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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 They were all straight, overweight, and out-of-date.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 product 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.”

Francis sat naked on the bed in his hotel room. He shoved the remains of his room-service cheeseburger off to one side and looked down at his crotch. Nothing was stirring. He tried gently stroking it, but his cock was still tender from the recent traumas and injustices perpetrated on it. Francis looked at the TV and watched as the long-haired
blond ripped off his clothes and let the deliveryman blow him while the plumber was banging away on the other end. He looked back at his dick. Nothing was happening at all.

...

Baxter piloted the Jeep down the road. He was trying to follow Lono's directions but was having trouble hearing. Lono would have to lean forward and shout to be heard above the wind and the roar of the engine as Baxter fumbled his way through the gears. Baxter wished Reggie had sat in back so Lono could've ridden shotgun. It would've been easier to hear, and it would've been cool to talk to a consummate professional like Lono. Maybe Lono could help hook him up with more jobs down the line. I mean, who knew? It's good to network. Everybody knows that.

Reggie leaned forward and whispered to Baxter. “Dude, check it out.” He pulled a tightly rolled joint out of his pocket. “I scored it off those chicks from Kansas City.”

Baxter looked at him, his irritation growing. “Not now.”

Reggie pocketed the joint. “I'm saving it for after. We can celebrate.”

Baxter nodded like a bobble-head doll. Why couldn't this fool just shut up? “Great.”

Reggie turned and looked out the window, watching the countryside whiz by. Lono had explained that they were going way out into the country so they could fire the guns and make sure they worked. That was so smart. Baxter wouldn't've thought of that. He would've just trusted that the guns worked and the ammo was live. He could've busted in on the old guy with a starter's pistol and a load of blanks. How would
that look? Stupid, that's how. They were lucky they'd found Lono. Who knows what kind of trouble they'd be in if they hadn't?

...

Wilson was waiting by a big white van in a little scrap of clearing surrounded by dense tropical forest. It was pitch black out in the jungle, the only light coming from the van's interior, and they were well off the main road. Baxter hadn't seen a house or a streetlight for miles. He had followed Lono's directions perfectly, bouncing down one muddy lane after another until they'd arrived at this desolate spot.

Baxter was so excited he could hardly contain himself; he wanted to jump out of the Jeep and try out his new gun. But he also wanted to be cool, so he forced himself to adopt a languid air, moving slow like that guy in the movies.

Wilson waved to them. “Hey. Cut your lights.”

Baxter nodded and turned off the Jeep.

Reggie turned to Baxter. “I want a .44, man.”

“Let's see what they got. They might not have a .44.”

Reggie got out of the Jeep with a swagger. He looked over at Baxter. “Dude, I want a fuckin' .44. The customer is always right.”

Lono had already climbed out of the back of the Jeep and was standing over by Wilson.

“Just don't fucking say anything. Okay?” Baxter hissed at Reggie. “Let me handle it.”

Reggie recoiled a little. He was surprised by Baxter's ferocity. “Relax, man. You sure you don't wanna toke up now?”

Baxter ignored him and walked over to Wilson. He extended his hand.

Wilson shook it. “You good?”

Baxter nodded. “I'm good.”

Reggie had to open his mouth. “I'm good too. Scored some Maui Wowie from these chicks from Kansas City. You guys wanna fire up a joint?”

They ignored him. “You got the money?”

Baxter nodded. “Let's see 'em.”

Baxter was pleased with himself for not just handing the money over. He wanted to wait until he saw the guns. It's not that he didn't trust Lono and the other guy, it was just the way cool dudes did business.

Wilson reached into the van. He pulled out a couple of handguns, a .38 snub-nosed revolver and a Beretta 9 millimeter semiautomatic.

“You said you'd like a nine millimeter.”

Baxter nodded. “Yeah.”

Reggie saw the guns. “Awesome. I got dibs on the nina.” He stepped forward to grab the Beretta out of Wilson's hands. “I wanna see if it works, man.”

Wilson held the gun out. “It works.”

That's when he pulled the trigger. Twice. Pumping two shots into Reggie's chest, aimed to tear into his aorta and cause him to die instantly without a lot of bleeding. Reggie was dead before he hit the ground.

The shots took Baxter by surprise. He couldn't believe it. Was it some kind of accident? He wanted to say something. But he heard the gun go off a couple more times, maybe three or four more, and couldn't really think of anything to say.

Baxter fell to the ground too, his face slapping into the soft Hawaiian mud.

...

Keith had been paddling for hours but he wasn't tired. He'd stopped and coasted down a swell for a minute and guzzled some fresh water, but otherwise he was jamming straight through, staying right on course. He was far enough away from shore that when he cranked his head around and looked back he couldn't see any sign of civilization. No lights. No distant glow. Only a big ship on the horizon and a couple of planes in the sky.

It was quiet out there on the water. The only sounds were the soft slap of the paddle and the deep primordial rumbling of the waves. The pull of the swell going down, the push of it rising. It was a Jurassic sloshing, life and death in all its fantastic spin-cycle glory. It was the in and out of copulation. It was positive and negative, yin and yang. It was the universe, constantly changing and thrusting and unkempt.

Keith was in it. On top of it. Under it. He felt like he was napping on a dragon's belly. Rising and falling. Bigger than anything he'd ever seen, stronger than he could ever describe. It took Keith a little while to get in tune with it; he had to work hard to control his breathing. But as he pushed on into the moonlit blue-black world of the ocean at night, he kind of synched up with it.

And that's when the dolphins appeared. He didn't know how long they'd been with him. They arrived without a sound. He caught a glint of moonlight off the back of one of them, like a living piece of obsidian moving silently through
the water. The pod embraced him, closing in around the little canoe and leading him onward.

The first flash of lightning was beautiful. It left latent images of silver-white tracers in the sky. The image of Zeus standing on Mount Olympus hurling thunderbolts sprang into Keith's consciousness. Bolts of energy delivered direct from a god. That's really what it looked like. The flash was followed by the electrical crackle and crunch of the atmosphere being torn in two. The shock wave resounding from the thunder shook Keith's stomach, and the air around the canoe sparkled alive with static electricity. His hair stood on end, like an electroshocked Einstein.