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The inebriated brunette handed Joseph the microphone and told him it was his turn to sing. Because he spoke Hawaiian, he had picked a native song. But he was not a
natural singer and he held the microphone tentatively, hoping no one in the bar would pay much attention to him.

The music started, images of natural rainforests and waterfalls appeared on the screen along with the words, and Joseph began to sing in a high, lonesome falsetto the classic island song, “Hi‘ilawe.”

He might not have the best voice in the bar, but the song, with its hauntingly sweet melody and beautiful words about a magical waterfall, moved him and he found himself singing louder and with more confidence than he intended. The melody rose up through the clatter and silenced the bar. Even Sid, who was just beginning to offer his support, union connections, and cold cash to any political ambitions the ADA might have, shut up and listened.

Suddenly, in a little bar on a small island in the middle of the largest body of water in the world, Joseph felt a connection to this time and this place. He became filled with a kind of soulful nostalgia that he could only describe as profound.

It came out in his singing, and it moved everyone in the bar. He could see it on their faces as he sang. Even Karate Mike, the giant detective who never sang, closed his eyes and mouthed the words.

When Joseph reached the end of the song, the bar erupted, whooping and cheering. Harry the bartender took the microphone from Joseph and told him he had sounded almost as good as the great Israel Kamakawiwo‘ole himself. Joseph smiled and nodded and even blushed a little as he sat back down, stuffed a few more
li hing mui
into his glass of ice, and slowly poured a beer over it.

He had never felt more Hawaiian.

His given name was Walter, but on the street everyone called him Lono. That's because if there was some news or a rumor, Lono would know it. If he told you that someone was poaching your whores or gunning for your little corner of the drug world, or that the police were gearing up to drop some damage your way, it was usually true.

His network of girls reported back to him almost hourly, bits of gossip picked up here or there, people seen in certain places at certain times. Little things. Information that a normal person would discard as useless or irrelevant. But to Lono they were all tiny pieces of a large and multilayered jigsaw puzzle. He was able to take all the tidbits of information and hearsay and piece together an extremely accurate picture of what was going down on the mean streets of Honolulu.

This ability—some would say
gift
—was very useful. It kept Lono and his girls out of trouble with the competition and out of jail, one step ahead of what was about to go down. He was like the warning towers for incoming tsunamis that dot the North Shore. He gave you just enough time to reach high ground before the wave hit.

But Lono was selective. He traded information, using it to keep his business running smoothly. He didn't help everyone, just special people. For example, the Japanese Yakuza and White Ghost Triad from Hong Kong held him in high esteem and, in fact, owed him many favors. In exchange for his information, they allowed his girls to work in many of the fancier hotels that were off limits to other pimps, and they never bothered to sweat him for a percentage of his earnings.

But it wasn't just the organized crime syndicates that Lono traded information with; there was a methamphetamine importer from Seoul who treated Lono like a brother, a highflying money launderer who traded stock tips and investment advice for Lono's information, a couple of counterfeit artists who specialized in 10,000 yen notes, a certain high-ranking government official, and a retired hitman from New Jersey. They all prospered through their connection with Lono. It was, as Martha Stewart likes to say, a good thing.

So Lono knew it was only a matter of time before he found out who the boyishly thin Japanese-American woman was, where she was staying, and what she was up to. He had put the word out. Lono could tell from looking at her that she wasn't a doper, a local, or a tourist. That meant she was either newly arrived or here on business.

He knew she wasn't in the game; that much was obvious by the way she carried herself. She was much too open, not cagey or circumspect like a working girl would be. Her reactions and comments had seemed completely honest and unguarded.

Lono found himself replaying their conversation in his mind over and over again. He didn't know why he was suddenly obsessed with her. He could have any woman he
wanted. Beautiful women were the currency he dealt, and it was common for pimps to dip into the till from time to time—if not for their personal pleasure, at least for quality control, making sure the product that was delivered to the consumer was the finest available. But Lono had never been tempted by any of his girls, even the exotics like Alice, the six-foot-four beauty from Tanzania, or Wachara, the hermaphrodite from Bali. He should've done both of them just to satisfy his curiosity. But the fact was that, unlike his customers, Lono wasn't looking to get off. To tell the truth, he wasn't sure what he was looking for. But he thought he'd seen a glimmer of it in that woman lost and wandering through the prowl district.

Lono had to see her again. But he didn't stress about it. He'd find her. It was only a matter of time.

Yuki looked like she'd just stepped out of a salon. That's because she had. Her hair was cropped super-short on the back and sides and left long, lanky, and shot through with streaks of red on the top. Her hair swooped along one side of her head and flopped over her face like a crazy cantilevered Mohawk.

It was the coolest thing she'd ever done, and just knowing she'd had the courage to change her appearance so radically energized her. Why hadn't her life coach ever suggested a haircut? Why waste all that time and money on aromatherapy workshops, Reiki classes, and
vipassana
meditation retreats when a new haircut totally changed everything? What if magazines like
Vogue
and
Glamour
were right? Maybe a makeover was more than just a makeover. Maybe a little color in your hair and some new eyeliner could do more than change your appearance; maybe it could change your outlook on life. Maybe it could even change your luck.

She walked across the street and into the Ala Moana mall. She thought it was strange to find a mall in Honolulu that was just like any mall you'd find in Omaha or Sacramento. McDonald's, Burger King, and the Gap might have
an imperial stretch from Orlando to Rome to Kuala Lumpur, but Baskin Robbins and Hickory Farms were definitely made in the U.S.A. It was jarring to see all these Asian people surrounded by orchids and palm trees carrying shopping bags filled with cheese balls and smoked sausage while lapping at a double dip of Here Comes the Fudge.

Yuki scoured several boutiques, searching for the exact right outfit to go with her new look. She tried some slinky miniskirts, floppy sundresses, pegged black jeans, and even super-casual flat-front khakis. But nothing was exactly right, although she was pleased to see that she looked kind of sexy in the miniskirt.

Eventually she found what she was looking for in a clothing store for surfers and surfer wannabes. She found the loose-fitting calf-length pants, the thin cotton tank top, the Hawaiian shirts, the high-top canvas sneakers, even a black baseball cap with the words “Strong Current” embroidered on it. Strong Current. That kind of said it all. That was what she was feeling.

She stood in the dressing room looking at her new image in the mirror. A chill of recognition ran up her spine, and she felt as if her dream and this new reality had somehow managed to merge. For a brief exhilarating moment, Yuki was unsure if she was dreaming or awake. She felt the same surge of erotic energy crackle through her body that she had felt in the dream. The sensation made her gasp.

She paid for her purchases and wore them out into the mall. Everywhere she went, heads turned to appraise her. Men looked her up and down, trying to figure out if she was a hip teenage boy or the DJ of a lesbian disco. Either way, there was something sexually dangerous and alluring about her.
Being an object of sexual desire, or at least curiosity, was a new experience for Yuki, and she found it uplifting and slightly creepy. Being androgynous was going to take some getting used to.

...

“These motherfuckers think they can get away with whatever the fuck they want just because they live here. Just because it's some fuckin' island.” Jack was seething.

“Calm down. You'll have another stroke.”

“Calm down? You want me to calm the fuck down? What do you want me to do, huh? Grab my ankles and say ‘Aloha, please fuck me up the ass'? Fuck that. I'm not sayin' that.”

Stanley tried to be reasonable. “Look at it from their point of view. They're just trying to protect their business. We'd do the same if they came to Vegas.”

“If they came to Vegas we'd plant their corpses in the fuckin' desert.” Jack's expression changed. “Which isn't a bad idea.”

“They aren't coming to Vegas, Dad. Don't get any ideas.”

“Nothing says
stay out of my way
like a fuckin' bullet in the head.”

Stanley turned and gave his father a stern look. “No.”

“No?”

“Yeah, no. Okay? No. I can't make it any clearer than that.”

“Pussy.”

“Fine. I'm a pussy.”

Jack looked out the window. He thought about telling Stanley to go fuck himself but then thought better of it. Chucking the fucking Sumo in a volcano was a good idea, no doubt about it. Nothing announces your business plan and puts you on the map like that. It had worked when that putz in Vegas had tried an end-around and called his Hollywood friends. Death is an effective business tool. It'd been proven over and over again—by dictators, tyrants, despots, and corporate CEOs. People get in your way, you disappear them. Make an example out of them. Suddenly there's no competition, and everyone else gets real cooperative.

Jack realized he'd have to make a corporate decision, exercise some leadership, without consulting Stanley. If he couldn't get the union to help, he'd take care of it himself. That is, if he made it to the airport in time for his flight.

“Could you drive faster? It's the fucking pedal on the right. You have to press it down with your foot.”

“Relax, Dad.”

“I don't want to miss my flight.”

Stanley didn't reply; he just stared ahead as the car slowly crawled along Ala Moana Boulevard.

“There must be a faster way.”

“I checked the map.”

“That doesn't mean there's not a faster way.”

“I guess I just take after Mom.”

Jack laughed. “Your mother could kick my ass, drink me under the table, suck my cock raw, and then go out and party until it was time to wake you up for school. Trust me, you don't take after her.”

Stanley couldn't help himself; he pouted. “That's not how I remember her.”

Jack smiled. “Don't take this the wrong way. But once she'd served up her famous meat loaf and put you to bed—well, I couldn't keep up with her.”

“She went out? After she tucked me in?” Stanley sounded slightly distressed.

“She had a standing poker game at Binion's.”

“Mom gambled?”

“Texas hold 'em. She loved that game.”

“You're lying. I don't believe you.”

Jack could see the conversation was making Stanley uncomfortable, so he shut up and turned to look out the window. As the car crept along at a geriatric pace, Jack could see the ocean, the beach, palm trees, and the outline of Pearl Harbor off in the distance.

“Don't talk about Mom that way.”

“Fine.”

Jack was glad Stanley didn't want to talk about her. Jack didn't like talking about his wife that much either. She had died of pancreatic cancer long before he had the stroke or the air bags inserted in his penis. His memories of her and their life together were fading, receding into the ether, until Jack could hardly remember the man he'd been before. All he had were some photos and a few random memories. It was so long ago, it really did seem like a different life. Maybe that was a side effect of the stroke; maybe it was just self-preservation. Jack knew it was better to deal with the reality of now than memories of what you could do when you were healthy. He had seen other stroke victims in the rehab place grow despondent and then, ultimately, suicidal. Suicide wasn't for him. It was a loser's move, quitters who fold their hands and walk away. Nobody cares about the gambler who gives up. Winners
might have to bluff sometimes, but at least they're still in the game.

They rode in silence, inching down the street as frustrated drivers honked and shook their fists at them. Jack watched a couple of young men on bicycles race by. He looked over at Stanley. He didn't say a word.

...

Joseph sat near the beach in the shade of a banyan tree. He watched as a group of New Age tourists practiced yoga in the shade of a group of coconut palms. A young woman, her body lean and rippling with muscles, led the group in a professionally mellow voice. Plank position, up dog, down dog, jump forward. Repeat.

Joseph looked up as the wind whipped the palms. Pods of bright green coconuts hung from the swaying trees, a good thirty feet above the class. Down dog meets falling coconut. He had never been conked, but he had a native's natural distrust of gravity, so he stayed under the banyans when he had the choice.

While he waited for Wilson, Joseph tied his running shoes. He didn't like to have company on his daily run, preferring to let his mind wander and relax as his body worked, but his cousin said it was urgent. It took a lot to upset Wilson, so Joseph told him to meet him here.

Wilson was late, as usual. Joseph couldn't really remember when his cousin had been on time for anything. There was island time, usually a good fifteen to twenty minutes slow; then there was Wilson time. That was whenever he got around to it or felt like it. But today he was glad Wilson was late.