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“You been warned.”

“And you're a dead man.”

...

Yuki was exhausted. It had been a long day. On top of the constant demands of her job, her secret mission to cleanse her
boss of his negative energy was the killer. Francis, she realized, was a force to be reckoned with, a one-man H-bomb capable of unleashing supercharged diva-destruction in all directions. Yuki, the staff, and any local hires would just be collateral damage, set decoration and props for the shock-and-a-we campaign of self-annihilation that Francis was bringing with him.

She climbed into bed and turned off the light. As she was drifting off, she thought about the big Hawaiian pimp who'd approached her on the street. Although the idea of selling her body for money was creepy, she was excited that someone actually thought that, with a little retooling, she might be sexually attractive. When was the last time anyone had shown an interest in her? When was the last time she'd had sex? She realized, somewhat grimly, that she hadn't had intimate contact with another human being in almost four years. No hand holding, no hugs, no kissing, no touching, no getting laid, nothing.

It was depressing.

She'd distracted herself. Filled her days with classes, lessons, chanting, and volunteer work. But she realized that she would trade all the belly-dancing lessons, conga classes, feng shui seminars, and yoga retreats for a night between the sheets with someone. Anyone. They didn't have to be hot or hunky, they didn't even have to be male; at this point she just wanted contact. And along comes a pimp, a real live pimp who knows what he's talking about, who says, “Dress like a boy and people will want you.”

How do you like that?

Yuki drifted off into a deep sleep and, as her REM kicked in, began to dream. In her dream, Yuki had short hair,
cropped in the back and on the sides with a long, flowing lock that fell down over her eyes. She looked sultry, seductive. She wore a white cotton tank top underneath an unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt, her small dark nipples clearly visible through the thin fabric. She had on ankle-length khakis that were baggy and made her hips look boyish. She wore pink canvas high-tops and had a baseball cap perched on the back of her head. She wasn't sure what she looked like: a cool teenage boy, a dyke, or a superfashionable young woman who was hip, happening, and ready for anything.

Because it was a dream, she suddenly found herself on a tropical beach, maybe Ipanema. It was hot. The sand was littered with sunbathers laid out on towels, raw and pink and exposed, like sushi. The sun beat down, and the smell of broiling cocoa-buttered flesh mixed with the salt of the sea breeze. It made her stomach growl with a hard, deeply erotic hunger.

Yuki wasn't like the other women on the beach. She didn't have huge tits packed into a teeny bikini. She wasn't wearing a thong. Yet everywhere she looked men were lusting after her, beckoning, waving, offering drinks, cash, jewelry, even a new skateboard.

She had never felt so desired.

She heard them breathing: hot, heavy, panting. She stopped walking and stood there, trembling with excitement. The breeze from the surf sprayed across her skin and caused a tingling electromagnetic surge that shot through her body, connecting her lips to her nipples to her suddenly wet pussy.

The men could sense her desire; they could smell it, feel it whipping through the wind, stirring them like a sex cyclone. They came for her, running, walking, some crawling through the sand on their hands and knees; one was doing cartwheels
and flips as he approached. Some of them wore business suits, others hotel robes, swim trunks, and baggy surf shorts. A few had bulging Speedos, skimpy racing swimsuits that barely covered their privates.

They came for her. They closed in, an anemone of strong, sleek arms wrapping around her, stroking her body, touching her all over. Her body began to drip and melt like a Popsicle on a very hot day. And then, as she felt their hot breath on her skin, they began licking her. Starting with her toes and ankles and neck and shoulders, slowly working their way toward. . .

Yuki woke up. She was disoriented and sweating profusely. Suddenly desperate for some fresh air, she jumped out of bed, opened the sliding glass door, and walked out on the balcony. The night air was cool and she shivered as her skin goose-bumped up and down her body. She hadn't had a dream so vivid or intense in years. She was annoyed that she'd woken up. It wasn't fair. If she couldn't get laid in real life, at least she should be allowed to get some in her dreams.

She felt her crotch. It was soaked.

...

Sid's knuckles were white as he gripped his beer bottle. “You hear wot dat haole motherfucker say to me?”

Joseph nodded, noncommittal, and sipped his beer while Sid continued to fume.

“I shoulda pound him right den.”

“Beat up a cripple? They'd throw you in jail.”

“He a gimp, but he fo' sure dangerous.”

Joseph turned to Sid. “Uncle, why'd you give him an ultimatum?”

“You wanna give him a lei? Say ‘Aloha haole motherfucker'? Is dat wot you want den?”

Joseph shook his head. “I just don't know what we gain by threatening him.”

“He threaten me.”

Joseph couldn't look at Sid. He wanted to tell him to be reasonable, to stop behaving like a two-year-old who didn't know how to share his sandbox. What was happening was inevitable. Business as usual. They'd had a monopoly for years; it had given them the security to invest, to build something really good. But they'd been living in a bubble. Now that the bubble was popped, they'd have to adjust. Joseph wasn't afraid of it. They could handle the competition. It wasn't going to kill them.

But Joseph knew his uncle wouldn't believe him, so he didn't say anything. He looked around the bar. It was dark and wooden with neon signs advertising Mexican beer and filled with a mix of locals and tourists.

Sid waved to the bartender for another round. “We at war now.”

“What are you talking about?”

“He bringin' war to da island. Dat fo' sure den.”

...

Stanley heard the banging on his door, but he didn't want to answer it. What if it was some kind of criminal? Then he heard a voice he recognized.

“Open the door, ya putz.”

Stanley wrapped himself in a terry-cloth robe provided by the hotel and looked out the peephole. Jack was in the
hallway, his features distorted and deformed by the fish-eye lens, glaring at the door like he could open it telepathically.

“Stanley! Wake up!”

“Hang on.” Stanley unlocked the door and opened it a crack. “It's late.”

“Quit fuckin' around.”

Jack shoved his walker against the door, making a loud scrape, pushed his way in, and scuttled into the room.

“You got someone here?”

“Of course not.”

“You should. This town's full of hookers.”

Stanley sighed. “I don't want a hooker, Dad.”

Jack shot him a perplexed and disappointed look. “Why not?”

Stanley sighed again. “What can I do for you?”

“Listen to your old man for a minute. There ain't nothin' wrong with a whore. Don't let those Bible-thumping hypocrites tell you different. They all talk one way, but as soon as no one's lookin' they got a tranny bobbin' for dollars by the dashboard light.”

“What're you talking about?”

“I'm just sayin', you have a need, don't be ashamed to get it treated by a professional.”

Stanley put his hand up to his head. “I don't have a need.”

Jack snorted. “Of course you do.”

“No, I don't. I'm fine.”

“You're in denial.”

“Okay. I'll go see a psychiatrist. They're professional.”

“A professional cocksucker will straighten you out faster than any kind of shrinky-dinky do-gooder.”

“Thanks, Dad. You woke me up to tell me this?”

Stanley was tired. He took a bottle of water out of the minibar.

“Hand me a beer, will ya?”

Stanley twisted the top off a bottle of Heineken and handed it to his father. He sat back on the bed and sipped his water as Jack drained two-thirds of the beer in one long gulpy swallow.

“The fuckers are declaring war on us.”

“Who?”

“The local fuckers. The Sumo and his kid.”

“Samoan.”

“Whatever. They braced me in the strip club.”

Stanley was shocked. “What?”

“Have you ever seen the tits on a Korean girl?” Then Jack realized what he'd said. “Forget it. Of course you haven't. Only tits you see are in
National Geographic.
”

Stanley was growing agitated. “What did they say?”

“What do you think they said? They want us out.”

“What did you say?”

“I told 'em to go fuck themselves.” Jack finished the beer and tossed the bottle on the floor.

“What did they say to that?”

Jack shot his son an annoyed look. “What do you think they said; ‘Okay, we'll just go fuck ourselves, thank you very much for suggesting it'?”

“No. . . I—”

“They declared fuckin' war. I'm takin' the first flight back to Vegas. I'm gonna have a little chat with some of our AFL-CIO friends. Maybe they can apply some pressure, straighten this out.”

“For a piece of the action.”

Jack hoisted himself to his feet, grabbed his walker, and began to hobble toward the door.

“The cost of doing business.”

...

If you didn't know better, you might open the door to this ratty little dive tucked away in a dank Chinatown alley, take one look at the thugs, junkies, and hired killers inside, and slink away as quickly as possible. But if you knew the truth, you'd know that the tough-looking customers drinking beer and eating questionable sashimi were all off-duty police officers, most of them undercover detectives from the narcotics and organized crime units. Despite appearances to the contrary, this was actually the safest place in Honolulu.

A detective, chronic-looking with a greasy ponytail, Fu Manchu mustache, and pirate earrings, was singing karaoke. He was drunk, as were the other off-duty law enforcement types in the bar, but his heartfelt and slightly raunchy rendition of “You Light Up My Life” was bringing down the house.

Joseph entered the bar and nodded to a couple of detectives he knew. That was the thing about growing up in Honolulu: You knew everybody and everybody knew you. Joseph knew a few policemen. He even knew a criminal. One of his best friends from high school had become a high-class pimp. Not that they ever talked about it. Joseph didn't ask and his friend never mentioned it. Sometimes, with friends, it's better not to know.

Joseph sat down at the bar and ordered a beer. An inebriated brunette—Joseph recognized her as one of the
Chinatown bicycle-patrol officers—pushed the karaoke song list over to him and ordered him to pick a song. In a bar where everyone's packing heat, it's best to do as you're told. Joseph nodded and scanned the list until his drink arrived.

The beer came with a glass of ice and a plastic bowl filled with little red globes of
li hing mui.
Following the local custom, Joseph plucked two of the
li hing mui,
sour pickled plums coated in a carcinogenic-red powder, and dropped them in the glass of ice. He then slowly poured the beer over the fruit. He did it carefully, because something in the plums causes the beer to foam up.

Across the room, Sid sat in deep conversation with the assistant district attorney. Sid was trying to figure out if there was a way to implicate Jack Lucey and his Las Vegas business in price-fixing, bid rigging, or extortion: basically, all things that Sid routinely did with the union's blessing. Sid was looking for allies or, better, someone to go to war for him. Joseph watched as the ADA, a friendly red-haired man with a perpetually sunburned nose, shook his head. Sid took a swig from his beer, nodded like he understood, and tried another tack. Joseph heard his uncle's voice rise above the karaoke clatter.

“But dis is
our
island!”

The ADA mumbled something in response. Judging from the way Sid shot a sideways glance and clenched his teeth, Joseph could tell it wasn't the answer he was looking for.

Joseph took a long drink of the ice-cold, sweet-plum-flavored beer and shook his head. As far as he was concerned, it was a little late to start shouting
This is our island
when it'd been stolen from them over a hundred years ago. The British and the French had both tried and failed to overthrow the
Kingdom of Hawaii and take control of the islands. They'd been repelled by a stubborn monarchy and a ferocious people. Only fat-cat robber barons from the United States had managed to pull it off, and they didn't bother with warships or a battalion; they had someone on the inside.

In 1875, King David Kalakaua, a boozer and womanizer—the real incarnation of Kamapua‘a, the Hog God—signed the Reciprocity Treaty with the United States, allowing sugar and pineapple barons to sell Hawaiian goods to the mainland without a tax or tariff. The fat cats from San Francisco and beyond had anticipated this and gobbled up vast tracts of land, much of it purchased directly from the king himself.

A few years later Kalakaua extended the treaty and, in exchange, let the U.S. government build a naval base at Pearl Harbor. That was the beginning of the end for the Kingdom of Hawaii. Ten years after that the agribarons, Claus Spreckels, Sanford B. Dole, and C&H, the self-made kings of pineapple and sugar, sponsored a revolt against the monarchy and had the U.S. Marines land to “protect American interests.”

On January 17, 1893, Queen Liliuokalani surrendered her crown under protest to avoid a bloody battle between native Hawaiians and the U.S. Marines. The islands were annexed as a territory and Dole was installed as territorial governor. American interests had been protected in perpetuity ever since. If you asked Joseph, they'd been protected at the expense of the Hawaiians.