Jack turned to see Stanley sitting at his desk reading a thick book.
“What the fuck’re you doin’?”
Stanley looked up. “Hey, Dad. How’s it going?”
“Is that a Bible?”
Stanley closed the fake-leather-bound book in his hand and gave his dad an excited smile.
“It’s the Book of Mormon.”
Jack did a double take. “What?”
“Revelations given to Joseph Smith, the prophet, for the benefit of all mankind.”
Jack didn’t know what to say. His legs felt weak. He needed to sit down. “Why are you reading that?”
“It’s interesting.”
Jack found a chair and flopped into it, making a noise louder than he’d meant to. “You’ve never been interested before.”
“I know. But I met some really nice people at the cultural center, and they told me about it.”
“The Polynesian place?”
“Yeah. You should come check it out. It’s great. You could sit in an outrigger canoe.”
“They have Mormons there?”
Stanley nodded, a contented grin spreading across his face. It was the grin of the spiritually sated. Jack was not spiritually sated or grinning; his jaw dropped like the tailgate of a pickup truck, hanging open on its hinges. He couldn’t believe it. Why of all people in the world did he have to have a son that would fall in with a cult of—well, he could hardly utter the words.
“Polynesian Mormons?”
“We’re all sinners. Even Polynesians. But that’s okay. It’s how we learn.”
Jack was from Las Vegas, and there was nothing he hated more than preaching. All the losers in the universe came to Las Vegas, blew their money gambling, drinking, and whoring, and then—possibly due to sunstroke—they’d find God and start preaching on any available street corner. They never said, “I’m a loser and the only thing I can do to feel good about myself is tell all of you that you’re goin’ to hell.” No. They couldn’t handle the truth. They blamed everyone but themselves. It made Jack want to puke. Sure, we’re all sinners. Sinners, suckers, and whores. Big deal. Welcome to the fuckin’ world. Jack looked at Stanley. He could barely keep the caustic out of his voice.
“Is that so?”
“Absolutely. God sent us down here to learn and to redeem ourselves by making the world better.”
“That’s God for you. Big on the self-improvement.”
Stanley looked hurt. “I didn’t expect you’d understand.”
Jack looked over at his son. His first instinct was to rip the Book of Mormon out of Stanley’s hands and beat him with it. But then, like all parents when they learn their children are involved in something they don’t approve of, he decided it was probably just a phase.
“So you’re a Mormon now?”
“I haven’t been baptized yet.”
“I thought that was Baptists.”
“It’s a commitment to Christ; they all do it.”
“I’d be careful, you know. It’s a religion started by a guy named Smith.”
“He was a prophet, Dad.”
Jack nodded solemnly. Mormons? Who knew? He wondered how his son, admittedly a dork, could keep several wives satisfied when he’d never even had a girlfriend. He was practically, although not technically, due to thirty-five seconds of intercourse his freshman year, a virgin.
“You’re serious about this?”
“Yes.”
“Do me one favor. Get some pussy before you convert and go all Jesus-freak on me.”
“I don’t think that has anything to do with it.”
Jack pointed to the Book of Mormon. “It says in there that God wants you to learn, right?”
“That’s what it says.”
“So you should learn what it’s like to get boned by a pro. These churchy girls are just gonna lay there. They may not even get naked. It’ll be over in two minutes. You gotta promise me you’ll try it with some wild-ass chick who won’t stop until your well’s run dry.”
Stanley looked at his father. “You’re insane.”
“I’m insane? You want to be a Mormon. Just do this for your old man before you commit to Christ. Even Jesus got down before they nailed him to the cross.”
...
Yuki had always lived by the maxim, When life gives you lemons, make lemonade. She believed that she was smart and resourceful and that if she kept a positive outlook she would make the most of her life. Yet she had no idea what to think of her current situation. There was no maxim that starts with “When life gives you a pimp. . .” And yet life had given her a pimp and she found she was okay with it. She rationalized it to herself because Lono wasn’t like any pimp she’d ever heard of. He was special.
The door to the office opened and Francis, looking slightly gray, came limping in. Yuki turned to greet him.
“Hey, welcome back.”
Francis looked at her, seeing her smile beaming at him, and shook his head. “You’re a fucking saint, you know that?”
“Let me get you a cup of coffee.”
“How can you be so nice to me?”
“Because I don’t want to be filled up with anger or fear or any negative emotions. I want to stay positive.”
Yuki flashed him another smile and headed off to the coffee room. Francis didn’t know what to say, so he hobbled into his office and looked around. It was still shit brown, but it had been cleaned. Papers organized on his desk just the way he liked them. Some fresh flowers in a vase. Yuki’s efficiency and affability only made Francis feel small and awful, like he was the lowest life-form on the planet. Then he remembered Chad. Chad was the lowest.
Francis had spent most of yesterday, the brief times between visits from the residents who were constantly palpating and measuring his dick, waiting for Chad to arrive and cheer him up.
At the end of the day, when it was obvious that Chad wasn’t going to show up or call or send flowers, when it was time for the night nurse to tuck him in and turn out the lights, Francis had lain in his lumpy hospital bed and wept. He cried because he was scared, afraid his penis might never be hard again; he cried because no one loved him, he was all alone in the world; and he cried because he was mad at himself that he even cared about Chad.
Yuki came back with a cup of coffee for him. “Here you are.”
Francis took the coffee and looked her in the eye. “I hate to say this, but I’ve got to let you go.”
Yuki was stunned. She could hardly bring herself to blink. “What?”
“I know, it’s ridiculous. But I can’t work with you. I’m sorry. I’m too embarrassed. I’m ashamed of what I did.”
“But—” Yuki stammered.
“You can fly home first class. I’ll give you one month of severance pay and a letter of recommendation. Whatever you need.”
“I don’t want to go. I like it here.”
Francis sighed. “It’s not about you. It’s about me. I’m sorry.”
And that’s when Yuki decided to call a lawyer.
...
Keith organized his supplies. He had several gallons of drinking water, two dozen papayas, five coconuts, a pound of beef jerky, and twenty-seven little cans of Vienna sausages with the EZ-open lid. He’d also bought a serious-looking fish-gutting knife, some hooks, and some line. He figured if he got sick of eating Vienna sausages he could use them for bait, maybe land some yellowtail, have a little sashimi.
Keith squatted down in the shade of a palm grove and rested. He checked his ecstasy supply and found he still had twenty-two little pills. That, he figured, ought to get him where he needed to go. He’d seen the dolphins. They were out just past the reef. They were waiting for him. Waiting for the moonrise.
He closed his eyes and lay back on the sand. Its warmth relaxed his muscles; he melted into it, feeling the earth’s chi flowing from limb to limb. He was filling up with life force; it was coming up out of the earth itself and into him in a kind of profound osmosis. He heard the wind whippin
g through the palm fronds overhead, the sound of the planet breathing. Without trying, Keith found himself matching the planet’s breath with his own, and for a brief moment he felt he was the planet. He was one with the life force. He drifted off into a kind of exhausted sleep, floating on the energy of the universe.
The revelation flashed through Keith’s subconscious and jolted him awake. For the first time in his life, he felt as if he understood why he was here, the purpose of his particular existence. Keith could sense the presence of death in the life force. He’d been around it enough to know it when he felt it. It was there, all around him, like a pungent dusky scent drifting in the wind. Keith had sensed it, smelled it, and tasted it in Afghanistan, Colombia, Las Vegas, Chicago, San Francisco, and Omaha. He had sniffed it drifting on the wind. He had felt its warmth and stickiness in his hands. But now he understood that death is just a part of life. The two are one. Life does not exist without death, and vice versa. Breathe in, breathe out; yin and yang.
In the past, when Keith had killed someone, he’d always experienced a slight pang. It wasn’t guilt, really. He didn’t feel compassion for those he dispatched. But it was a pang. Maybe it was his humanity speaking. Maybe it was empathy. He didn’t really know. But the pang was always there, sharp and sweet and sad. Sometimes he thought his soul was trying to tell him that killing wasn’t okay, that it was bad. But now he realized that what he had done wasn’t so bad after all. He was, in his own way, reaffirming the beauty, the value, and the power of life. The only thing he’d done that was bad was to take money for it.
Keith vowed to himself that in the future, he wouldn’t accept payment for killing. He’d do it because it was the right thing to do and he had the expertise to do it well.
Keith sat up and opened one of the plastic bottles of water. He popped another hit of ecstasy and washed it down with the cool clear liquid.
Seventeen
Joseph carried several flattened cartons into his house, along with a tape gun and a couple rolls of tape. He had to figure out what he was going to take, what he was going to put into storage, and what he was going to give away. Joseph leaned the cartons against the wall and tossed the tape gun onto the couch. He looked around, trying to decide where to begin. Earlier, he’d called a friend who worked for a real estate agent and discussed renting out his little house while he was gone. No sense paying a mortgage in Honolulu and rent on a place in New York. And—you never know—he might really hate living in the city; this way he’d keep his options open. At first he felt he was being chicken. He should just sell everything and go, make a real commitment to his new life. But he found he wasn’t comfortable with that. Maybe it was because that’s what his parents had done. They’d sold everything, moved to the mainland, and never come back. Now, when he talked to his father on the phone, the conversations were always about their getting back to the islands: how the fish was better there, the air, the water, the people, the weather. Everything was better in the islands, and yet his parents couldn’t move back because the cost of living was so high. It was definitely better to keep his house. He could always sell it later.
Joseph began to take a mental inventory of the place. Part of him thought he should pack everything. He didn’t want to leave behind his Plate Lunch sign or his tiki-mask lamps. Another part of him wanted just to throw some clothes in a suitcase and take nothing but his prized set of professional-grade Henckels knives and his running shoes.
In the end, he grabbed a beer out of the refrigerator and sat on the couch, unable to decide, emotionally paralyzed.
...
Chad sat in the first-class lounge at the airport. He’d grabbed a prefab turkey sandwich and a Diet Coke from the hospitality bar and was plopped in an overstuffed club chair watching CNN as he chewed. He was supposed to be reading a screenplay but had only gotten through ten pages when he shoved it aside. Not that it was bad. He was just having trouble concentrating. He wondered briefly about Francis—if the doctors had managed to save his penis or if, as he feared, they’d been forced to amputate. Chad couldn’t imagine what Francis would do without his cock. Go all the way and have a sex change? Become some sort of freakish eunuch? Smile and try to live a normal life?
Chad knew one thing. Whatever Francis decided, it would be without him. He’d already had his lawyer draft up a settlement and FedEx it to Francis. It wasn’t generous. He wasn’t going to buy him a house or anything. Fuck that. Francis was damaged goods as far as he was concerned. Besides, they weren’t married and Chad hadn’t done anything wrong. He just wanted to give Francis a little severance pay. He was purchasing some guilt relief. Hopefully, it would be enough to keep him from hiring a lawyer and going after palimony or something stupid like that.
Chad wished he had some drugs. Anything was better than the boredom of waiting for a flight. He didn’t like to drink on airplanes because it dried him out and left his skin looking terrible. But there were no drugs to be had; the handsome man with the pale blue eyes had seen to that. Chad let his eyes wander over the other passengers: men dressed in business suits or those god-awful Hawaiian shirts. Some were even wearing shorts and sandals. They were all straight, overweight, and out-of-date. Chad heaved a sigh and went back to his turkey sandwich. It was going to be a long flight.
...
Keith had been waiting for nightfall. He sat under a tree and watched as the sun began slowly to ease its way behind the mountains and the few sunbathers who bothered to come to the beach packed up and went home. The birds fluttered around; they seemed to be more excited than usual. It seemed to take forever for the sky to get dark.
That’s because Keith was anxious to get going. His heart was pounding; he didn’t have much time; he had to be ready to hit the water at moonrise. He moved stealthily to the church camp, running in that lethal crouch he’d been taught at the base in Okinawa. He quickly picked up a canoe, hoisted it over his head, and began jogging down the beach toward his staging area.
There was a line of clouds on the horizon, so it took a little longer than usual for him to catch a glimpse of the moon. But there it was, rising above the clouds, into the night sky.
Keith had his canoe ready, loaded with supplies and hidden in the tree line. The last thing he wanted was for some nosy park ranger to come around and ask him where he was going at night in a stolen canoe. Once the moon seemed set, Keith popped a couple hits of ecstasy and dragged the canoe out across the sand and into the surf. He struggled with it, the waves seeming heavier and stronger than they were before, but eventually he jumped aboard and began paddling through the surf out into the ocean.
Once he was clear of the reef the water settled down, the hard-breaking waves turning into smooth rolling swells. Keith would paddle up one swell, reach the top, and check his position with the moon. He’d have a few seconds before the canoe tipped over the crest and gravity sent him sluicing down the hill of water. It was fun. Like a roller coaster.
He kept one eye out for the dolphins. He knew they’d appear sooner or later. He kept paddling. Bearing 27 degrees left of moonrise.
...
Baxter was nervous. He’d counted his cash three times already: one thousand dollars for each gun. That’s what they told him to bring. The price didn’t seem outrageous. After all, these were untraceable, with the serial numbers burned off. And that, as he understood it, costs extra. He rolled the wad of bills up and rubber-banded them together before jamming them into his pants pocket. Then he thought better of it. Carrying a big wad in his pants like it was milk money and he was going to his first day at school? No way. It would be cooler if he kept it inside his jacket, so he could reach in and take the money out like he was going for a gun or something.
He took the wad out of his pants pocket and couldn’t help himself; he compulsively counted it again before putting it in his inside jacket pocket. Then he practiced taking it out of his pocket a couple of times until he looked really smooth.
Baxter went into the bathroom and put some pr
oduct into his hair, really shaping and defining his mullet. He wanted to look sharp for his first big gun buy. He even took a little brush and smoothed his mustache out. He caught his reflection in the mirror as he primped and it made him laugh. He didn’t do this much grooming when he had a date.
He brushed a dusting of dandruff off his shoulders. That was the problem with black. It made his dandruff look worse than it really was. He checked himself in the mirror and then impulsively decided to button the top button of his shirt. It gave him a look. A kind of New Wave vibe. He liked it. Then he thought better of it and put on a tie. Don’t be too distinctive. Blend. Be smart. Maybe when he got more established he’d try that top-button look.
He met Reggie out on the street. Baxter was pleased at how they both looked, although he thought Reggie’s sunglasses at night were a little over the top and told him so.
They didn’t have to wait too long before Lono showed up. The big Hawaiian ambled toward them with his hands in his pockets like he didn’t have a care in the world. He wasn’t smiling, but he wasn’t frowning. He looked like he hooked contract killers up with gun dealers every day. And who knew? Maybe he did.
Lono stopped in front of the big pink Jeep and stared at them.
“This is your car?”
Baxter was trying to think of a cool comeback, but Reggie beat him to it.
“Yeah, it’s pretty fuckin’ sweet, man.”
Lono sighed and climbed into the back of the pink Jeep. “You ready?”
Baxter nodded.
“Let’s go.”
...
Francis was watching TV. The plumber character had been there for a few minutes checking the water pressure in the sink when a UPS deliveryman, a really handsome Freddy Mercury type, knocked on the back door and saucily asked the plumber if he’d sign for a package. The plumber, who peeled off his jumpsuit to reveal a body as articulated and firm as chiseled marble, was more than happy to oblige and now had the deliveryman bent over the kitchen table while he pneumatically rammed his glistening cock in and out of him. Which is right when the owner of the house, a long-haired blond, came back from the gym. He grinned when he caught the two on his table and said, “I see you’re accepting deliveries.”
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