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“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?

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 that 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.