Joseph was surprised at how quickly he became aroused. Once he tasted her tongue as it slid into his mouth—sharp with the citrusy bite, hint of summer melons, ripe apricots, and a slight mineral aftertaste—he felt his body jolt awake. His toes curled in his flip-flops as she lifted one of her legs and gently slid it up and down his torso.
Joseph kissed her ears, running his tongue along the outside of them, and then began to suck on her neck, gently. He felt her head drop back as she relaxed, letting the sensations take over her body. The red pen fell to the floor in a hail of graded papers.
Joseph slid his hand up her torso and down the front of her dress, brushing her nipples with his fingers. Hannah began moaning and wrapped one of her legs around him, pulling him toward her. Their kissing intensified, as if neither one of them wanted to breathe air, hungrily sucking and slurping, feasting on each other’s mouths.
Joseph felt her hands grapple briefly with his pants and then his cock was free, throbbing with an intensity and sense of purpose that he hadn’t felt in a long time.
As Hannah stroked his cock, he moved his hand down her perfectly smooth inner thighs until he reached her crotch. He had expected to find a pair of her signature thong panties, but instead a slightly furry, very warm and wet vagina greeted him. He spread her labia lips with his fingers and gently inserted his thumb into her. Hannah moaned and tugged on his cock, pulling it toward her.
He lifted her from the chair, easing them both down onto the floor. She straddled him, spreading her legs wide, her knees skidding on the linoleum, and slowly slid down until she had him all the way inside her.
As they moaned and pushed and thrust against each other, a few facts became clear to Joseph. He was having sex with a woman, which meant he was probably not gay, and the opakapaka was burning.
Eleven
The air conditioning at the Steak House was blasting, icy cold and scented with the aroma of fire, butter, and burning animal flesh. Just smelling it restored your faith in civilization.
Jack hobbled behind the hostess as fast as he could. Through the maze of tables and chairs, his walker legs catching on the plush carpet, his body lurching left, then right, juking like Emmitt-fucking-Smith to avoid busboys and waiters and platters of sizzling meat, as if the restaurant had been designed as his own personal obstacle course. The hostess zoomed ahead of him, not even looking back to see how he was doing. Didn’t these people realize you could only move so fast with a walker?
The hostess had offered him a booth near the front door, but Jack had turned it down. Partly out of pride—he didn’t mind walking to the back of the restaurant, he just couldn’t sprint there—and partly because he was meeting someone and didn’t want anyone to overhear his conversation.
The hostess was standing by a table, patiently waiting for him to creak and clomp and eventually shuffle over and park his butt in the booth. He noticed her glancing at her watch and lightly tapping one of her feet. It made him want to slow down. What does she think this is, an Olympic-fucking-time trial?
After he lurched himself over and settled in, she dropped the menus, spun on her heel, and walked off. Jack glared at her as she zipped back to her hostess station. Her officiousness and energy, the way she buzzed around the place, probably caught the eye of her boss and earned her praise. She was probably the employee-of-the-fucking-month. But she annoyed Jack. She was the kind of woman he disliked intensely. All the hustle, the hurry-up, the bustle, the drive. Where did she have to get to? What was so important she couldn’t wait a minute? Sure she was cute, but in a bony, blond, hurry-up-and-come-I’ve-got-a-hair-appointment kind of way. Women like that might rule the world someday, but Jack would take a voluptuous redhead with a hangover any day of the week.
Jack sank back in the booth and let the frosty breeze cool him down. A Mexican man with a thick mustache brought him a glass of ice water; he took a sip and began to feel better.
Jack saw Paul Rossi enter the restaurant, take off his sunglasses, and wait for his eyes to adjust before he finally recognized Jack and headed toward him. Jack watched him walk. He didn’t waddle or lurch like most of the union guys; he had no hitch in his get-along; he moved with an athlete’s slow and confident gait. That’s because he wasn’t like the other guys; he wasn’t an old-school Teamster. Paul Rossi was one of the new breed of union leaders. Despite the apparent ethnicity of his name, he was actually a blue-eyed, blond-haired executive with an MBA from Pepperdine. Paul had surfed as much as studied when he was in college, and he retained that sun-blasted, wind-whipped, casual appearance even now, as head of the Teamsters local in Las Vegas.
Paul slid into the booth with Jack and flashed his bleached white teeth in the approximation of a smile.
“Jack.”
Jack looked across at Paul and rose up a little to shake his hand. He didn’t understand how the AFL-CIO brain trust could put this wonder boy with his jeans, pink polo shirts, and slip-on loafers in charge of Las Vegas. But then, Jack was a traditionalist. He’d been close to Paul’s predecessor, a huge man named George Noriega who died of a massive coronary about six months ago. Jack and George went way back, and if he were alive George would be the man Jack would entrust with his dilemma. Instead, he had to turn to the young buck from Malibu.
“Paul. How’s it goin’?”
“The membership’s working. As long as my guys are collecting a paycheck, life is good.”
“Yeah. Work is good.”
The waitress arrived. “Ready to order?”
Jack looked over at Paul. “What’re you gonna have?”
Paul flashed his gleaming teeth at the waitress. “Just some iced tea.” He turned to Jack, apologetic. “I already ate.”
Jack nodded. “Well, I’m starving. Give me the New York, medium rare, baked potato with everything, ranch dressing on the salad, and a bottle of Bud.”
Paul looked at Jack. “Watching your cholesterol, I see.”
Jack shrugged. “I been eating fucking mahi-mahi for a week, I need something real.”
“Hawaii’s beautiful.”
“If you like scenery and uncooked fish.”
The iced tea and beer arrived, and both men took sips before returning to their conversation.
“How’s that going? Hawaii and all?”
Jack shook his head. “Not so good. That’s why I wanted to talk to you. I’m hoping maybe you can help.”
Paul nodded, squeezing the lemon section into his tea. “What can I do for you?”
“Well, there’s another company there and—well, I don’t know how else to say it, but they threatened me.”
“Threatened you?”
“Yeah.”
“How?”
“Gave me the old get-out-of-town-by-sundown speech.”
Paul nodded. “Some things never change.”
“I was hoping that with my relationship with the union and all. . . you might be able to do something.”
Paul blinked. “How can I help?”
Christ, this guy was clueless. George Noriega would already be on his cell phone putting the fix in. Jack reminded himself to be patient. He didn’t want to say anything that could be held against him later in a court of law, or whatever it is they’re always saying on TV.
“I don’t know. Maybe talk to the guys at the office over there.”
“Sure. I could put in a call. I don’t know what good it’ll do, but I’m happy to try.”
“I’d make a donation.”
Paul shook his head. “That’s not necessary.”
This was news to Jack. How many times had he been asked to make donations or keep phantom workers on his books? Lots. And now it’s not necessary?
“It’s no big deal.”
“Look, Jack, I’ll level with you. Things are different now. Really. The union is being run like a business. We’re trying to develop what they call a corporate culture. I’m afraid I’m not going to have much influence over the local in Hawaii.”
Jack felt the ange
r rising in him. He tried to push it back, but the more he resisted the more pressure he felt. “He threatened my life.”
Jack almost gagged as the words came out of his mouth. It sounded like he was whining and he hated himself for that. Paul was taken aback. “What?”
“He said he’d kill me if we didn’t leave.”
Paul’s expression changed. “Did you go to the police?”
“And say what, I’m a punk-ass bitch? I don’t have any proof. It’s his word against mine, and he’s local.”
“It sounds serious.”
Jack lost his temper. He almost shouted. “You better believe it’s serious.”
Jack tried to drink some beer and calm down, but he ended up choking and coughing and spluttering foam all over his shirt. When he finally caught his breath he turned to Paul.
“I’m embarrassed, okay? Some island cocksucker tries to shove me out. It’s embarrassing.”
Paul nodded.
“I got a lotta dough tied up in this. Even mortgaged my house.”
Paul looked away and finished his iced tea. It was instantly refilled. After a long pause, he turned to Jack and spoke in his most comforting voice.
“There’s nothing the union can do, okay?”
Jack was humiliated. Here he was whining like a baby to some sprout who didn’t know the first thing about who he was or what he’d done. He’d bared his soul, put his cards on the table, and all he got was turned down.
“But. . .”
Paul interrupted him.
“I know you’ve done a lot to help us. Believe me, George Noriega told me all about you.”
Jack nodded. “George would know what to do.”
Paul took out a piece of paper and wrote seven digits on it. He slid the paper across the table to Jack. “This guy’s a problem solver.”
Jack looked at the numbers and then looked at Paul. Maybe he’d underestimated him.
“Thanks.”
“Enjoy your steak.” Paul stood and left without shaking Jack’s hand.
...
After he’d put out the fire, thrown the burned fish in the sink, and got the smoke alarms to stop their ear-bleeding beeping, they’d moved to the bedroom. They lay curled together, the sheets whipped around them in a crazy twist. Hannah studied his face, trying to figure out what he was thinking.
“I’m sorry about the fish.”
Hannah smiled. “I’m not. That was the best bad meal I ever had.”
Joseph laughed. “Yeah? You liked it?”
“You should cook like that more often.”
Hannah sat up in bed, her breasts bobbing and settling as she leaned against the headboard and turned to him.
“Joseph? Are you all right?”
“I’m fine.”
“It seemed like you had something to prove.”
Joseph stretched, raising his arms over his head and flexing his legs to reach out as far as he could, and released with a sigh.
“I’ve just had a lot on my mind lately.”
“You really want to go to New York.”
It wasn’t a question. Joseph started to make some noise but she cut him off.
“I understand. If I were you I might feel the same way.”
Hannah stood up and pulled on a T-shirt before grabbing her hair and yanking it back into a sloppy ponytail.
“I have to finish grading those papers.”
Joseph sat up and grabbed her, pulling her back into his arms. He held her for a long moment, feeling her warmth, enjoying her smell, letting her imprint on his body. He kissed her neck.
“I have to run over to Sid’s. I could pick up a pizza.”
...
Driving to his uncle’s house gave Joseph time to think about Francis’s offer. It would be easy just to say yes, spend a couple of hours being uncomfortable, and then it’d be over. Kind of like going to the dentist. But it wasn’t that simple for Joseph. The who, what, why, where, and how of sex were defining qualities. Sex was the one thing Joseph had, that anyone has, that was uniquely his. Sex can be a simple pleasure, consumed and enjoyed and forgotten like a vanilla ice-cream cone, or it can be a conduit for love, passion, and desire. It could be all those things together. But it was his choice, to share or not to share.
As he drove, Joseph suddenly realized a fundamental truth. Everything comes down to sex. Everything. The need to stick it in is the mover, the shaker, and the prime motivator driving humankind. It is the center of human endeavor, the beating heart of history. Even the drive and desire for money, prestige, and power were just ways for ugly guys to get beautiful willing partners. You make enough money, you can purchase sex, an intimate act reduced to a commercial transaction. And how many times had he heard the cliché, Power is an aphrodisiac?
It was an epiphany. He realized that the history of mankind, all the great and stupid wars—the Trojan War an obvious example—all the scientific discoveries and inventions, everything from the cure for smallpox to the pocket fisherman and Swiss Army knife; all the books, poems, and plays ever written; all the songs ever sung, the art ever made; everything ever done by any human anywhere: It was all for one deep overpowering reason.
To get laid.
It’s not a strange concept. It makes sense. We are animals. We are, at our essence, biological. And the biological urge is to reproduce. Propagate. Keep the species from going the way of the dodo.
Joseph thought about the history of Hawaii. In the early days, tribal conflict was simple and clear-cut: kill the men, take the women, stick it in. Then the Europeans arrived, but did things really change? Did Captain Cook come to these islands in search of spices and gold or to get off with some dark-skinned honeys? Did Columbus leave Spain searching for a quicker route to India, or was it just a kind of Old World booty call?
The more Joseph thought about Francis’s offer, the angrier he became. He didn’t want to be bought. He didn’t want to be subjugated. He didn’t want to personify the history of Hawaii and let some conquering white man plant his pole in him. No fucking way. That’s how we got like this.
It was dark when he arrived at his uncle’s house. Joseph let himself in through the screen door on the back porch. He heard the television murmuring from the family room, saw a light on in the kitchen.
“Uncle?”
“In here.”
Joseph followed the sound of his uncle’s voice, through the kitchen and into the family room. Sid was sitting on the couch, a handgun resting on his lap. He was watching figure skating on the TV.
“What’re you doing?”
“Watchin’ TV.”
“Ice skating?”
“I like it.” Sid pointed to a young man in a pirate costume doing some kind of elaborate spinning moves in the air. “Triple toe loop.”
Joseph watched as the young man landed smoothly on the ice and then began to do some kind of crazy tap dance steps to Dixieland music. Sid was delighted.
“He Russian. Dey got all da good ones in Russia.”
Joseph sat down on the couch next to Sid. “I talked to the producer.”
Sid arched an eyebrow. “Wot he say?”
“He’s willing to hire us.”
Sid turned to Joseph. He was beaming. “Yeah?”
“He wants me to have sex with him.”
Sid sat back, thinking. He turned and gave Joseph a searching look. “He say dat den?”
Joseph nodded. “Yeah.”
“Wot you say den?”
“I said I’d think about it.”
“Wot’s to think about?”
Joseph shrugged. “I don’t know. I didn’t want to say no right away. I thought I’d go back and talk to him some more.”
“You should fuck ’im.”
Joseph looked at his uncle. His jaw dropped. “I’m sorry. What?”
“Fuck ’im. Give ’im wot he want. It would be good for da family.”
“But Uncle, I’m not gay.”
“I’m not Italian, I eat pizza.”
“Uncle Sid. I don’t want to have sex with him.”
“Lot of people gotta do wot dey don’ wanna do. Fact of life.”
“This is different.”
“I’m not Jewish, I like bagels.”
“It’s not the same thing.”
Sid shrugged. “Wot’s so different den? Still two people wit’ dey clothes off goin’ at it.”
Joseph had heard enough. “I gotta go.” He stood up to leave.
“Rent some gay porn. You see. Not dat different.”
Joseph turned to his uncle. “I thought you’d be outraged.”
Sid looked at Joseph. “I’m a businessman. Seem like a good deal to me.”
...
Lono sat at a table eating a plate of zaru soba, scooping up the cold buckwheat noodles with his chopsticks, dunking them in sauce, and slurping them down as he kept one eye on the door, casually watching the customers, mostly Japanese tourists hungry for a taste of home, as they entered. It was the same quaint restaurant, kind of like a rustic country lodge in Japan, that he’d recommended to the woman he was looking for. The food was good. The location, on a quiet side street between Kalakaua and Kuhio avenues, was prime for anyone staying at one of the big hotels in Waikiki who wanted to get away from the tourist glitz and catch a little peace and udon.
He’d been coming here about the same time for the past couple of days, hoping to bump into her. Lono knew it was a long shot—for all he knew she’d gone back home or moved on—but he also understood that people are creatures of habit; when they find something or someplace they like, they return again and again. If she were still in Honolulu, she’d eventually make it back to this restaurant. She was the type.
He was on his second cup of hot green tea when he finally realized that she’d been sitting at the bar for almost half an hour. When she entered, Lono had thought it was a teenage boy from Tokyo. But when he heard her ask the waitress for extra tofu, he recognized her voice. She looked fantastic, even better than he’d imagined. She had, for whatever reason, taken his advice and changed her appearance completely.
But while Lono the pimp might’ve dressed her in a more urban style, a clean white tracksuit from Adidas and a Sacramento Kings jersey, he had to admit that her new look was very good. Very sexy. Like some androgynous Brazilian skate-boarder hipster. New York street-cool but with a kind of Rio de Janeiro samba style. If he had been attracted to her before when she was all mousy and New Agey, now he could hardly look away.
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