“Look at us! This is totally fuckin’ cool, man.”
Reggie nodded in agreement and flashed a thumbs-up. “Can we take the top down later?”
...
Jack wanted to make a show of it. He wanted to cover his ass. He’d done it this way before in Vegas. You plan to have someone bumped off, you’d better make it look like you didn’t have a motive or else the cops would be crawling up your rectum with ten thousand different kinds of questions. So Jack was preparing to make a public attempt at reconciliation that would put to rest any suspicions when Sid’s bullet-ridden carcass was discovered floating in the harbor.
Stanley drove him the two miles to Sid’s warehouse. It only took about an hour. Jack made Stanley wait in the car. The last thing he wanted was for his namby-pamby offspring to go in there and start sucking up to the Sumo and his friends.
Jack shouldered the door open, jammed his walker into the gap, and entered the warehouse. It was surprisingly clean inside, not at all like the grimy cinder-block bacterial holding area they used to store their trucks and equipment in Nevada. But then maybe Honolulu health inspectors didn’t accept bribes. Maybe they didn’t have kids going to Dartmouth like the guy in Las Vegas.
He found Sid sitting on a chair drinking coffee from a Styrofoam cup with Joe and Ed from the Teamsters union. Sid was wearing a gigantic faded T-shirt commemorating some kind of surf contest, a pair of shorts that looked like they used to belong to a rhinoceros, and some well-worn flip-flops. Ed, the guy who looked like Oddjob from Goldfinger, was wearing baggy shorts with a floral pattern and a tank top with the word SEKIYA’S written across it in script with a picture of a Japanese fan. On his grimy feet he had what looked like those shower shoes they give you at the health club so you don’t get athlete’s foot. Joe was equally outfitted, but with a Hawaiian shirt dotted with tiki mugs.
It was one thing about Hawaii that Jack didn’t understand. How do these guys get away with dressing like that? Even in the heat and humidity—and the heat here was nothing like Vegas—Jack dressed like a proper businessman. Not in a suit, but at least a clean shirt, bolo tie, and freshly pressed slacks. How do you expect people to take you seriously if you’re dressed like a beach bum?
Sid stood up and glowered.
“Wot fo’ you come den?”
“I think we got off on the wrong foot.”
“You gonna do wot I said?”
“You know I can’t do that. I’ve got too much money invested.”
Sid shook his head. “No can? Dat’s too bad den.”
Ed tried to lighten the mood with good news. “I hear from the mainland that there’s gonna be a lot of work coming. Enough to go around for all of us.”
Sid looked at Ed with disgust. “Wot about now den? Wot we doin’ now? Am I workin’? Am I out dere feedin’ your kine guys?”
Ed looked at the floor. “No.”
“Dat’s da problem den. Wot gonna happen when dere’s only one job fo’ two of us?”
Jack shrugged. “Lowest bid gets the job.”
Sid nodded. “I don’ wanna cut my prices. Dey too low now. You get da fuck offa my island.”
Joe took his turn at being helpful. “There’s a lot of work comin’ in. Honest. Couple network shows and a movie.”
Sid pointed to the catering trucks sitting idle in the warehouse.
“I got four trucks.”
As if that explained it all. When Jack looked at Sid, he struggled to repress his burning desire to tell this fat Samoan asshole to take a flying fuck at a rolling donut. Instead, he held up his hands in mock surrender. He turned to Ed and Joe.
“I tried. You saw me. I came here in peace. I thought maybe we could work something out.”
“We got nuttin’ to work out.”
“What are you gonna do when a third company comes over?”
“Dat ain’ nevah gonna happen.”
Jack turned to Joe and Ed with a helpless shrug. “I don’t know what more I can say.”
Jack pivoted with his walker and began to shuffle out of the warehouse. Sid called out after him.
“When you done wit’ dis job, you leave your trucks and go home. Dat way fo’ nobody get hurt den.” And then, as an afterthought, “’Cause somebody will.”
...
Joseph had spent most of the day oscillating between a kind of energized euphoria and a bloodless nagging malaise. In between the two extremes he just felt sick to his stomach.
He drove to the beach, found a place to park, and climbed out of his truck. He took some of the papaya with him and went and sat under a banyan tree. A light breeze was blowing, the swell in the ocean was building, and the surf was beginning to smack loudly into the sand and then rumble as it was being sucked back out. The tide was changing.
Not far away, the outdoor yoga class was in progress. Tourists bending and stretching in the tropical sun. For them this island was paradise, for Joseph it was a prison.
He sliced off a piece of papaya and considered his options.
Sid was wrong to fire him, no question about that. Joseph had built the business with Sid. It was half his. But Joseph knew better than to argue with his uncle about it. If he wanted to run the business on his own—well, that was his choice. Let Sid see how far he could get serving Spam sushi and cold cuts to a crew from Los Angeles, a crew that knew good food and expected it when they were working hard sixteen-hour days. Joseph knew they would have Sid’s ass in a sling before dinner.
The issue with Hannah was more complex. Joseph could see that he hadn’t done enough to make her feel special. Not just wanted, needed. But then Joseph had never been sure he needed her. He had to admit he’d taken their relationship for granted. He had lived his life the way he wanted to and she was always nearby, doing her thing, equal but separate, united but not legally, the two of them somehow staying together. Now that she was gone, all he knew for sure was that he missed her. When she took her yogurts and lip balm it left a big gaping hole in him. His life just wasn’t the same without her.
It was different. But now, for the first time, he could consider all his possibilities. He could explore what he wanted without having to worry about what Sid would think, what would happen to the business, and what Hannah would want. Now he didn’t have to think about anyone but himself.
Joseph watched as the yoga class ended. Namastes and thank yous sprang from the participants’ mouths. He watched the yoga teacher shake hands and nod to a few of the students as she rolled up her sticky mat.
Then she walked over to where Joseph was sitting. He watched her coming toward him, her body lithe and lean like some kind of gangly jungle leopard in a leotard. She had her strawberry-blond hair pulled back in a ponytail to reveal a smattering of freckles across her face and an athlete’s disdain for makeup.
“Excuse me, but aren’t you Joseph Tanumafili?”
Joseph looked up at her. “Have we met?”
The yoga instructor blushed. “I was a couple years behind you in high school.”
Joseph nodded, then held up the half papaya. “Want some fruit?”
“Thanks.”
She sat down and crossed her legs in a loose half-lotus and smiled as Joseph handed her a slice of papaya.
“I’m sorry but I don’t remember your name.”
“Tamara Collins.”
Joseph watched her as she sucked the meat off the papaya skin. Her lips were sensual and full, her face was tight and lean like a professional surfer, and she had an awkwardness to her that he found completely charming. He shook his head in dismay.
“You’d think I’d remember.”
Tamara nibbled on the papaya. “I was a freshman when you were a senior. And I was kind of a dork at the time.”
“Did we ever talk?”
“In the library. You told me Edgar Allan Poe was your favorite American writer.”
“How can you remember that?”
Tamara’s face flushed. “I had a pretty big crush on you.”
&nbs
p; Joseph was surprised. “I didn’t think anyone even noticed me.”
Tamara’s blue eyes flashed at him. “Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
She hesitated. “I mean—um, here, let me start this way. I heard that you and your girlfriend split up.”
Joseph winced a little. “Small island.”
“But it’s true?”
“It’s true.”
“So. . . you want to go out with me? You know, like for a drink or something?”
Joseph felt slightly uneasy but then reminded himself that he was a free man and could go have a drink with anyone he wanted.
“That’d be nice.”
Tamara jumped up. “How about the bar at Indigo, around seven?”
“I’ll see you there.”
He watched as she walked off, her ass so muscular and round it was almost intimidating. He was confused by his emotions. He thought he might feel sort of repulsed at himself; instead, he felt strangely relieved.
He was in this strangely relieved mood when Stanley called. Somehow, Stanley had heard that Joseph was no longer working with his uncle and he wanted a meeting.
It really was a small island.
...
Yuki had put it off as long as she could. She didn’t know what she would say. She didn’t even know how to begin to approach it. Should she file a lawsuit against Francis, the studio, and the network? Or should she just let it slide? What was the proper response to what Francis had done? What’s the protocol when your boss tries to ejaculate on you?
Francis was hurt and in the hospital and she didn’t feel bad about it. Not at all. How could she? If she was going to press charges, Lono had done that for her when he introduced Francis to a Tilt o’ Whirl of violence. It was a more reliable and effective form of justice than filing charges and allowing Francis to purchase a defense courtesy of fancy lawyers. Why should she, the victim, sit in court and have her reputation, her sexuality, dragged through the mud when it was so much more satisfying to see Francis ass-kicked and sprawled on the beach?
Yuki was fully prepared to be an annoying bitch to Francis. Walk in, get him to sign some papers, maybe give him a golden shower courtesy of his bedpan. Perhaps she would touch his penis like he’d begged her to on the beach. Only this time he wouldn’t want her to. This time she’d bring pliers.
But when she got to the hospital and saw the pathetic shape Francis was in, she remembered her vow to rid him of negative energy. Besides, her life coach had always told her to let go of negative emotions. Recognize them for what they are and then put them aside. The dharma teaches compassion, not hatred. The bodhisattva way is one of forgiveness, not revenge.
Yuki took a deep, cleansing breath and called up every last reserve of Buddha nature she had.
“Hi.”
Francis opened his eyes and looked up. He was immediately filled with shame, regret, and remorse. His face flushed red, and he couldn’t look her in the eye.
“I don’t know what to say. I’m really sorry.”
“You were pretty drunk.”
“That’s kind of you.”
Yuki could see that something was wrong. “Are you okay?”
Francis shrugged. “They don’t know.”
“Why? What happened?”
“You saw what happened.”
She nodded. “It was dark. I didn’t really see much.”
“It’s not the beating. I got two cracked ribs and my jaw still hurts. . . but that’s not it.”
Francis pulled himself up, wincing as he did.
“At the risk of going Clarence Thomas on you, let me just say that there was something wrong with the equipment in my nether regions.”
Yuki didn’t want to talk about his nether regions. She turned her attention to the bouquets in the room. “You got some nice flowers.”
Francis smiled ruefully. “They care a lot.” Then he looked her directly in the eye for the first time. “You saw who did it.”
She nodded.
“You want to tell me who?”
“No.”
Francis took that in. “Fair enough.”
Yuki pulled a file folder out of her bag.
“I’ve got some papers for you to review. And I need your signature on a couple of purchase orders.”
Francis looked at her.
“Yuki. I really appreciate the way you’ve handled this, with the studio and the network. I mean. . . I really appreciate your discretion and professionalism.”
Yuki smiled at him. It was not a friendly smile or a wicked smile. It was the expression of someone who knows she’s owed a really big favor.
“You’ll make it up to me.”
It wasn’t a question. Francis nodded. Yuki handed him the thick folder. He opened it with a sigh.
“It’s boring, isn’t it?”
“What?”
“All this stuff.”
Yuki thought about that. She remembered when she first started out wanting to be in the film business. She took classes and weekend workshops. She read books. She bought those directories with listings of agents, managers, and executives. She sent résumés and cold-called everyone she could. With her life coach giving her encouragement and daily affirmations, she persevered despite the fact that no one once bothered to acknowledge that she even existed. She kept telling herself it was what she really wanted. Her coach would remind her. “If it was easy, everyone would do it.”
And then the call came. It was her big break. She was going to be the assistant to the line producer on a big network pilot shooting on location in Hawaii. It was everything she’d ever hoped for and dreamed of.
And then she met Francis. Now she wasn’t so sure that her future lay in the glamorous world of Hollywood productions. Now she wasn’t so sure about anything. All she knew for certain was that she wanted to be with Lono, and if that meant forgoing Hollywood and becoming the girlfriend of a pimp—well, so be it.
“It’s an okay way to make a living.”
Francis sighed. He had all the energy of a condemned man waiting for the priest to come read him his last rites.
“Yeah. It’s an okay way to make a living.”
...
They had decided, for security reasons, to stay in separate hotels. The only problem was that both of them were staying in Outrigger hotels, and there were dozens of Outriggers scattered around Waikiki. It took them over an hour to find Reggie’s. Bouncing from one Outrigger to the next, always with a little Xeroxed map showing how to get to the one they were looking for, always the yellow highlighter on the paper showing them how to go around the block, where they would inevitably sit in the ridiculous crush of traffic on Kalakaua Avenue.
Baxter was annoyed with himself that he didn’t write down the full name of the hotel. They all had names like Outrigger Surf, Outrigger Village, Outrigger Reef, Outrigger Prince Somebody, Outrigger Royal Islander. Who knew there were so many Outriggers? Why name them all the same? That’s just weird.
So around and around they drove, two men dressed in black, sweating like pigs, slowly roasting in their big pink dune buggy.
They did, however, pass a sports bar across the street from the beach and agreed to meet for dinner there later that night.
Baxter pulled into the circle drive to drop Reggie off.
“This it?”
“Yeah.”
“Lotta fuckin’ Outriggers in town.”
Baxter nodded. No shit, Sherlock. Reggie climbed out of the pink Jeep and went around to collect his bag. Baxter turned to him.
“We’re cool?”
Reggie grinned. Now they were beginning to play the part. “As a cucumber.”
“Watch your back, hombre.”
“I’m going to be watchin’ the hotties on the beach.”
Baxter smiled. “Just don’t fall in love.”
And with that he drove off in search of his own Outrigger hotel. The one that looked like all the other ones and had the same fucking name.
...
Chad went down to the pool and lay out on a chaise longue. He ordered a protein shake from the waitress; he’d lost a lot of protein last night. He smeared some expensive French tanning butter on his body and adjusted his Speedo-style swimsuit that gave his crotch the illusion that he was endowed with an extremely large package. He’d ordered the swimsuit from the International Male catalog. Normally he didn’t shop from catalogs but he’d seen this Speedo, and what it had done for the model in the photo, and decided to give it a try.
Chad lay out all buttery-shiny, his crotch looking like a Shakespearean actor’s codpiece, and sipped his protein shake. He’d asked to have fresh banana in it and somehow, probably through complete incompetence, they’d chosen to ignore that fact. Still, he was feeling magnanimous, resplendent and irresistible in near-naked sun-worshipping mode, so he decided just to drink his protein shake and not sweat the small stuff.
He lifted his Persols, purchased on a shopping trip to Milan, and gazed out at his fellow sunbathers. He was looking for Keith. He’d had an exceptionally good time with the young man and wouldn’t mind an encore performance.
Chad knew he should be going to the hospital to visit Francis. But hospitals smell bad and are, let’s admit it, depressing. Still, it would’ve been the right thing to do. Chad thought about poor pathetic Francis lying in bed with his Smurf-colored cock. It made him feel guilty. He didn’t feel guilty about spending the night with the guy he picked up by the pool, but he did feel guilty about not going to the hospital. It was typical of Francis to make him feel he was not doing the right thing, like he was somehow in the wrong. It was always that way. Francis wore his martyrdom well. Chad found it very annoying.
He did feel bad that he’d hurt Francis, but it was his life. He could do whatever he wanted. Why should he deny himself experiences just because he had a boyfriend? How does that song go? If you love somebody set them free—or let them go or look like you don’t mind it when they go off and fuck somebody else? Wasn’t that what love meant? You want the person you love to live their life to the fullest. To grab the brief time we have on this planet with gusto. So what if it means fucking around? It’s not like he killed anyone. It’s not like he’s a bad guy. He loved Francis. He was here, wasn’t he?
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