Mahu Box Set Page 2

  As my eyes got accustomed to the darkness I started checking out the other guys. The bar was halfway between the dance floor and the patio. About a dozen guys were dancing to the pounding beat, and there were another dozen or so clustered around the bar. There were a few mixed couples, and a few groups of guys seated in the plastic chairs out on the patio.

  I took my Longboard Lager and made a slow circuit of the bar and patio area. A gray-haired guy, in his sixties maybe, cruised the room counterclockwise to me, and I had to look away every time we passed. There was a cute guy in a rugby shirt leaning up against a palm tree, but he never seemed to look my way. It was easy to find excuses not to talk to anyone. No one seemed able to make eye contact with anyone else, and none of the guys who stood alone appealed to me. One was too thin, another too fat. I couldn’t talk to the guy in lime-green bell-bottoms and tank top because he looked too faggy. The two beefy guys in muscle shirts looked too mean, and too caught up in each other anyway.

  At the side of the bar there was a long hallway. The first two doors I saw were clearly marked Kane, for men, and Wahine, for women. There were other doors, though, farther down the hall, and every now and then someone would come or go down the hallway, and I didn’t want to know what was going on back there. Or rather, I did want to know, desperately, but I wouldn’t let myself admit it. I found a place by the patio wall where I could see what was going on in the bar, on the patio, and down the hallway. I cradled my beer like it was my only friend, and watched, and waited. A really buffed guy in a tank top kept going in and out of the hall, and two Japanese guys holding hands went back there and disappeared.

  About half of the guys standing around the bar wore their hair just a little too short or their mustaches a little too trimmed, but others looked like guys you’d see on the street. I started to feel more like there was a chance I might fit in here someday. Of course, it was kind of sad seeing all these guys who couldn’t connect with each other, and striving on my part just to get to that level, where I was comfortable enough with myself and my sexuality to stand around in a room full of gay men and not feel desperately awkward.

  I was almost through my second lager when a guy came up to me. I was still dressed in my moke outfit, still hadn’t shaved. He was tall and thin, gawky as a giraffe, his head shaved so that only a blond stubble remained. He almost passed me, then leaned up close to my ear and whispered, “I like it rough.” His tongue grazed the outside of my ear.

  I shivered, and pushed away. Suddenly I knew I had to get out. If I didn’t I’d do something, I wasn’t sure what. I might follow the giraffe into a back room, or punch his lights out, or tear off my clothes and jump up onto a table and dance. I dropped my empty bottle on a table and nearly ran for the door.

  Outside, I stood next to a lamp post, gulping moist warm air. A wave of traffic passed on Kuhio Avenue, and a guy in a Miata with the top down cut off a Ford Explorer to make a sharp left. The Ford blasted his horn. My heart was racing again and my hands were shaking. The door to the club opened, and the giraffe stepped outside. I caught his eye, shook my head, and walked around the corner. I found a place in the shadows and slumped against the wall, facing the back door of the club.

  The giraffe didn’t follow, and I was grateful. It was nearly three, and I was due on the second watch at eight in the morning. If I went home now, I could sleep for a couple of hours, and then get out onto the surf by first light. Just me, my board, and the ocean, and I could feel better. I knew I could.

  I was almost ready to start home when I heard the sound of somebody dragging something down the alley. I thought it was a manager dragging a trash can out to the street, until I rounded the corner and saw him bent down low. When he reached the shelter of a kiawe tree by the street, he turned and ran back up the alley. I heard a car door open and then slam closed, and then a black Jeep Cherokee swung out of the alley behind the club, fishtailing a bit as the driver made his turn. I figured the driver was probably running away from somebody he’d met at the bar. I knew how he felt.

  Then I saw the body.

  I looked up, making the connection between the dragging sound and the hurried driver, but it was too late; the car had already made the turn onto Kuhio and it was gone. I was kicking myself for my slow reactions as I leaned over the guy. Even in the dark, I could see the blood already pooling beneath his head. I felt his neck for a pulse, and couldn’t get one. “Shit,” I said out loud.

  I wasn’t carrying my cell phone, so I had to jog to the corner, looking for a pay phone. There wasn’t one. It was two blocks before I could find one that worked. I dialed 911, and covered the mouthpiece of the phone with my T-shirt. “I want to report a murder,” I said, mumbling but trying to get the words out. “Behind the Rod and Reel Club on Kuhio Avenue.”

  The operator asked, “May I have your name, sir?”

  I wanted to go back to the guy in the alley. I didn’t want him to be alone. And I knew that as the first officer on the scene I ought to investigate, secure the area. Most crimes are solved within the first twenty-four hours, and I’d been given a golden opportunity to be in at the start of the investigation.

  But I didn’t want to explain what I was doing back there, long after I’d left my buddies. I spent my time looking for the truth behind other people’s lives, but I wasn’t prepared to look so closely at my own. After all, despite whatever had happened in my past, I was dating a woman. I was still trying. So despite everything I knew I ought to do, I hung up the phone.

  There was a light breeze sweeping through the trash along the side of the street. I pulled off my T-shirt and used it to wipe the sweat from my forehead. I started to jog for home, hoping the breeze could blow away my sins.

  Morning Light

  I heard the sirens going down Kuhio Avenue as I ran home. At least the poor sucker wouldn’t be alone, I thought. The avenue was nearly deserted, just a skinny black guy on the other side of the street going in my direction, and an old woman swathed in layers waddling along on a side street. The air was hot and humid, heavy with the scent of motor oil and crushed plumeria blossoms. The light breeze died as I ran past darkened store windows and lonely hotel lobbies.

  All the events of the evening seemed to catch up to me by the time I got to Lili‘uokalani Avenue and the exterior stairs to my apartment. From the moment we put the sting in action, I’d been running on adrenaline, and it finally ran out. Sweat dripped off my forehead and my heart was racing, as much from exertion as from my own fear and panic. I knew it wasn’t right to leave the body there, and yet I knew I couldn’t stay. I careened into the decorative railing, palm trees encased in a cage of wrought iron, and used it to pull myself upstairs. With a shaking hand, I unlocked my door and stumbled inside.

  I pulled off the rest of my clothes and stepped into the shower. Just before I turned the water on, my hand brushed my face and I found it was wet. As the hot water started to pound I realized it wasn’t sweat; I’d been crying.

  I couldn’t sleep. I felt as guilty as if I’d killed the guy myself. What kind of cop was I? By hearing that guy drag the body out to the street and not staying around to report what I’d seen to the officer who responded, I’d made myself into an accessory to a homicide. I was as bad as every crappy witness I’d ever interviewed. No, I didn’t see the license number of the car. I couldn’t give more than a general description of the guy I’d seen dragging the body. It all happened so fast, officer. There was nothing I could do.

  I paced around my little studio apartment until just before dawn, waiting for dispatch to call me, trying to convince myself I should call in. Akoni and I are not the only homicide detectives currently assigned to district six, Waikiki, but in a departmental experiment on community policing, the two of us had been assigned to work out of the Waikiki substation on Kalakaua. Other detectives, including ones from the other units, work out of the main headquarters. I guessed maybe dispatch was handing the call to detectives from downtown, so finally I said, “The hell with this
,” and put on my bathing suit. I grabbed my board and walked out to Lili‘uokalani Street, which leads directly to Kuhio Beach Park, where I surf.

  I am renewed, reborn and revitalized every time I step into the salty water. With my board under me, balanced on a wave, surrounded by sea spray and blue skies, I am finally complete. It’s a moment of rare transcendence for me, a chance to rise up out of the scum and bitterness and shame I find on the streets. It’s the only way I can keep being a cop.

  The sun hadn’t come up over the Ko‘olau Mountains by the time I waded into the water, and the surf was cool, but there was a halo of light over the rocky crests beyond the city that promised day was not far behind. The waves were small, and it wasn’t hard to paddle beyond them. I lay on the board, dangling my right hand in the water, trying to get a feel for the surf.

  I could take a while like that, falling into the rhythm of the waves. That morning it took even longer than usual. I couldn’t seem to empty my mind of the image of that guy, lying in the alley, or of the shame I felt at leaving him there. Finally, though, I relaxed at least a little, and then saw a good wave building. I paddled fast to catch it, then stood up on the board just as a ray of light rose beyond the top of the Ko‘olau, stabbing me in the eye. The nose of the board pearled, or dipped below the wave, and I wiped out, tumbling into the water. The wave washed over me, dragging my board toward the shore, and the leash that kept me tied to the board dragged me forward with it.

  The dunking and the swim toward shore revitalized me. The sets were good, and I caught a couple of powerful waves. Before I knew it, it was daylight and it was time for me to get back home. And sure enough, when I got home I found a message to call dispatch. I called in before I stepped into the shower again. “Homicide reported at 2:38 a.m. in the alley behind the Rod and Reel Club on Kuhio Avenue,” the dispatcher told me. “Detective Hapa‘ele is en route.”

  That was Akoni. I jumped through the shower and came out running, and about twenty minutes later I was next to Akoni in the alley, a narrow strip of often-patched pavement that ran between Kuhio and Kalakaua Avenues. It looked even more desolate in the full light of day than it had in the middle of the night.

  On the Diamond Head side the alley backed up against the blank rear wall of a budget restaurant, and on the Ewa side sat the Rod and Reel Club’s back door. At the Kuhio Avenue end, a couple of the high trees inside the Rod and Reel’s patio hung out over the alley, but the rest of it was open to harsh sun. There were a couple of small dumpsters scattered at intervals, behind other back doors, and coupons for some tourist restaurant skittered in the wind. The walls that faced into the alley had been painted different colors, and some looked like they hadn’t been painted in years. It was a back side of Waikiki most tourists don’t see.

  “You missed him,” Akoni said sadly. “I finally had to let the body boys take him away, because nobody knew where the hell you were.”

  “You know where I was,” I said. I nodded my head toward the ocean. The sun had cleared the tops of the mountains and was shining brightly on the tourists, the orange-vested guys working on the street, the Japanese men in suits and the little girls in plaid uniforms on their way to school.

  “Jesus, what time did you get to bed last night?”

  “Tell me what I missed.”

  We started walking down the alley. “Apparent gay bashing,” Akoni said. “Somebody called in a dead body about three this morning. Uniforms on the scene found a John Doe, underneath the kiawe tree over there. The night shift was swamped with a gang-banger scene downtown, so nobody could get here to investigate until dispatch finally called me an hour ago.”

  “So no detectives interviewed anybody last night?”

  Akoni shook his head. It made me feel worse, knowing that if I’d stuck around I could have started a canvas, interviewed guys at the bar, the bartender, people passing by.

  “The ME speculated that the cause of death was blunt trauma to the cranial region. Not hard to do with a big chunk taken out of the side of the guy’s head. No ID. No jewelry except a thick gold chain around the victim’s neck that was probably too bloody to get off.”

  My stomach was doing flip-flops. I needed a cup of coffee bad. Saunders, a beefy haole uniformed cop with sandy hair and a bushy mustache, was standing under the tree, trying to look busy, so Akoni and I got him to get us some coffee from the malasada shop across the street. These little shops were springing up all over the islands, serving a kind of Portuguese donut, usually alongside pretty decent coffee.

  “I figure the guy left the club late last night, ran into some bad dudes, and they tried to knock him for a loop. They knocked a little too hard and the guy bought it.”

  “Think they stole his ID?”

  “Maybe. Maybe he was afraid to carry anything.” He leered a little. “Thought he might get lucky, didn’t want to risk getting rolled.”

  I nodded toward the club. “They ID there?”

  “We can ask, once they open.” He looked at me. “You know I’m not going in there alone.”

  “Oh good, can we hold hands when we go in?”

  “One of these days I’m going to hurt you,” he said.

  The two techs were already searching the alley, while a uniform stood guard at each end, blocking access. They’d strung yellow crime scene tape along both ends and I could see one of the uniforms arguing with a delivery truck. “Maybe we’ll get lucky and one of the techs will find his wallet,” I said. “Maybe the bad guys just took the cash and left the ID somewhere. Why don’t you see if a uniform can check out the trash cans along both of the avenues for a couple of blocks in either direction.”

  While Akoni got on the radio, I walked up and down the narrow pavement with my hands behind my back, looking slowly and carefully at everything. There was clear trail of blood from a spot at the back end of the alley up to where the body had been found. I followed it, then walked back to where I’d seen the Cherokee the night before.

  Akoni had already taken notes, but I got out my pad and pen and starting taking my own. It was getting hot, so I stood in the shade of the high trees and drew a rough sketch of the alley first, including the back door of the club, the position of the body, and, in a cryptic note only I could understand, the direction the Cherokee had traveled.

  Saunders returned with coffee and a malasadas, and I kept writing while I ate and drank, leaning up against the side wall of the club. It was seven a.m., and the street was already busy. Delivery trucks pulling up at the back of the Kuhio Mall, joggers out for their morning runs, elderly mama-sans scurrying home from night jobs. There was a mass of gray cloud cover over the Ko’olau, but a stiff trade wind coming in off the ocean kept it away from Waikiki. It was going to be a great day for the beach, a tourist office poster kind of day, full of thong bikinis, surfboards and palm trees swaying in a gentle breeze. Oh, and murder, too.

  I wrote down everything I could remember from the time the giraffe followed me out of the club until the time I left the alley to find a phone. Then I started taking notes on what I saw around me. It’s a rule you have to pound into your head when you graduate from the beat to detective—write everything down. Even if it doesn’t seem important, write it down. You’ll forget it otherwise, and then it’s bound to be the one thing you need to know, or the first thing the D.A. asks when he’s putting together his case.

  On my first case as a detective, I neglected to write down whether the window in the victim’s bedroom was open or closed, and we nearly lost the case over whether the perp could have escaped that way. Fortunately a witness came through who remembered seeing the curtains flying through the open window, and I got off the hook. Since then I’ve written everything. I sniff the air, I listen for ambient sounds, I feel the textures of things. Even stuff that seems ordinary, that you take for granted, like garbage cans in an alley, I write down. You never know when you’re going to find out it wasn’t trash day that day, and that there was valuable evidence in the garbage.

&n
bsp; I finally ran out of things to write. While the crime scene techs finished up their search, I walked over to Akoni and stood with him at the end of the alley, drinking another cup of coffee. “He look like a tourist?” I asked.

  “He no had ID, Kimo. How I gonna tell he tourist?”

  When Akoni gets angry he lapses into pidgin, the Hawaiian dialect we were all suckled on. “Red skin from sunburn,” I said. “A new t-shirt that says I heart Waikiki. Rubber slippers fresh from Woolworth. One of those cheap shell leis they give you when you tour the aloha shirt factory. You know the signs just as well as I do, Akoni. Why you so bull-headed this morning?”

  In the distance we heard the protesting squeal of hydraulic brakes, and somewhere nearby a truck was backing up and beeping. “You know what time they called me? Five a.m. I didn’t get home ‘til after midnight. I was going to sleep late this morning. Maybe call in late for my shift. Maybe do a little dirty with Mealoha. Instead I roll out of bed at five, and nobody knows where the hell you are.”

  “I’m sorry, all right? I’ll make it up to you. Someday you get Mealoha ready for some afternoon delight, and I’ll cover for you.”

  He was still grumpy, but I could see that idea had some appeal to him. “So what you think? Tourist? Malihini? Kama‘aina?” A malihini is a newcomer to the islands, one step above tourist. A kama‘aina, literally “child of the land,” is a native or long-time resident, like Akoni or me.

  He thought. “Chinese. Mid to late forties. Expensive suit, fancy shoes. No way to tell if he’s a tourist or not.”

  “Good start,” I said. I wiped a bead of perspiration off my forehead. “Maybe he was out to dinner, had a couple of drinks, didn’t know what kind of place he was going into. Somebody might have seen him as easy prey. Remember, the other bashings here have been big fights, half a dozen guys on each side.”

  “You can’t just take the easy way out, call him a faggot? You haven’t even seen him.”