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by Mark Haskell Smith


  But something troubled him. He had thought she was out of the game, yet here she was, a few blocks from the prowl, dressing the way he’d suggested.

  Lono resisted the urge to approach her. Instead he decided to be smart. He’d follow her, see what her sport was, and then make his move.

  Lono signaled for the check, slapped some cash on the table, and slipped out the door.

  ...

  Jack had called the number Paul Rossi had given him. He’d been surprised when a woman answered the phone. At first he thought he’d dialed it wrong, but she asked him what he wanted and he said, “I have a problem.” She told him she didn’t know what he meant, but if he went to the Paris Hotel on the Strip and played the third slot machine from the end in the last row of slot machines on the southwest side of the casino between ten and eleven, someone might talk to him about his problem.

  So here he was. Jack plugged another quarter into the slot and punched the button. He watched the wheels spin around and around, annoyed with himself for even caring if he won or lost. He checked his watch. He’d been there fifty minutes already and figured he’d won five or six bucks. But he was getting aggravated. He wasn’t used to waiting around for people.

  “Bonsoir. Would you like another beer, monsieur?”

  Jack turned and saw a cocktail waitress, a full-figured Latina with a thick Sinaloan accent, bending over him, dressed like a French maid. Ordinarily her deep cleavage and full round ass would’ve given him pause and on a normal night he might even flirt with her, try to get in her pants. But not tonight.

  “Sure.”

  She handed him a fresh beer off the tray she was carrying. Jack pulled a crumpled wad of cash out of his pants pocket and dropped a well-worn five on her tray.

  “Merci.”

  Jack didn’t even watch her as she walked away. Instead he turned back to the stupid slot machine, something called Moolah Galaxy, and plugged in another quarter.

  He played a few more times and then checked his watch. It was eleven, straight up. Jack sat there. He was tired of playing the slots and sick of waiting. He wondered if Paul Rossi was just fucking with him. He didn’t know what was going on, but he knew one thing. Fuck this. He was out of here.

  Jack grabbed his walker and started to hoist himself up to standing.

  “You giving up?”

  Jack turned and saw a serious-looking young man standing behind him.

  “Yeah. I’m played out.”

  “The next one is the winner. That’s the way it works. You pump the machine for hours and then you give up. The next guy comes and bam, first time he’s got the jackpot.”

  Jack studied the man for some kind of clue. He was obviously powerfully built, with the thick muscles of a boxer and the square jaw of a marine; he had a kind of nondescript sandy brown hair and pale blue eyes. But he wasn’t dressed like a hitman, at least not Jack’s idea of a hitman. The man was wearing faded blue jeans and some kind of simple gray pullover sweater. Hired killers don’t wear sweaters.

  “Be my guest.”

  Without saying a word the man leaned over, dropped a quarter in, and hit the button. They both watched as he hit three cherries and the machine began regurgitating coins at an alarming rate.

  “Heard you have a problem.”

  ...

  Hannah sat on the bed trying to finish grading her students’ papers before Joseph came back with the pizza. Her stomach had been growling for about an hour and the handful of stale peanuts she found languishing in the back of a cupboard hadn’t done much to quiet it down. She stuffed a piece of gum into her mouth and turned her attention back to her work.

  As part of their requirements for accreditation, her students had been asked to write an essay in English. Each paper offered up a different set of challenges. The kids had, to say the least, their own unique understanding of grammar and sentence structure. But unlike most of her colleagues, she didn’t take off points when some of her more creative students dropped a few words of pidgin in their essays and reports. Why shouldn’t they? It was the language they spoke at home and on the streets. It was what they grew up with. It was what she grew up with too. It was authentic Hawaiian flavor. She wasn’t going to punish the kids for that. She wasn’t going to tell them it was bad grammar. As far as she was concerned, it wasn’t. Why were people always trying to squash the uniqueness out of Hawaiian life? Why try to make it bland and homogeneous like the mainland? It’s not Disneyland with pineapples.

  It amused her that Joseph refused to speak much pidgin. He’d use some words, like pau, when he was finished eating. But he never spoke in the slangy patois of his uncle. Perhaps he was too well read. Or maybe he was embarrassed to be so Hawaiian. Maybe that’s why he wanted to leave.

  Hannah was still trying to wrap her brain around that. They both had nice places to live, and if they pooled their resources they could have an even nicer place. They had good jobs. They had the weather, the beach, their friends and family. They had each other. Now Joseph wanted to give all that up.

  Most people work their whole lives in boring jobs to make enough money to move to Hawaii and spend their golden years chilling out in the tropics. Here they were, already a big step ahead, and what does Joseph want to do? Go to the mainland and work his ass off. She wondered if he knew how cold it got in New York. How crowded and expensive and stinky it was.

  She wondered if she could be happy without him.

  He entered the bedroom carrying the pizza one-handed, doing a bad imitation of the little Italian guy printed in red on the takeout box. Hannah was hungry, so it took her a minute to notice that Joseph wasn’t wearing any clothes. He’d somehow managed to undress between the front door and the bedroom while still balancing a large sausage-and-pepper pizza with one hand.

  He stood there, like a waiter in a nudist colony, a fullblown erection saluting her. Hannah burst out laughing.

  “What are you doing?”

  Joseph smiled. “You ordered sausage.”

  And with that he tossed the pizza on the bed and dove on top of her. He pulled her legs up in the air and plunged into her as she giggled. Hannah tossed her head back and groaned as Joseph began thrusting. She threw her arms around his shoulders, feeling his strong muscles flexing, and sucked on his neck. She began to twist his nipples. He moaned.

  “You’re gonna make me come.”

  Hannah smiled. “I don’t want the pizza to get cold.”

  ...

  Francis sat on his hotel bed and looked at his cock. It was still mighty erect, hard and throbbing, ready for action. Only before it had been pink and healthy as a newborn with a perfect Apgar score, and now it had developed a slightly bluish tinge around the edges. Francis was worried. Sure, some of it could be wear and tear; he’d abused his penis like a madman ever since he arrived. But it was also unsettling, like wrapping a rubber band around your thumb and leaving it on for too long. It was turning that kind of blue.

  Tomorrow would be two days since he’d popped the Viagra cocktail, and his dick was showing no sign of taking a rest. Francis, on the other hand, was exhausted; the constant boner had become more of an albatross than a joy. He needed to rest and hoped that if he took the night off, had a quiet meal and a hot bath, laid off the booze and speed, it might help his cock deflate.

  The hotel room had its own Jacuzzi tub in the bathroom and he’d spent the last half hour soaking in it, letting the steaming water and bubbling jets unwind his speed-freaked muscles. It worked, too. He felt all the chemical tension and fatigue begin to melt away. But the Jacuzzi hadn’t had much effect on his cock. It stood out of the water like a buoy bobbing in the harbor.

  Periscope up!

  After the bath, Francis sat in his terry-cloth robe and calmly ate a green salad and grilled skinless chicken breast while he watched an old movie, a clumsy drama about some straight guy who falls in love with a woman who doesn’t believe in love because she’s a successful something-or-other. He drank Evian. He was being good.
<
br />   Then the phone rang.

  “I figured you’d be sitting alone in front of the TV eating room service, so I thought I’d call.”

  It was Chad.

  “Good timing. I was just getting ready to go out.”

  “Isn’t it past your bedtime?”

  “This is paradise. Who has time to sleep?”

  “Really?”

  Chad sounded skeptical. Frances tried to sound blasé.

  “Really.”

  “Maybe I should come over and you could show me a good time.”

  Francis looked at his cock. He really wished it would go down. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  “Why not?”

  “You know, I’m working all day. You’d be bored.”

  “I could hang out by the pool.”

  And fuck everyone who came within a ten-foot radius.

  “I’ll think about it.”

  “You’re still mad at me.”

  “Yeah, Chad, I am.”

  “I said I was sorry.”

  Francis didn’t say anything. He looked at the movie playing on the TV and saw the two leads throw their arms around each other in what looked like the Delta Airlines terminal at LAX.

  “I am sorry.”

  “I’m sure you are.”

  “I’m trying to change.”

  “Don’t do it on my account.”

  Francis was agitated. Whatever vestige of relaxation he’d had was shot. He opened the drawer by his bed and pulled out the little plastic Baggie of crystal meth. He dumped some on the table.

  “Goddammit, Francis, cut me a break here.”

  “I’m tired of the lies, Chad. I’m sick to death of them.”

  Francis hated himself for being so melodramatic, for sounding like a fucking soap opera. He bent over, stuck a rolled-up bill in his nose, and hoovered up a line of speed. Chad didn’t say anything.

  “I’ve got to go.”

  Francis started to hang up the phone. But he could hear Chad trying to say something before he did. It sounded like he was apologizing. Apologizing for the ten thousandth time.

  ...

  Lono walked slowly down the street. He stopped casually and window-shopped. Sometimes he’d nod a quick greeting to one of the streetwalkers cruising for tourists. He kept one eye fixed on the young woman across the street. He could tell by her stride that she wasn’t cruising. She was on her way somewhere. So Lono played it cool and kept his distance.

  He followed her through the Kuhio Mall and the International Market. He waited as she stopped and looked at tie-dyed sarongs at one kiosk, handmade raffia beach bags at another. Lono had never liked the International Market. It was like a low-rent Disneyland: no rides or attractions, just a place for tourists to come and buy earrings made out of coconut shells, T-shirts with stupid slogans like I GOT LEI’D IN HONOLULU, or plastic trinkets with the word ALOHA imprinted on them. Little souvenirs of Hawaii made in China and Malaysia. He was glad to see she didn’t buy anything.

  She crossed Kalakaua Avenue and headed down the drive toward the Royal Hawaiian Hotel. This was where Lono had to close the gap between them. He had to see if she was a guest of the hotel or if she was a working girl on her way to meet a client. It was dark on the grounds of the hotel, tiki torches lighting the path at night, and he was able to get within about ten feet of her.

  He was relieved to see her take a room key out of her pocket and go directly to the elevator. She nodded at the doorman as she passed.

  Lono stopped. He didn’t need to follow her anymore. In a few minutes he’d learn everything he needed to know about her from the front desk.

  ...

  Yuki got into the elevator and waited for the doors to close. A sharp tingle, a kind of heebie-jeebie feeling, crept up her spine and gave her a delicate spasm. She thought her aura must’ve picked up someone else’s energy and that energy had bounced from chakra to chakra up her spine like a pinball until it hit the top lotus in her third eye and sent it pinging. Someone was watching her, sending her sexual energy. It felt good.

  When the elevator doors opened on her floor, Yuki saw Francis standing there. She could tell right away that he was amped up on something. He was tapping his feet and chewing on the skin around his thumbnail.

  “Going out?”

  Francis stopped chewing his nail and looked at her.

  “Yeah.” He started to get into the elevator but suddenly stopped, holding the door with his hand. “Say, would you like to join me for a drink?”

  “I don’t drink alcohol.”

  “How sensible.” He made that sound like a put-down.

  “Not very often anyway.”

  “Have you tried a mai tai? They make really good ones downstairs. And they have nice music.”

  Yuki was going to decline his offer. She wanted to go to her room and get into bed. She wanted privacy so she could relish the residual effects of whatever had happened to her. But then she remembered her promise to herself. She’d promised to help Francis get over his negativity. It was supposed to be her mission.

  “Okay. But just one.”

  Francis grinned at her as he ground his teeth. “You won’t be disappointed. They’re yummy.”

  ...

  The hitman’s name was Keith. He’d been with the 31st Marine Expeditionary Unit and was well trained in urban assault, sabotage, infiltration, extraction, and assassination, an education provided by the government, his tuition paid by the taxpayers. He had learned the art of the kill, spent time in Afghanistan perfecting it, and gone on to relish it during black ops in the Philippines and Colombia. Now discharged, he was offering his services, the only thing he knew how to do, to the general public.

  He gave Jack the creeps.

  Keith had wanted to talk in a more private location, so now he and Jack stood in front of the Bellagio, watching the water fountains boom and swing through the air, as patriotic music blared from loudspeakers.

  “Do you want to know why?”

  “Just the target’s name and location.”

  “He’s Samoan. Last name’s Tanumafili—something like that.”

  “I’ll need you to be precise.”

  Jack reached for his wallet and pulled out one of Sid’s business cards. “Here.”

  Keith looked at the card and then handed it back to Jack. “You can keep it, I don’t need it.”

  Jack nodded. He didn’t know why Keith couldn’t keep it, but he wasn’t about to argue with him.

  “Honolulu?”

  “Yes.”

  Keith nodded. He turned and watched as the fountain sent multiple sprays up in the air, the water swaying and dancing like a giant octopus in an animated musical.

  “It’s amazing.”

  Jack looked at the professional killer. “What is?”

  Keith pointed to the fountain. “That. I don’t know how they do it.”

  Keith’s eyes glistened in the light as he watched the fountain perform its water ballet to Aaron Copland’s Appalachian Spring.

  Jack shook his head. He didn’t give a flying fuck about the Bellagio’s water fountain. He wanted to get back to business: find out how much this was going to cost him, when it would happen, how it would go down. He had questions. He needed answers. But Keith didn’t even look at him; he watched the fountain like a little boy watching the trapeze act at Barnum and Bailey’s.

  Jack sat on a bench and turned his attention to the tourists walking by. They were couples mostly, men and women out for a fun time in Las Vegas. They were going to see a show, maybe something with an avant-garde circus act from Budapest and contortionists from Bangkok or a spectacular where effeminate magicians risked their leather-clad asses teasing tigers through flaming hoops. Some of them were on their way to see saggy-boobed showgirls in campy productions that only a drag queen could love. If they weren’t going to any show, they were getting plastered and emptying their wallets in the casinos. Las Vegas. You gotta love it.

  Jack noticed a middle-aged
man sitting in a car near them. He didn’t look like a tourist. Jack studied him. He looked like a cop. Jack sat up straighter. He turned and looked at Keith, but Keith wasn’t paying any attention; he was mesmerized by the dancing fountain.

  It suddenly occurred to Jack that this could be a setup. What if Keith was an undercover cop? What if Paul Rossi had betrayed him? Jack began to regret the whole thing.

  “Maybe we should just forget it.”

  That got Keith’s attention. “It’s almost over.”

  “I’m just having second thoughts.”

  The fountain display ended with a booming crescendo of sound, lights, and spray.

  Keith turned his attention to Jack. “Did you ever see anything like that?”

  Jack shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

  Keith looked at the now dark and quiet pond in awe. “Amazing. Really amazing.”

  “Yeah, it’s real nice.”

  Jack watched as the man sitting in the car opened his passenger door and a young woman, still in her dealer’s costume, jumped in. The man started the car and then merged with traffic, driving off down the street. Jack turned back to Keith.

  “How much is this gonna cost?”

  “Twenty grand.”

  “Twenty?” For some reason that seemed like a lot of money to have a fat Samoan killed.

  “I can’t take my guns on the plane. Have to work by hand. Price goes up.”

  Jack nodded. It made sense. “Okay.”

  Keith smiled. “We have a deal?”

  Jack nodded and extended his hand. “We got a deal.”

  The two men shook hands.

  “You’ll get a call about where to wire the money.”

  Jack dragged his walker over and clambered to his feet. “Thanks.”

  He began walking away. Keith grabbed his shoulder. The killer’s touch sent an icy shiver through Jack’s body.

  “Don’t you want to stay for the next show?”

 

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