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Keith was surprised that the rain wasn't bothering the dolphins. He thought they might dive deeper under the water to avoid getting pelted. But there they were, right alongside him, taking him along. It was a good thing, too. The sky had grown dense with clouds, and Keith couldn't find the moon or stars to guide him. He just plowed ahead, confident in the dolphins.

The first big wave woke him up. Keith realized he'd fallen into some kind of ecstasy trance. He'd been cruising along, stroking his paddle through the blackness. Dipping it in, pulling as hard as he could, repeating again and again. But the wave snapped him out of it. It descended on the canoe like a down comforter, gently billowing above him, blotting out anything but its roiling curls, and then it swept over him. It felt like a truck had been dropped on him. It knocked the wind out of him and swept his canoe clean of supplies. Keith held on as tight as he could, but the wave got his paddle and sent it swirling off toward Australia.

The canoe got heavy fast. But before Keith could react, he was rising up on the tip of a massive swell. The ocean lifted him up, high, to its apex. Keith looked over the side. It was a mistake. He saw that he was maybe forty feet up in the air and there was nothing to do but fall.

The canoe broke in two on impact. Keith felt the ocean grab him and yank him down, sucking him deep under the surface. The water was warm and felt surprisingly good, although Keith wished he could breathe. In fact if he didn't get back to the surface pretty soon, the breathing issue was going to become critical. But the ocean loved him and pushed him back up to the surface like he was rocket propelled.

Keith burst to the surface, gasping for air. He treaded water for a moment, trying to think what to do. One of the dolphins came up to him and gave him a nudge. They wanted him to follow them. Keep going. Keep swimming. Keith did a reasonably good breaststroke and followed the dolphins as well as he could.

Then he remembered the ecstasy. It wasn't going to last long in all this water. He stopped, kicking hard to keep his head above the waves. He opened the little plastic bag. It appeared that the pills were still dry but Keith didn't want to take any chances. He emptied the entire bag into his mouth and washed them down with an accidental swallow of seawater.

Then he checked his position. He could see a sliver of moon breaking between the storm clouds. He was right on course. Keith ducked his head under a wave and began to swim. He followed the dolphins.

...

Lono had never seen a dead body before. Not really. Not one freshly executed right in front of him. It was something, he realized, that unnerved him. He'd never wanted to be involved in any kind of homicidal endeavors. It wasn't the way he did business. It wasn't his thing at all. But in his heart of hearts Lono knew there wasn't any other way to deal with these guys. What could they do? Beat 'em up and send 'em home? Lono had thought about turning them in to the police. He had some friends who were detectives. But what proof did he have? It was their word against his, and he knew from experience that in battles between tourists and pimps the tourists always won. The killers would just make bail and be back on the streets. They would persist and eventually find someone to buy a gun from. They weren't the type to back down and go home; they were too stupid.

Lono helped Wilson strip the bodies and load them into the back of his van.

“What're you going to do with them?”

Wilson shrugged. “I don't know, brah.”

That wasn't what Lono had expected. “You don't have a plan?”

“I'm gonna get rid of dey clothes an da guns an' stuff.”

“What about them?”

Wilson turned and looked at the two corpses stacked in his van. “Chop 'em up?”

Lono put his hand on Wilson's shoulder. He did it in a friendly way.

“Listen, brah, you got to be smart about this. You can't just chop 'em up and make a big mess. Why don't you ask Joseph to help? He'll figure something out.”

Wilson nodded. “Okay.”

...

Joseph had just finished packing his CD collection into a box when Wilson and Sid knocked on his front door. The two men peeped in through the screen.

“Look like you goin' den.”

Joseph could only nod; he really didn't know what to say to his uncle.

“You got a job somewhere?”

“New York.”

There was an awkward pause, Wilson and Sid unsure whether or not they'd been invited in.

“So we
pau
?”

“You fired me.”

Sid nodded. Joseph thought about saying that Sid would always be his uncle, they were his family; they would never be
pau,
finished, done.

Wilson broke the uncomfortable silence. “We need to talk.”

“Door's open.”

Wilson and Sid entered, and that's when Joseph could tell something was wrong.

“Do you guys want a beer or something? You look terrible.”

“No, thanks, brah.”

Wilson flopped onto the couch. Sid kind of paced, turning his massive hulk one way and then another.

“Is everything all right?”

Wilson snorted. Sid tried to figure out a way to explain the situation.

“You know dat guy from Vegas, Jack Lucey?”

Joseph crossed his arms. “Of course. You know that.”

“You know he hired some guys to come fo' whack me?”

“What're you talking about?”

Wilson spoke up. “Killers, brah. Murderers for hire.”

Joseph laughed, shook his head, and started for the kitchen. “You sure you don't want a beer?”

“It's fo' sure true. We got dey bodies in da van.”

Joseph stopped in his tracks. “What?”

“We had to kill 'em fo' dey kill us.”

Joseph turned and looked at Sid and Wilson. He could tell they weren't joking; they were serious as a heart attack.

“You wanna see 'em?”

...

Lono drove the pink Jeep into the airport car-rental return lot. He pulled into a specially marked spot. A young man in a baseball cap and knit shirt bearing the logo of the rent-a-car company came bounding out of a little kiosk holding some kind of computer thing. He had already typed in the license plate number when he got to Lono.

“Did you fill up the tank?”

“Just did.”

Lono handed the kid the keys. The kid walked around the Jeep, looking for damage. Then he put the key in, started the car up, and checked the gas gauge. Satisfied that everything was in order, he pushed a little button on his hand-held computer and a receipt came rolling out.

“Thanks for choosing us. We appreciate your business.” He handed Lono the receipt.

“Thanks.”

“Have a good trip home.”

Lono nodded and walked off toward the terminals. He'd catch a cab back to Waikiki and see how Yuki was doing. He needed her. He wanted to feel human again.

...

Joseph didn't want to go out and look at the bodies. He didn't want to see them; he didn't want to have anything to do with them. But Wilson and Sid were obviously in over their heads. They hadn't known what to do so they'd turned to him. Joseph considered their options. They could go to the police and try to explain themselves, but the guys from Vegas would deny it and Wilson would go to jail for murder. They could take the bodies out and sink them in the ocean; that would get rid of them for sure, but what about Jack Lucey? Wouldn't he just hire someone else?

Joseph needed to figure out a way to dispose of the bodies and, at the same time, send a message to Jack. And then he remembered the story of how the ancient King of Maui tricked an invading army. It wouldn't be easy, but it had worked back then and maybe it would work today.

“We had to do it, brah.”

“I know.”

Joseph stood up and headed for the door. Wilson and Sid looked up from the couch.

“So where you goin' den?”

“I'm gonna dig an
imu.
”

He couldn't think of any other way.

Hundreds of blackflies swarmed the pile of bones laid out in the sun on Sid's roof. The bones, long slender femurs with ball joints at the end, stubby ribs, a mishmash of vertebrae, tangled tibias, fibulas, and a couple of slightly dented skulls, were arranged to maximize their exposure to the sun, accelerating the drying process.

Sid stood on a ladder and nodded his head. “A couple days den. Should be good to go.” He looked down at Wilson, who was steadying the ladder. “You boys done good.”

Joseph wasn't feeling that great. He stood in the kitchen drinking a cup of coffee, hoping the images would fade from his short-term memory. He'd barely managed to strip the meat off the bones, but he got through the process by imagining that they were butchering a couple of pigs. Getting a meal ready for a crew. He was a chef. He was just cooking. That's what he kept telling himself.

Wilson, on the other hand, seemed to enjoy the work. Stripping off the meat, ligaments, tendons, and fat with genuine gusto, throwing it all back into the hole, turning the
imu
into a prefab grave. Joseph kept a close eye on him. He was sure he'd seen him sneaking another taste or two.

They'd had to beat the skulls against a rock to get the brain to come gushing out. That was the part that made Joseph vomit. But the other organs—liver, heart, kidneys, and intestines—separated from the bones without much fuss. They were able to shove the majority of the guts back into the hole without having to sort through them.

It was just like making kalua pig for a luau.

Joseph didn't know why he was drinking coffee. It wasn't helping him relax—he had begun trembling a few hours earlier and it wouldn't stop—but he didn't want to drink any alcohol, figuring that might push him over the edge and send him sobbing to the nearest police station to confess.

Wilson was the opposite. He was positively preening. Strutting around with that unique kind of gladiatorial test-osterone swagger that only comes from having vanquished your enemies and tasted their flesh.

Sid came into the kitchen and saw Joseph sitting at the table, staring off into space. Sid slapped a reassuring arm across Joseph's shoulder.

“You did right. Eat or be eaten.”

Joseph simply shrugged. “We're Hawaiians.” With that he got up from the table. “I'm going to go take a shower, Uncle.”

Joseph took his mug of coffee and padded out of the room.

...

Yuki carried a couple of small cardboard boxes into the office. On the advice of her lawyer, she was here to clean out her desk and leave without saying too much to anyone. She
wasn't supposed to give two weeks notice; it wouldn't be good for her to stick around working in such a sexually hostile environment. Not that she had much stuff. Just a few things: an atomizer filled with diluted lavender oil—for when she felt stressed—and some assorted Tibetan incense, a collection of healing crystals, a small reproduction of a Buddhist painting, several books on self empowerment and positive thinking, a collection of inspirational poetry that she liked to look at, and a Magic 8 Ball she kept around for laughs.

Francis entered the office and stopped when he saw her. He knew immediately what she was doing.

“Save a box for me.”

Yuki was surprised. “What?”

“Your lawyer didn't waste any time.”

“They fired you?”

Francis nodded. “Don't worry. I've already admitted to everything. I'm claiming a nervous breakdown, which isn't far from the truth.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Don't be. You'll get a nice fat settlement. You deserve it.” Francis felt a lump in his throat. His voice caught. “Look, Yuki. I'm the one who should apologize.”

Francis couldn't help himself; he slumped into a chair, put his face in his hands, and burst into tears. Yuki didn't know what to say. This, she realized, was some catharsis he needed to go through. A natural emotional and spiritual cleansing. He was letting it all out. He was healing. Yuki realized that her mission had been successful. Somehow, through the threat of a lawsuit, she'd managed to touch his inner spirit and transform him.

Francis sobbed. “I'm so sorry. I don't know what's wrong with me.”

Yuki handed him a box of tissues. “It's okay. You're going to be better now.”

She reached for her atomizer and sprayed a light lavender-scented mist in the air. He looked up at her, his eyes burned red from crying.

“I don't think I'm ever going to be better.”

“Why do you say that?”

“It's true.”

“Healing is painful, but it's necessary.”

“It's not that. . . it's—”

Francis couldn't finish his sentence. He was too embarrassed, too scared of making it true by saying it out loud.

“Is there something I can do?”

“Not unless you're Mother Teresa and can raise the dead.”

Yuki didn't know what he was talking about.

“Nobody died.”

“My penis did.”

If Francis hadn't appeared so genuinely distraught, Yuki would've just walked out the door and asked for an even bigger settlement, but Francis was so sincerely overcome with grief that Yuki couldn't help herself; she had to stay and show him some compassion.

“What happened?”

Francis began sobbing. “Long story.”

“Did the doctors tell you it's dead?”

“No. But I can tell. When a Dick Ryder movie doesn't do anything for you, you've got one foot in the grave.”

Yuki nodded like she understood. “Have you thought about a holistic approach?”

Francis blew his nose. “What's that?”

Yuki thought about it. “Well, if it's your penis, then it's connected to your root chakra.”

“I'll try anything. Voodoo, cryptic mumbo-jumbo, whatever. I'll walk across burning coals barefoot for a hard-on.”