Mahu Vice

by Neil S. Plakcy

  “In Kaka’ako,” he said. “A beautiful high-rise.”

  On a hunch, I told him the address of the building where Ray and I had found Treasure Chen hiding. With her moved to Norma’s, anyone else could be using the place. “Apartment 609?”

  He looked up at me, tears streaking his face. He was quite handsome, and I could see that many men would find him attractive. “How did you know?”

  “It’s an address that has come up in our investigations.”

  That brought on a fresh round of tears. “He is a criminal. I knew it.”

  “What did he do once you were lying on the bed?”

  “He tied my hands and feet to the bedposts. It was very uncomfortable, my legs stretched open so wide. He lit a cigar, and he began blowing the smoke into my bottom. I just wanted him to fuck me so that I could go, but he wouldn’t.”

  I tried to remember the bed in the apartment. It had a wooden headboard and footboard, with posts at each corner. “I kept asking him to let me go, and he got angry. He said I could go when he said so. Then I felt something burning.”

  I had to get up to answer the door. Mike stepped in, then stopped when he saw the law student on the couch, naked from the waist down, his buttocks burned and bandaged. “What’s up?”

  “This is my friend Mike,” I said to the law student. “He’s a fireman. He’s accustomed to dealing with burns.”

  “Man, somebody burned you good,” Mike said, squatting down next to him. “What’s your name?”

  He sniffled. “Fouad,” he said. “Fouad Khan.”

  I filled Mike in on what Fouad had said so far.

  “Let me get a look at you,” Mike said, and he began carefully peeling off the tape that held down the gauze. Fouad whimpered and squirmed.

  “You were saying that you felt something burn you,” I said to Fouad.

  “He was tapping his cigar ash on me,” he said. “And then he put the lit cigar right onto me. I cried out and begged him to stop, but he wouldn’t.”

  Mike peeled off the bandage and said, in a low voice, “Man, that looks nasty.”

  Fouad’s anus was red and inflamed. “He kept relighting the cigar and then putting it out on me.” He was crying again. “I looked around and saw that he had taken off his pants, and I was relieved. I thought that at last he would finish and I could go home.”

  Mike squeezed some salve into his palm and began massaging it into Fouad’s buttocks, slowly and carefully. “But he would not,” Fouad said, wincing and crying. “I saw him stroking himself, and then when I thought he would finish, instead, he put the cigar in me.”

  I couldn’t believe he had so many tears in him. I wasn’t sure if it was the memory or Mike touching his burns. I grasped his hand and squeezed. “He ejaculated on me then,” Fouad said. “And after that he said I could go, but that I would have to come whenever he asked, or he would show the pictures to my wife.”

  I exchanged a glance with Mike. “Okay, buddy, I’m going to put some cream where you’re burned the worst,” he said to Fouad. “This might sting a little.”

  It appeared to sting a lot. Fouad grasped my hand and squeezed until I worried he might break a couple of bones. “You ought to go to the emergency room,” Mike said. “These burns are nasty, and you don’t know what kind of damage was done inside.”

  “No,” Fouad insisted through his tears. “No hospital.”

  “Hold on a minute,” I said. “Suppose we said that you were attacked. Last night, leaving the library. Two or three men attacked you. Maybe they thought you were Arabic, and they said anti-Arab things.”

  I saw Mike nodding. “They held you down, pulled your pants down, and burned you,” he said.

  “You were embarrassed to go to the police last night, but if you go to the emergency room now, they’ll call the police for you. You can report the assault.”

  “But that is against the law,” Fouad said. “To make a false report.”

  “Someone raped and burned you,” I said. “That’s the truth. You tell the officer that you didn’t see anyone’s face, and they won’t be able to pursue the case. It’s not right—but it will be something you can explain to your wife. And if we catch this guy, then you’ll be safe.”

  Fouad nodded.

  “I need you to describe this man to me, tell me anything you can about him.”

  While Mike continued to administer the burn cream, Fouad said, “He is about fifty years old. Caucasian. His hair is dark brown, going to gray, and his face is red, like a man who drinks a lot.”

  I took notes. “Anything else?”

  “He has a very good body. Like he works out in the gym.”

  “How does he dress?”

  “As if he has been in the military. Those shirts, with the little flaps.”

  “Epaulets,” I said.

  “Yes. Very nice black shoes, always shined.”

  The description sounded familiar, but I couldn’t place it.

  “This is the best I can do, buddy,” Mike said. “You got some bandages, Kimo?”

  I brought a roll of gauze to him from the bathroom. “Fouad, I want you to put this on yourself,” Mike said. “You don’t want them questioning you at the ER about who did this for you.”

  Fouad stood up and awkwardly wrapped the gauze around his butt. “You’re going to the ER right now,” I said. “Go to The Queen’s Medical Center. It’s near police headquarters downtown, and they’ll send over a cop to ask you questions. I’ll do my best to follow what happens.”

  “Thank you so much.” Fouad pulled up his briefs and his pants, and then embraced first me, and then Mike. “You are good men.”

  Since I’d just encouraged the victim of a crime to lie to the police, I wasn’t that good, but it was the best solution to a bad problem. Mike and I followed him outside and watched him drive away.

  “You think he’s going to do it?” Mike asked.

  “I don’t see that he has any other choice. Otherwise his wife’s going to have some very serious questions.” I paused. “I didn’t want to say anything, but I think his assault might tie into our investigation.”

  The streetlamp lit Mike’s face, and I was reminded of how handsome he was and how much history there was between us. There was no hiding the fact that I was falling for him all over again. “Come on, Romeo,” I said, refraining from taking his hand, “let’s go back inside, and I’ll tell you the whole story.”

  PROPOSITIONING GUNTER

  “How does his assault tie into our case?” Mike asked, as we climbed the stairs to my apartment.

  “He’s been around the edges for a while—he’s the one who called 911 about the fire at the shopping center. He was having sex that night in an office across the street, the office of the Wah Shing Corporation, which is also the parent company for the acupuncture clinic. Plus Wah Shing owns the condo where he was attacked—the one where Ray and I found Treasure Chen hiding out. That means the guy who assaulted Fouad is tied to the prostitution, and maybe the arsons.”

  “But you said your guy was Chinese, didn’t you? The guy who burned Fouad was Caucasian.”

  The doorbell rang. Mike looked at me. “You think that’s Fouad again? Or are you expecting someone else?”

  “Only way to tell is to open the door.”

  It was Gunter. “Oh,” he said. “I didn’t realize you had company.”

  Mike and Gunter looked at each other, and I remembered that neither of them liked the other. Gunter was angry on my behalf about the way Mike had treated me. As for Mike, Gunter was the kind of gay man who made him uncomfortable—flamboyant, aggressive in his sexuality.

  “I can come back,” Gunter said.

  “No, stay,” Mike said. “I was just leaving.”

  Mike gave me a hug and quick kiss on the cheek. “Call me tomorrow,” he said. “Nice to see you, Gunter.”

  “You too.” When Mike was out of the apartment, Gunter turned to me. “You’re not getting back together with him, are you? Because you kn
ow that is a recipe for disaster.”

  “Things are complicated. We’re working together on a case. And I needed his help with something tonight.”

  “I could have helped you with that,” Gunter said.

  “We did not have sex. A guy showed up here with burns and Mike brought over some burn cream.”

  “Right.”

  “It’s true.” I told him about Fouad.

  Gunter shivered. “Kinky.”

  “You didn’t come over to harass me about my love life. What’s up?”

  “I may be out of a job. That is, unless I do what Stan wants.” He sat down in my easy chair and I sat across from him on the couch.

  “What does Stan want?”

  “He wants me to fuck around.”

  “And you’re opposed to that?”

  “I don’t fuck for money. And I’m sure as hell not going to get caught on camera fucking somebody so Stan can blackmail him.”

  “Whoa! Where did that come from?” Immediately I thought of the blackmail attempt on Brian Izumigawa, and the haole who had pictures of himself having sex with Fouad Khan. How many gay blackmailers were out there?

  “You know Stan’s company took over the contract at the Kuhio Regent?”

  I nodded.

  “Well, he started replacing all the employees with his own people. Half of the maintenance guys don’t speak English. I’ll bet they don’t have green cards either.”

  “How does that connect to Stan wanting to pimp you?”

  “He pretty much told me that if I didn’t, he’d replace me.”

  I got us a pair of beers from my refrigerator. I was working my way through a six-pack of Big Wave Golden Ales. “How did this happen?” I asked. “Over drinks at the Rod and Reel Club? In his office?”

  “He’s been hinting around for a while,” Gunter said. “You know, talking to me about sex, flattering me, asking me if I liked to be photographed, that sort of thing. And at the same time he’s been asking me all these questions about the people who live at the Regent.”

  “Any good targets there?”

  He shook his head. “You know I have excellent gaydar. The only gay men in that building are a couple on the twenty-third floor, and a few younger guys who aren’t rich enough for blackmail.” He moved to the floor, leaning back against the chair.

  “Today, he asked me to meet him at his office before my shift.” He took a swig from his beer. “I was worried he was going to fire me, like the rest of the staff. But instead he said he had a proposition for me.”

  “Not the kind of proposition you usually get.”

  “All the way there, I was psyching myself up,” he said. “I mean, thinking about where else I could work. I know a couple of guys at buildings, but what I’ve got at the Regent is sweet. The residents all know me, I have a great shift, I can walk to work from my house.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He started out with all this bullshit, how happy he was with the job I was doing, how he only heard great things about me. But things were different with his organization, he said. He expected more from his employees.”

  He twisted around so he was looking at me. “He told me that he knew I wasn’t making a lot of money, and he had a way I could have some fun and make some extra cash at the same time.” He frowned. “I told him I was getting along fine on my salary, but he insisted.”

  I’d never seen Gunter looking so vulnerable, not even when he’d been hospitalized with burns after the Marriage Project fire. “I can quit, I suppose. Or I can wait for him to fire me, and then collect unemployment. But it sucks that he can just do this.”

  “Did he say he had a particular client in mind for you?”

  He nodded. “This Japanese businessman. He likes tall, blond guys, and Stan said he’d go crazy for me. That he had a place I could take the guy, this nice apartment, and that he would show me where the cameras were in advance, so I could make sure the guy’s face would be photographed.”

  “Did you ever hear Stan mention a guy named Mr. Hu?”

  “Mr. Who?”

  “Hu. H-U. A Chinese man. He’s blackmailing that guy you met at the park. I wonder if Stan is connected to him.”

  “He hasn’t given me any names,” he said.

  “But I can’t imagine there are two separate gay blackmail operations going on at the same time. Stan has got to be connected to Mr. Hu somehow. I’m trying to crack this other case, and you can help.”

  “Me?” Gunter said, and his voice almost squeaked.

  I looked at him. Gunter is tall, and though he’s skinny, he’s quite muscular. I’ve never seen him be afraid of anything—not even a couple of drunk frat boys who were calling guys names outside the Rod and Reel Club one night.

  “It’s the only way,” I said. “Unless you just want to give up without a fight—quit your job and go find another one.”

  He took a swig of his beer. “What if Stan finds out?”

  “The worst he can do is fire you.”

  “You haven’t seen his temper. We had this Filipino maintenance guy at the Regent, and one day Stan was doing an inspection and he didn’t think the guy had done a good job cleaning. He knocked him out.”

  “Wow. And nobody reported him?”

  “Reported him? The Flip was probably illegal. He left and never came back.”

  “All the more reason to take Stan down, Gunter.”

  “Will you watch my back?”

  “I’ll talk to my boss in the morning.”

  He drained the rest of the beer. “I’m going home,” he said.

  I raised an eyebrow. “Alone? Your bed will seem awfully empty.”

  “I do sleep alone on occasion. When I find there’s nobody around who interests me.”

  He stared at me for a moment and then swept regally toward the door, like Bette Davis in full flight. Unfortunately he stumbled over one of my rollerblades, which spoiled the effect.

  I was just starting to enjoy having an empty apartment when my doorbell rang again. It was nearly nine o’clock, and I wondered who it could be. Fouad? Mike? Gunter?

  Through the peephole, though, I saw Haoa and Tatiana. “I’m going to kill him,” my sister-in-law said, when I opened the door. “Either that or ship him back to Alaska.”

  “Come on in.” I embraced them both. “Hey, brah,” I said to Haoa.

  “She insisted we come right over,” he said. “After dinner we went to the office and she looked through the paperwork.”

  “I cannot believe my brother is such a fuckup. The files are mess. And I left everything in perfect condition for him.”

  “So you’re saying that he hasn’t been checking for working papers?”

  “He’s been smart about it,” Haoa said. Tatiana glared at him, but he said, “It’s true. He’s messed up the files so much you can’t tell at first glance what’s going on. If Tatiana hadn’t known what was supposed to be there, it might have taken us a couple of days to figure out what he was hiding.”

  “What do you want to do?” I asked Tatiana. “You want to talk to Sergei first? Send him back to Alaska?”

  “I think the only thing that’s going to wake my brother up is a stint in jail.”

  “Knowing Sergei, he’ll have some new racket set up inside,” Haoa said. Tatiana kicked him. “Hey, he’s your brother. Kick him, not me.”

  “I’ll call my guy in Immigration tomorrow,” I said. “See what he says we should do.”

  Haoa and Tatiana left a few minutes later, still squabbling, but I knew it would take more than a criminal brother to break them apart. I finally was able to lie down and read for a while, a thriller about an ATF agent who gets himself in trouble by his single-minded pursuit of the truth, by a Florida cop named James O. Born. I wished I could be so focused; it seemed that there were always detours pulling me away from what I was supposed to be doing.

  MAHALO MANPOWER

  The next morning, I called Juanita Lum as soon as I got in, but Lieutenant Kee was a
t a meeting at Honolulu Hale, our city hall, and wouldn’t be back till the afternoon. I hung up as Ray walked in, looking like he’d gotten too little sleep. “We were out pretty late with Treasure last night. That girl can drink.”

  “She have anything to say?”

  “She had lots to say. About her father and her sister and what a bitch Norma Ching was. Unfortunately, nothing that was useful. And the more she drank, the more useless the information was.” He massaged his temples.

  “You okay?”

  He shrugged. “I’m not accustomed to so much booze anymore. Got a little hangover. But I’ll survive.”

  While Ray rounded up aspirin, I called Frank O’Connor at INS and made plans to meet at his office at eleven. Ray had a trial to go to for a case we’d closed a few months before, so he left to nurse his hangover at the courthouse. While I waited for the meeting, I did some more online research, this time on illegal immigration.

  There were two different terms: smuggling and trafficking. A smuggled migrant is one who goes voluntarily, in exchange for payment. It might be as simple as hiring someone to drive you across a border. It might be more elaborate, as in the cases of men who brought in boatloads of Haitian refugees. In general, though, the relationship between the migrant and the smuggler ended upon arrival in the United States.

  The smuggled migrants were often dumped somewhere—off the coast of Florida, for example, and left to make their way by swimming or wading through shallow water. In other cases, the migrants arrived with the names and phone numbers of relatives, and disappeared into the immigrant underworld.

  A migrant who was trafficked was often lured by false promises or misled about immigration policies. They could also be driven by fear of violence, as from Haiti, or economic despair, as appeared to be endemic in Gansu Province.

  These individuals were bound to their transporter in many ways—through fear, economics, or lack of knowledge. They were much like slaves, in that they had no way to leave their situations, and often all the money they earned went to pay back their transporters or reimburse their employers for living expenses.

  It sounded like the Chinese workers at the acupuncture clinic had been trafficked. When I met up with Frank O’Connor, he agreed with that idea. “You have something new?” he asked. “I’m working on the information you gave me—but it was only yesterday, after all.”