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The nonunion producers would whine; they would moan. They would talk about how Steven Spielberg was asking him, Sid, for a personal favor. But Sid didn't care, and since Steven Spielberg himself never called and asked for the favor—well, they could go fuck themselves.

The smart producers knew that if they wanted to film on the island it was cheaper and easier to go with the flow: unionize, pay the fee, get the food, and everybody's happy. You did whatever it took not to piss off the locals.

Sid wasn't the only one with a monopoly. It was one of the ways to survive, and each person in the little economic
ecosystem helped the other. During boom times when there was plenty of work, Sid made sure that films and TV shows coming to the island used union employees, and the union made sure they ate only from Sid's trucks. Like the shark and the pilot fish,
mano
and
nenue,
it was a classic symbiotic relationship. Everybody worked; everybody prospered.

Besides, people on the mainland could afford it.

Joseph poured himself a cup of coffee and added a splash of condensed milk. The heavy white liquid swirled languidly, like pond scum, slowly turning the black coffee brown. Sid turned to Joseph.

“What you think den?”

Joseph sipped his coffee. “Let's go talk to them. They might need us.”

Sid grimaced. “I don' wanna work wid dat fuckin' guy.”

Joseph shrugged. He tried to be philosophical about these things. “He's got the job, we don't. Better to try and make something out of it.”

“Better to burn dey trucks.”

Joe and Ed recoiled. “We didn't hear that.”

Ed seconded him. “We were never here.”

And with that the two Teamsters set down their coffees and moved quickly out of the warehouse.

Joseph turned and looked at Sid. “You're not going to burn their trucks.”

Sid looked at Joseph. “Wot you learn fo' in college den?”

“I'm just saying we go talk to the guy.”

“Jack Lucey's a fuckin' scumbag. Dis is what he do. He moves inna territory and shoves da little guy out.”

“We're not little. We're well established.”

“He killed dat guy in Vegas.”

“That's just a rumor. You don't know for sure. Let's talk to the producer. Maybe we can work something out.”

Sid grumbled; he didn't like what was happening. Not at all. “Okay. We talk. Den we burn dey trucks.”

...

The smell of failed deodorant filled the gym. Wilson, his body glistening with sweat, his veins roaring with blood, his lungs heaving, his muscles pumped up and expanded like a king cobra ready to strike, lay back on the bench press and rested. He listened to the rhythmic clank of metal on metal as the other men continued to lift.

Wilson was upset. He'd been hoping that a good workout would calm him down, but it had only made him tired and angry. He didn't understand it. How come his dad made him leave when Joe and Ed showed up? What was so top secret that he couldn't hear? If there was a problem, he could fix it. That's what he did when he wasn't keeping the coffee hot on set or slicing bagels for the stand-ins.

In the nightclubs and discothèques he was the expert, the fixer. He made sure it was safe for the rich and beautiful, the hot and hunky. Wilson put the guys with the biggest bankroll with the babes with the hottest bods. He kept the dorks and retards outside, behind the rope. And if someone got drunk or caused trouble, he'd bash their face in.

These guys from Las Vegas were trouble, right? Why not just bash their faces in?

Wilson sat up and mopped his face with a towel. He felt his biceps, hard as stone. He smiled. These arms might come in handy.

He realized that he resented his cousin, Joseph. Joseph was always at the ‘
ahas,
the all-important powwows and big business meetings, while Wilson was excluded. He didn't know much about finance and loans and paperwork things, and he couldn't cook for shit, but that didn't mean he was stupid. He was supposed to be part of the family, the
ohana,
and part of the business. They should include him.

Wilson went into the locker room and bought a couple vials of anabolic steroids from a bodybuilder he knew. He went into a toilet stall and sat down. Wilson figured he might need the boost if he was forced to practice the ancient Hawaiian art of
lua
and break some poor fucker's bones. It's good to be prepared.

He carefully—and it was slippery because he was still sweaty—filled a new syringe with a double dip of the stuff and injected it into the muscles on his left calf. It burned going in. Although he liked the muscle mass he got from taking steroids, he didn't like the way it altered his mood, making him short-tempered and cranky. Normally he was pretty laid back.

...

Francis spread his new purchases, courtesy of an accommodating bellhop at the hotel, on top of his desk. A vial of Levitra, a six-pack of Viagra, and a gram of crystal meth; it was a goodtime vacation party pack. He took a moment and surveyed the decrepit termite feeder of an office that served as production headquarters. A kind of fungus, the color of pureed iguana, grew freely from under the windowsill, slowly spreading across the dark brown paneling. The window was filmed
with years of cigarette smoke residue, tinting the sunlight a carcinogenic hue, and the spattered brown carpet felt vaguely squishy underfoot. The brown-on-brown motif was carried further to include the curtains, ratty and scarred, and the cheap wood-grain Formica desk. Even the lamp was brown. It was like being inside a mushroom.

The place, however, had a Third World charm, and Francis liked it better than the soulless industrial parks he usually worked in. It was nothing like Chad's architectural marvel stuffed with expensive modern masterworks. There were no shoji-screen offices or modern concrete fountains in the foyer, no clever series of Ed Ruscha prints or massive Julian Schnabel paintings, no automatic espresso machine from Italy, and no handmade leather chairs from France. But hey, that's okay; look out the window, it's fucking Hawaii. He'd get some fresh orchids and it'd be fine.

That is, until Joseph and Sid came busting in.

Francis swept his treats into the desktop drawer and turned his attention to the two men. At first Francis didn't know what to make of them. There was the one who called himself Sid, standing there like a Sumo wrestler, huffing and puffing and all pissed off. Then there was the cute one, taking a step back, listening. Man, was he cute.

He ignored the big one, tuned him out. These guys are always the same: gimme, gimme, gimme. Francis was sick of hearing it. It was whining disguised as tough-guy talk. He'd heard it from the Teamsters in Miami. He'd heard it from the Gambino family when he did a movie in New York City. He'd heard it in San Francisco, Seattle, and Chicago. Every goddamn time he did a job it was some big fat tough guy telling him he owed it to them, to the locals, the union, the
mafia, the fucking brotherhood-of-whatever. Pay up or else. Gimme, gimme, gimme. Who did they think he was, Santa Claus?

Francis kept his eye on the young one. He traced a line with his eyes from the handsome face to his articulated biceps to his firm pecs and down to the left-leaning bulge in the crotch of his pants. Francis felt a little tingle begin around his nipples. They stiffened.

As Francis continued to get aroused, Sid continued to rant and fume. Francis nodded, like he was listening, and then—this is what he always did—he passed the buck. It wasn't his decision. It came from the network. In fact, the deal had been done before he'd even been hired.

It was true, actually. Francis didn't know why he wasn't using the locals, but it wasn't his job to argue with his bosses; it was his job to do what they said.

He smiled at Joseph. “I understand how important this job is to you guys. Let me call my boss and see what I can do about it. How's that sound?”

The fat one seemed vaguely placated but couldn't resist a last little threat. “You don' want no trouble.”

Francis nodded. No, he did not. He looked at the young one. “Maybe we can have a drink and talk about it. What do you think?”

Joseph nodded. “Anytime.”

Joseph handed Francis his card. Very briefly Francis felt the young man's strong brown hand brush against his. His nipples got a tiny bit harder underneath his T-shirt, and his brain secreted a burst of hormone, giving his cock the green light to erectify.

“I'll be in touch.”

Francis watched them as they left his office, his eyes locked on Joseph's ass as he walked away. Nice.

Francis smiled to himself. The day was looking up.

...

She'd spent her entire life surrounded by Caucasians. She spoke like a Caucasian, dressed like a Caucasian, lived like a Caucasian. She ate Caucasian food and dated Caucasian men. She may have been a resident of Caucasia, but Yuki Sugimoto wasn't Caucasian. She was a Japanese-American or, more accurately, an American of Japanese ancestry. Not that she felt that way. She didn't speak any Japanese, could hardly relate to her grandmother, who'd survived an internment camp in northern Utah, and didn't even like Japanese food. Sometimes she'd catch herself in the mirror, her Japanese face and black hair giving her a shock, a surprise, a momentary spark of something distinctly non-Caucasian. It was a feeling that there was more to her, something special, mysterious, and undefined, some exotic magic she hadn't discovered yet.

Occasionally she would meet people who were surprised that she was so Americanized. She always thought that strange. She was born and raised in California. Attended public high schools and UCLA. What could be more American? Was it just because her skin wasn't white? Her eyes weren't blue? Her hair wasn't blond?

It didn't take long for Yuki to understand why she felt so comfortable in Honolulu. From the moment she stepped off the plane she felt right at home. Everywhere she looked she saw echoes of herself. Almost everyone had some Asiatic features. Black hair, rice eyes. It was the Caucasians who stuck
out in the crowd. For the first time in her life she was a member of the majority. Everyone looked like her, and she looked like everyone else. They were her age, they spoke English, watched lots of crappy television, and remembered the band Oasis. Only they didn't look like the majority on the mainland. Here she was the norm. How cool is that?

She had just pulled out her bundle of dried sage to purify the outer office of negative energy and bad spirits when a cute guy and a big guy came in demanding to see Francis. They didn't wait to be announced, they didn't want a cup of coffee or a bottle of mineral water, they just barged right in to Francis's office.

Yuki was worried that Francis would be mad at her, especially since the big guy was ranting and raving about some kind of betrayal of trust or something. She didn't know what he was talking about, really. She kept her eyes on the cute guy's back, just watching him. He wasn't like the big angry guy. In fact he wasn't like any guy she'd ever seen before. He was handsome, that's for sure, but also calm and thoughtful. A very cool guy, but with a kind of authority about him too. It reminded her of a movie she saw with Steve McQueen. He was a race-car driver or something. He didn't say much. He didn't have to. It was very attractive.

Yuki found herself watching Joseph's back and, for the first time in a long time, she let her mind ponder erotic possibilities.

...

Waikiki. This is it. Wall-to-wall tits and ass just layin' out there. Chicks in thong bikinis facedown on their beach towels,
their bare ass cheeks oiled and glistening like fresh donuts coming off the line at Krispy Kreme. Girls jumping around in the waves, the cold water making their nipples pop underneath their bikini tops like some kind of come-fuck-me flare shot into the sky. Off to the side, Jack watched as statuesque young coeds played volleyball, their breasts arching and heaving with each bump, set, spike.

Waikiki. No wonder it's famous.

Jack scuffled his walker to the edge of the patio; he didn't mind being in the sun if it gave him a better view of the action. He had a couple of hours to kill before his meeting with the line producer—some fairy that the network hired as a favor to some big shot. Not that it made any difference to Jack. You want to have sex with another guy, cool; that just leaves more pussy for me. Besides, that was the way things worked in this business—in any business, really—friends hired friends and did favors for friends and friends of friends. You wanna make it in Hollywood? Make some fucking friends.

Stanley, who had gone horribly native in some kind of matching Hawaiian shirt-and-shorts ensemble, arrived at the table. He was carrying a couple of fruity-looking drinks with pineapple kebabs and paper umbrellas sticking out.

“I got you a mai tai.”

Jack glared at his son. “I don't like fruity drinks.”

Stanley shrugged and sat down. “C'mon, Dad. We're in Hawaii. We should at least try the local food.”

“Smells like prune juice. And what in God's name are you wearing? You look like a fucking retard.”

Stanley ignored his father and took a sip. He recoiled. “Wow. These are strong.”

“How could anything with a fucking piece of fruit sticking out of it be strong?”

Jack figured that 7-Up might be too strong for Stanley, but he was curious and took a sip. He was surprised—in a good way—to feel the several different varieties of rum burning their way down his gullet. Maybe there was something to these local dishes after all. Jack put the glass down and took the pineapple kebab out, setting it in the ashtray. He flicked the paper umbrella onto the floor.

“Now it looks like a drink.”

“You like it?”

Jack nodded as he knocked back half the mai tai in one long greedy gulp. “Get me another one. But without all the bells and whistles.”

“You can have mine.”

“I don't want yours. I want my own.”