Chad vowed to himself that he’d go to the hospital later that afternoon. But first he was going to ask that handsome Cuban man across the pool if he wanted to have lunch.
...
He didn’t want to go. Not really. And he knew, for certain, that he would never work for them. But he was curious. So Joseph took the elevator up to the fourth floor and walked into Jack Lucey’s office like it was the most normal thing in the world.
Stanley met him with the kind of jangly enthusiasm and fake goodwill of someone who doesn’t know if they’re about to be treated courteously or punched in the face. He offered coffee, mineral water, a soda. Joseph politely declined and let Stanley get to the point.
“We want you to come work for us.”
And that was it. Part job interview, part threat assessment. Joseph shook his head. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
Stanley nodded. It seemed like he understood. “Your ohana wouldn’t approve.”
The Hawaiian word coming out of the haole’s mouth caught Joseph off guard. “No. They wouldn’t.”
“I understand. My dad can be pretty difficult.”
“Thanks for the offer.”
“Will you consider it?”
Joseph shook his head. “Actually I’m thinking I might be leaving the islands.”
Stanley looked surprised. “I love it here. I’d never want to leave. It’s paradise on earth.”
...
“You’re a weird one.”
Joseph looked over to see his cousin standing by his truck. “What are you doing here?”
Wilson shrugged. “What they say?”
“They offered me a job.”
“Yeah?”
“I’m not going to work for them.”
“You gotta do somethin’, brah.”
Joseph looked off down the street. It was true. He had to do something. “Not with them.”
“What Hannah say?”
“She moved out.”
Wilson’s expression changed. He stared at Joseph, astonished. “She’ll be back. She loves you.”
“She wanted me to sleep with that guy.”
“You think you suck some guy’s dick dat makes you gay?”
“Doesn’t it?”
“No way, brah. That just means you got a mouthful. Being gay is a whole other thing. It’s a lifestyle.”
Joseph studied his cousin. “What do you know about it?”
Wilson laughed. “I been workin’ in da nightclubs. I know all about da gay thing and you don’t got it. You all the way straight. I think it would do you good fo’ to suck dat guy’s dick.”
“Thanks. I appreciate your opinion.”
“That’s just it. You always think you know wot’s best. You not always right, brah. You not da only one dat’s got some brain.”
Joseph didn’t know what to say. “What are you talking about?”
“Everybody treat you like you know fo’ sure wot’s right. Just ’cause you go fo’ college. You not always right, brah.”
“I never said I was.”
Wilson stood there glaring at Joseph, but since they weren’t having an argument, he didn’t know what else to say. Joseph tried to change the subject. “How’s your dad?”
“He gone.”
“What do you mean? Where’d he go?”
Wilson pointed to his head. “He walkin’ round wid a gun. Thinkin’ people are watchin’ him. He think somebody snuck into his house but real quiet, like some kine akua lapu.”
“I’ll go talk to him.”
“He stayin’ with some friend tonight. He say he got a feeling.”
“What kind of feeling?”
“A Vietnam feeling.”
...
Keith sat on the beach, watching the waves roll in and out, in and out. Sometimes they’d curl and roll to the left; sometimes they’d rise up like a wall of foamy glass and crash straight down. Sometimes they sucked up sand in big howling slurps, pulling it back out to sea. No two were ever the same. Like snowflakes, each wave seemed to have its own personality. There was the noncommittal one that couldn’t quite decide whether even to be a wave, really just a sloppy wad of ocean banging into the shore like it’d made a wrong turn at the Gulf of California. There was one that was ambitious, really putting on a show, curling up and slicing off to one side, hitting the rocks at the end of the beach and erupting into the sky like Kilauea.
Keith understood that wave. It was water, but it really wanted to be air.
He listened to them too. They growled and shouted, snapped and sang. They were all telling him to pay attention. Something’s coming. Wake up.
Keith wasn’t sure exactly where he was. He knew he was on the island of Oahu, but he’d hitched a ride with some surfers leaving Honolulu and made them drop him off when he saw this beach. It was, he realized, the perfect beach. Like a beach in a dream. Like a beach in heaven.
He’d found a little grocery store and bought several large bottles of mineral water and a handful of beef jerky. Then he popped a couple more hits of ecstasy and ambled down to the beach.
He’d been there all day. Feeling his heart pound, the blood pulsing through his body, his chest glowing with a warmth he’d never experienced before. He felt his heart expand, growing larger and stronger with each wave, absorbing the energy from the ocean until it had become the ocean. The waves had become his teachers. He just had to pay attention.
He felt the light change. The sun had shifted behind the serrated green mountains and was casting a soft peachy hue across the sky. Just offshore Keith watched as a small pod of dolphins swam in the waves. They kept circling the same area. It took Keith a little while to understand—he was not versed in the ways of dolphins—but eventually he got it. He waded out in the water, surprised at how shallow it was, until he found the spot. In the water he couldn’t see the dolphins. But he could feel them. They were close. They were protecting him.
The ocean had calmed, and he let the soft swells gently slap against him, his brain rolling with the waves. The water was warm; the air, scented by a thousand tropical plants, was just beginning to cool as twilight fell. Keith felt as if the whole universe had suddenly become unbearably delicious.
An hour later he watched the moon rise. It was a new moon, just a silver crescent hanging over the ocean, but it cast a bright blue line along the surface of the water, like a glimmering, luminous path.
Then Keith saw it: a shooting star. A vivid orange arc of searing light leaped out of the moon and fell toward a spot on the horizon. Keith roughly guessed that the spot was a few hundred miles away, 27 degrees left of moonrise.
He saw it clearly and instantly understood. He understood why the dolphins had told him to wait here. He realized what he had to do.
...
Jack was restless but he didn’t want to go out. The thought of dragging his walker through the tourists to sit outside and drink fruity drinks while some crappy band played sappy music? Fuck that. Leave that for Stanley, who was suddenly getting excited by all the exotic Polynesian tribal stuff, spending his free time way up at the Polynesian Cultural Center watching fire-eaters and hula dances. Yammering on to Jack about the history of the various tribes scattered around the Pacific, squatting on any clump of land they could find, even the ones that were active volcanoes; their various cultures and languages springing from isolation and boredom. Jack would listen to Stanley recounting the history of the Pacific Islanders and nod his head. Right. Like he cared.
Jack didn’t want to go to any cultural center. He didn’t want to go to the bar. He didn’t want to go to a luau or see a dance performance. He didn’t want to leave his room. Jack wouldn’t admit it, of course, but he was worried. Worried and nervous and a little scared. He thought the hitman might be lurking around the hotel waiting to pounce.
So Jack sat in his hotel room drinking beer, eating a cheeseburger, and trying to watch sports on TV. He was surprised to find Sumo wrestling on one channel, even more surprised th
at he had watched it for over an hour. It’s not like the remote was broken. But there was something about giant-sized men grabbing each other’s underwear and then trying to hurl each other out of a little circle. It was fascinating.
Jack even found himself rooting for the lone American in the tournament—not that the guy looked even remotely American; he looked more like a gigantic defensive lineman from Mongolia, but he was listed as an American—and Jack felt his patriotic spirit surge when the big American demolished some fierce-looking Jap.
Jack didn’t understand the salt throwing, stomping, and hand clapping. But wasn’t it kind of like baseball? The pitcher reaches down for that bag of stuff next to the mound, looks at the catcher, spits, and goes into his windup. That’s almost the same. The stomping was just part of the Sumo windup.
Jack thought about Sid. He looked like a Sumo. Jack imagined himself in the ring against him: putting his walker to the side, throwing salt over his shoulder, grappling with the behemoth. Winner takes Oahu.
...
Baxter looked at the pineapple spear garnishing his plate. This must be how you tell you’re not in Florida. In Florida they’d plonk an orange slice on the plate next to your cheeseburger. Otherwise, as far as he could tell, Hawaii was just like Florida. Nothing but beaches, chicks showing off their hooters, bars, strip clubs, and retarded-looking tourists buying crappy T-shirts and things made out of seashells.
Reggie came in from the beach. He’d taken off his black shirt and rolled his black pants up near his knees so he could wade in the water. Baxter could see the outline of where a wave had slapped Reggie in the crotch. It looked like he’d pissed himself.
“What’re you doin’, man?”
“I was at the beach.”
Baxter remembered that contract killers were excruciatingly punctual.
“You’re late.”
“I met some chicks from Kansas City.”
“Kansas or Missouri?”
“What’s it matter, man? They were ready to party.”
Baxter also remembered that contract killers were serious about the business at hand. They didn’t party with girls from Kansas City, not while they were on the job anyway. They kept a low profile. Lived in the shadows like ninjas. You didn’t see a fuckin’ bad-ass Ninja assassin smokin’ a fatty on a surfboard. You didn’t see a cool hitman buying rounds of drinks for girls at Duke’s Canoe Club. It suddenly occurred to Baxter that perhaps Lee Harvey Oswald had been a lone shooter for a reason.
“Dude, we don’t have time to party. We’re on a job.”
“I’m ready.”
“No, you’re not. Go get dressed. Put on your game face.”
Reggie looked at him, exasperated. “If we can’t have a good time, what’s the point?”
“You want to go back to Vegas?”
Reggie didn’t like the edge that had crept into Baxter’s voice. “No.”
“Then quit fucking around.”
“All right. Jesus. Don’t freak out. I’ll be right back.”
Reggie walked off to the bathroom to get dressed.
...
The first thing Yuki noticed about Lono’s apartment was the complete absence of chairs. There wasn’t a single one. Not that there was that much furniture. There wasn’t a table or a sofa either.
Yuki laughed. “Do you have kathisophobia?”
“What’s that?”
“Fear of sitting down.”
Lono smiled. “I’ve got a futon. That’s where I sit.”
He gave Yuki a brief tour. It was a lovely apartment: large and open, loft-style modern, with a new gourmet kitchen, a balcony, and big windows that looked out over downtown Honolulu and the ocean beyond. But it looked like he’d just moved in, plopped a futon on the floor, and hung his clothes in the closet. There was exactly one bowl, one plate, two coffee mugs, four glass tumblers, and seven wooden chopsticks in the kitchen cupboards and drawers.
“Don’t you have a can opener?”
Lono shrugged. “I don’t cook much.”
“I’m not talking about cooking. I’m talking about opening cans. I would at least expect a bachelor to have a microwave.”
“I’ve been meaning to get one. The thing is, I don’t spend a lot of time here.”
“I like it. You just need to move in.”
But the apartment wasn’t completely barren. There were several bookshelves filled with books, a TV set and DVD player, a small superexpensive stereo system with its attendant stacks of CDs, an Apple G4 Powerbook sitting on the futon, and a scattering of little fake mice.
“Do you have a cat?”
Lono nodded. “Yeah. He’s around here somewhere.”
Yuki looked around. It’s not like there was anywhere for a cat to hide.
“You sure?”
“Maybe he got out.”
Lono went over to the balcony and slid the door open. A large ball of tabby-orange fluff and fuzz came trotting into the house, hair flying off and drifting in its wake. Lono looked at the cat.
“What were you doing out there?”
The cat, naturally, didn’t answer and headed straight for his food dish.
“What’s its name?”
“Topaz.”
Yuki bent down to scratch the cat’s head. “Hi, Topaz.”
Lono looked at Yuki. “I have a present for you.”
Lono went to the closet and opened the door. He took a gift-wrapped box out and handed it to her.
“I hope you like it.”
Yuki blushed. No one had given her a present, not like this anyway, since she was a little girl.
“It’s not my birthday.”
“I saw it and I thought of you.”
Yuki felt slightly embarrassed by the way she tore the package open, just like a little kid at Christmas; she couldn’t help herself. She lifted the lid off the box to reveal a supercool, powder-blue vintage-looking Puma tracksuit with dark blue stripes running down the sides of the sleeves and pants. Lono grinned.
“It’s kind of hip-hop. But, I don’t know. I thought you’d look good in it. It’s your style.”
Although it was something that Yuki never would’ve got for herself—after all, she wasn’t a professional athlete or megaplatinum rapper—it did fit right in with her new look. She liked that Lono thought it was her style. When was something this cool ever her style?
“I love it.”
“Try it on.”
Yuki slung the jacket over her shoulders and zipped it up. It fit perfectly and made her look totally street-chic savvy. Looking in the mirror, she realized, This beats the hell out of a peasant blouse from Turkey. Yuki stuck her hands in the pockets and bumped up against something metallic. She knew right away what it was.
“What’s this?”
Lono looked sheepish. “I know we just met and everything. But I thought. . . you know, if you get tired of the hotel you can always come over here.”
Yuki took the key out of her pocket and examined it. No one had ever given her a key to his place before.
“Does this mean we’re going steady?”
“If you’d like to.”
Yuki walked over to him, stood on her tiptoes, and wrapped her arms around him. “I’d like to.”
She dropped her head to one side and gave him the hottest, wettest soul kiss she could muster. She kissed him like she meant it.
...
Joseph climbed the rickety wooden stairs, past clumps of ginger, banana plants, and hairy overgrown ferns, up to Hannah’s apartment in an old Hawaiian house. Neo-Victorian but with tropical additions like a corrugated steel roof, the house rose out of an overgrown valley above Honolulu. It had been sliced up into six apartments, each with a view of the city and the harbor beyond. Hannah’s consisted of two small rooms that had formerly been the library and study. A funky kitchenette, suitable for making instant ramen noodles or toasting bread, had been stuck against the wall of the main room.
Joseph didn’t spend much time there, preferri
ng the comparative spaciousness and cleanliness of his home, but he had to admit to a fondness for the old house. Especially when he would lie curled up in bed with Hannah and listen to a heavy rain hit the metal roof like ten thousand Taiko drummers on a wind-driven rampage. It was unbelievably loud and he loved it. Nothing else in the world sounded like that.
Joseph knocked on the door. Hannah answered it, still wearing her teaching clothes. She did not look happy to see him.
“I knew you’d eventually come around for an explanation.”
“I was worried. I called.”
“I didn’t feel like talking.”
Joseph nodded. “Do you feel like talking now?”
Hannah heaved a sigh. “I’ve got tests to grade.”
Joseph looked her in the eye. “I’m just trying to figure out what it means.”
Hannah shrugged. “You were leaving. I decided to go first.”
“I hadn’t made a decision.”
Hannah shrugged. “I did.”
...
Baxter had done his homework. Find yourself in a strange town in need of illegal items, what do you do? You ask a seedy-looking cab driver. Preferably one that doesn’t have a Mohawk. Baxter strolled down Kalakaua Avenue, scanning the streets for a suitable cabbie. Reggie trolled along beside him.
“What’re we doing, man?”
“We need guns.”
“So? Let’s go to a gun store. This is America, man. We can just go buy ’em.”
Baxter shook his head in dismay. “We need some that can’t be traced back to us. Jesus, get a clue.”
“We buy ’em. Whack the dude. Throw ’em in the fucking ocean. What’s the problem?”
“We have to register. There’s a waiting period. And then the cops figure out that we used a .44 on the guy and they ask the local gun stores if anyone bought a .44 recently and then they give them our names and addresses.”
Reggie shrugged. “We’ll be back in Vegas, man.”
Baxter shook his head. It was like talking to a brick wall.
“Besides, we don’t have to use a .44.”
“It was just an example. If we use a .38 it’s the same thing.”
“No it’s not. A .44’s much bigger.”
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