Norm’s island beat as Tico cut, and when I left the salon I felt handsome. I’ve been lucky enough to get the best genes from my Hawaiian, Japanese, and haole grandparents: a light olive skin, a slight epicanthic fold over my eyes, and thick dark hair. I have worked my body for years through surfing, rollerblading, bicycling, and other sports. I’d put on a few extra pounds in the past year, maybe the beginning of a pot belly, but I’d been working it off with a fresh round of exercise.

  Gunter came over that night to help me pick out the right clothes to wear for my date. I’m no fashion bug; if it was up to me, I’d wear aloha shirts, board shorts, and rubber slippas every day of the year. I sprawled on my bed, playing the air ukulele with Jake Shimabukuro on the sound system, while Gunter picked through my closet, most of which did not meet with his approval. “You need new clothes,” he said. “Actually, you need new taste first.”

  “Just pick something,” I said, strumming along with one of Jake’s killer riffs. “It’s a date, not a job interview.”

  “Honey, every date is a job interview,” he said, striking a pose. He’s an inch or two taller than I am, skinny as a coconut palm, with close-cropped blond hair. He’s a muscle queen, with bulging biceps and abs as taut as guitar strings. He likes to pretend to be some kind of Teutonic god, but I know he’s just a suburban boy from New Jersey. “You’re interviewing for a position. Husband, boyfriend, or just flat on your back with your legs up in the air.” He flipped through my shirts, pulling out a black T-shirt with a designer label, something Tatiana had given me for my birthday. “I may be looking for a new job myself,” he said.

  “Really? What’s up?” Gunter was a security guard at a fancy condo in Waikiki, a job that suited him because he got to wear a uniform and boss people around. He was good at that.

  “This new company took over the contract for services at the Kuhio Regent,” he said. “They’re subcontracting valet, security, and maintenance. We’ve all been hired by the new company-but who knows how long that will last. They may want to bring in all their own people.”

  The music gave us a nice vibe, and a couple of beers added to the mellowness of the evening. Gunter moved on to pants. “Have you ever heard of this thing called dry cleaners?” he asked, pulling one rumpled pair of khakis after another out of the closet and throwing them into a pile on the floor. “You take them dirty, smelly, wrinkled pants like these and they return them to you a few days later, all nice and clean and pressed.”

  “Who has time for that?”

  “You have time for surfing,” Gunter said. “And what did you do this morning? Rollerblade? Bike ride? Jogging?”

  “I ran through the park after I got done surfing.”

  “See? You could have dropped these pants off on your way, and picked them up the next time you go for a run.”

  “Save me the lectures. Just find a pair of pants I can wear.”

  “My new boss is hot, though,” Gunter said, inspecting a pair of black pants for stains. “He’s over fifty, but built like a brick shithouse. And he’s hung like a horse.”

  “Gunter. You haven’t seen his dick in person, have you?”

  “The man’s a wannabe cop. He wears these tight uniform pants stretched across his crotch, white shirts with epaulets. His nipples are pierced, too.”

  “Too much information. Those pants going to be okay?”

  He tossed the slacks to me. “They’ll do. But I am taking you shopping at the outlets in Waikele. As soon as I get my next paycheck.”

  I met Dr. Phil a little later outside Raimundo’s, an Italian restaurant on Kuhio Avenue. “You look handsome,” he said, scanning me up and down. “The night we met you were kind of ragged, but you clean up very nicely.”

  I wasn’t sure that was a compliment. “My friend Gunter picked out my outfit,” I said. “He’s always telling me I don’t sell myself enough.”

  “That’s a good friend to have.”

  It wasn’t until we were seated that I remembered Raimundo’s was a place where Mike and I had eaten when we’d dated. I wondered if I’d picked the place as a way of reclaiming it, banishing his memory.

  To a soundtrack of Frank Sinatra and Don Ho, Dr. Phil and I traded basic information, shared some sushi, and started on that long process of getting to know each other. “When did you know you were gay?” he asked, over the salad.

  “I knew there was something strange when I hit puberty. I’d always liked girls, been friends with girls, but the feelings I had for guys were…different.”

  “The locker room,” Phil said.

  I nodded. “I’d see other guys naked and I’d start to think about touching them, doing things with them. I knew it wasn’t what I was supposed to feel, though, so I compensated by dating girls.” I shrugged. “I was lucky, because the girls liked me, and I never…you know…had trouble.”

  I sipped some wine, and he waited. “And then there was this case, a couple of years ago. A bust that went bad, and my adrenaline was running like crazy, and I suddenly thought, ‘Is this the way I want to live? If I died today, would I feel like I’d lived the life I was supposed to?’”

  He smiled. “We all have to come to that decision. For me, I was in medical school.” He told me a long story about a homophobic professor, and how that experience had spurred him to come out. He poured the last of the wine, and we finished it up over dessert. He said, “I’d like to see you again, Kimo, but my schedule gets crazy starting Monday. I’m going to nights, and I’m supervising a new crop of residents, so I won’t be able to get away for dinner.”

  “That’s a bummer,” I said. “Tomorrow’s my last night shift, and then I have two days off before I switch to days.”

  I licked my lips, and looked at him with raised eyebrows. In my past experience, this was the point when we figured out whose place to head to. But I hadn’t gotten much of a sex vibe from him and so I wasn’t sure what would happen next. I stuck my leg out and made contact with his.

  “I don’t have sex on the first date,” Phil said, answering my unasked question. “I’ve found in the past that it doesn’t lead to second dates. And I’d like a second date with you.”

  “I’d like one with you, too,” I said, smiling, and meant it.

  “I’ve got your number,” he said, standing up. “I’ll call when I have a day off.”

  “That would be great.” We walked out to the parking lot together. In the distance, a street performer was imitating Keali’i Reichel in a reedy tenor. Maybe I wasn’t going to sleep with Dr. Phil, but I certainly was going to kiss him; if he couldn’t kiss, then there wasn’t much point in a second date. In the shadow of my truck, I leaned down a bit and kissed his lips lightly.

  He kissed back, and it was pretty good. Fireworks didn’t go off and my heart didn’t race, but it felt nice to chase a little romance. Then he backed off and said, “See you soon-hopefully not in a professional capacity.”

  I slept in on Sunday morning, then spent a couple of hours in the surf off Diamond Head. I started my shift at eleven that night, and almost immediately my cell phone rang. When I saw it was Lui’s number I got scared.

  My father had been in declining health, getti
ng a new heart valve and taking a host of pills, and I was always worried that the next news about him would be bad.

  “What’s up, brah?” I asked. “Mom and Dad okay?”

  “They’re all right, but shook up. You know Dad’s favorite center, the one on Waialae Avenue? It’s on fire. He and Mom are freaking out.”

  I knew my dad had a sentimental attachment to that center, even though he didn’t own it anymore. “I was just there yesterday.”

  “Mom and Dad are heading over, and so am I. Can you get up there, too?”

  “See you there.” I told my new partner, Ray Donne, where I was going, and drove my truck up to St. Louis Heights.

  By the time I arrived, the flames had been doused everywhere except the acupuncture clinic at the far end from Tico’s salon. A single fire engine remained on Waialae Avenue, and bright arc lights illuminated the scene. The long, one-story building was now just a skeleton, and the air was filled with the acrid smell of burnt light bulbs, drywall, electrical wiring, and plastic.

  My parents stood at one side, supported by Lui’s wife Liliha. All of them looked like they’d dressed hurriedly, my father in sweatpants and a UH T-shirt, my mother in a housecoat. Even Liliha, who never appears in public without perfect makeup and elegant clothing, looked rumpled and tired. I went over and hugged them all. Since my teen years, I’ve always been a little taller than my father, though he’s shrinking as he gets older, and his normally sturdy body felt frailer in my arms.

  “Terrible thing,” he said, shaking his head. My mother grasped his hand and squeezed. Though he has a blustery temper, she’s always been the strong one in their relationship. She’s only about five seven, but she has a take charge attitude. Perhaps it comes from her childhood as a daughter of a Japanese father and a Hawaiian mother, living in near poverty on the windward coast. Or maybe they just feed off each other, the big, strong builder and the petite housewife, who made an exceptional team raising three sons.

  Lui came over and said, “We heard that there’s a victim inside. Ralph wants a sound bite from someone in Homicide. Come talk to him, okay?”

  “It’s not my case. There’s probably somebody coming up from downtown right now.”

  Lui looked at his watch. “If I can get this wrapped up in the next few minutes, we get something at the end of the eleven o’clock news. There’s a chance somebody who’s watching will have some information. Don’t you want to make sure they know where to call?”

  My oldest brother is a master manipulator. I couldn’t argue with that, so I followed him to where Ralph Kim was setting up a live shot. He was a trim, dark-haired Korean guy in his early forties, and we had a history; he was one of the newsmen who’d dogged my coming out, and I didn’t trust him, but as the ranking police representative on the scene I’d have to talk to him.

  The lights went on and we were rolling, the shot framed by a couple of restless palm trees behind us. Ralph spoke first to an assistant fire chief, and then turned to me. “Also on the scene is Honolulu homicide detective Kimo Kanapa’aka,” he said. “We understand that there was a fatality here. One of the tenants?”

  “The victim has not been identified yet. But anyone with information about this fire, or about the victim, should call Crime Stoppers, 955-8300, or dial star-crime on your cell phone.”

  When we were finished, I walked over to the far corner of the site, where Lui and Haoa were standing in front of what had been Puerto Peinado. The air was filled with bitter smoke, the arc lights from the fire engines casting eerie shadows. They were talking to someone, and it wasn’t until I was there that I realized it was Mike Riccardi. I caught a mouthful of smoke and started to choke.

  As I fought for breath, my heart raced, and I felt an emptiness at the pit of my stomach. I’d always known I could run into Mike somewhere; it’s a small island, after all. But seeing my parents so upset, and then having to be on TV with Ralph Kim, had raised my stress levels, and Mike made them go off the charts.

  The first time we met, after another fire, I’d been floored by his looks. He was handsome, with thick, dark hair, and a black mustache over full, sensual lips. He looked like the same guy I’d fallen in love with and spent six months dating and sleeping with, except around his eyes. They had always been dancing and full of fun, with a bit of an epicanthic fold over them, courtesy of his Korean mother, but in the glare of the arc lights, they looked tired and somber.

  “Kimo,” he said, sticking out his hand. “You look good.”

  I shook his. “You too, Mike.” The electricity of his touch raced through my body, and I wondered if he felt it, too. I struggled to stay professional when all I wanted to do was touch him, hold him-and maybe beat the crap out of him for betraying me. I cleared my throat. “My brother said there’s a body inside?”

  He nodded. “In the back of the salon.”

  I looked over at Tico, in sweatpants and an oversized T-shirt. He was hugging Tatiana and crying, resting his head on her full, blonde hair. I was about to go over to them when my cell phone rang, and I saw from the display that it was Ray. “Hey, we caught a case,” he said.

  I listened to the details and said, “Already on the scene, partner. You want to come up here?”

  Ray shared a car with his wife, a graduate student in East Asian studies at UH, and I drove us wherever we had to go. But on nights, he was able to get around on his own, so I gave him directions, then slapped the phone shut. I told Mike that my partner and I had caught the case.

  In the low light I couldn’t tell if he was smiling or not. “Looks like we’ll be working together,” I said.

  “Just like old times.” There was a flatness to his voice I couldn’t interpret.

  We walked over to his truck, and just as we’d done the night we first began working together, we stepped behind it and pulled off our shirts, pants, and shoes, getting ready to don a pair of yellow fire suits. That first night, the air had nearly crackled with sexual tension, as I kept stealing glances at Mike’s body, and my dick rose up in appreciation of his finely chiseled abs, his biceps, and strong calves.

  This time, though, the sexual tension that had been between us that first night was gone. There was a sadness in Mike that hadn’t been there before, and as I stepped into the pants, pulled them up by the waist, and then shrugged into the upper part of the suit, I kept remembering how we had broken up. I knew that I couldn’t trust my body’s reactions, because the last time I’d done so I’d gotten my heart broken.

  The hood of my suit got tangled, and Mike had to help me fix it. I felt his hot breath on the back of my neck, the closeness of his body to mine. My traitorous dick jumped to attention and I had to force myself to ignore the way his hand passed over my back as he popped the hood into place.

  Once dressed, we walked to the back of the salon, where we saw the charred remains of a body. Logic indicated it was the Chinese boy Tico had been sheltering in his back room, Jingtao, but it was going to be a pain to identify him, since there would be nothing to connect him to-no dental records, no fingerprints. We’d be lucky if his body type conformed to that of a pubescent boy of Asian origin.

  Had the fire been set to kill him? Tico knew nothing about him, just a guess that he was on the run, that he had been abused. I regretted not forcing the issue the day before, when I had been in the salon. Perhaps if I’d called social services myself, had the boy taken away to a group home somewhere, the fire might not have happened, and he’d still be alive.

  But that was getting ahead of myself. I looked at the burned-out ruin, finding it hard to believe that it had been a beautiful, lively hair salon just the day before. I could still make out the walls, the wash station, and a crumpled shelf that had once held Tico’s Barbie dolls, which were now a pile of melted rubber and charred fabric.

  Looking down the center, through what had been the dividing walls between premises, I could see that the travel agency, karate studio, acupuncture clinic, cell phone store, and pharmacy were all gone, too. “Any
idea where the fire started?”

  “Behind the acupuncture clinic,” Mike said. “But the place went up fast. The wind carried the flames down the block-when the first engine got here the beauty parlor was already engulfed. The guy in the back didn’t have a chance, especially if he was asleep. Doesn’t look like there were fire alarms or sprinklers.”

  “And now it’s up to us to figure out what happened.”

  “Yup,” Mike said. “You and me.”

  GHOST MARKS

  Ray showed up a few minutes later. He’s about five ten, wiry and tough, with sandy brown hair. He’d just made detective in Philadelphia when his wife announced she wanted to pursue a master’s degree in Asian studies at the University of Hawai’i. He’d joined HPD a little over a year before and become my partner.

  He was Italian, very laid back, with an ironic sense of humor. He was also a savvy investigator, and though he was a newcomer to the islands, or malihini, he had a keen understanding of human behavior.

  Two crime scene investigators were behind him, and after I got out of the fire suit, I briefed them all on what we knew. We blocked off the site with tape, and Ray and I walked out to the edge of the parking lot. The night was dark away from the arc lights; there was only a neon sign half a block away. I could see the pattern of streetlights that rose into the mountains around us, broken in places where the ridges were too steep for housing.

  With all but one of the fire engines gone, traffic had resumed on Waialae Avenue: trucks and motorcycles and low-riding sedans. “We know who made the 911 call?” I asked.

  “Nope.”

  I looked across the street. Most of the block was taken up with a two-story office building-insurance agents, doctors, and so on. Next door to that was a used car lot, dark behind a high fence. “No neighbors to see anything,” I said.

  “Nope.”

  “Got any ideas?”

  “Nope.”