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Jack even found himself rooting for the lone American in the tournament—not that the guy looked even remotely American; he looked more like a gigantic defensive lineman from Mongolia, but he was listed as an American—and Jack felt his patriotic spirit surge when the big American demolished some fierce-looking Jap.

Jack didn't understand the salt throwing, stomping, and hand clapping. But wasn't it kind of like baseball? The pitcher reaches down for that bag of stuff next to the mound, looks at the catcher, spits, and goes into his windup. That's almost the same. The stomping was just part of the Sumo windup.

Jack thought about Sid. He looked like a Sumo. Jack imagined himself in the ring against him: putting his walker to the side, throwing salt over his shoulder, grappling with the behemoth. Winner takes Oahu.

...

Baxter looked at the pineapple spear garnishing his plate. This must be how you tell you're not in Florida. In Florida they'd plonk an orange slice on the plate next to your cheeseburger. Otherwise, as far as he could tell, Hawaii was just like Florida. Nothing but beaches, chicks showing off their hooters, bars, strip clubs, and retarded-looking tourists buying crappy T-shirts and things made out of seashells.

Reggie came in from the beach. He'd taken off his black shirt and rolled his black pants up near his knees so he could wade in the water. Baxter could see the outline of where a wave had slapped Reggie in the crotch. It looked like he'd pissed himself.

“What're you doin', man?”

“I was at the beach.”

Baxter remembered that contract killers were excruciatingly punctual.

“You're late.”

“I met some chicks from Kansas City.”

“Kansas or Missouri?”

“What's it matter, man? They were ready to party.”

Baxter also remembered that contract killers were serious about the business at hand. They didn't party with girls from Kansas City, not while they were on the job anyway. They kept a low profile. Lived in the shadows like ninjas. You didn't see a fuckin' bad-ass Ninja assassin smokin' a fatty on a surfboard. You didn't see a cool hitman buying rounds of drinks for girls at Duke's Canoe Club. It suddenly occurred to Baxter that perhaps Lee Harvey Oswald had been a lone shooter for a reason.

“Dude, we don't have time to party. We're on a job.”

“I'm ready.”

“No, you're not. Go get dressed. Put on your game face.”

Reggie looked at him, exasperated. “If we can't have a good time, what's the point?”

“You want to go back to Vegas?”

Reggie didn't like the edge that had crept into Baxter's voice. “No.”

“Then quit fucking around.”

“All right. Jesus. Don't freak out. I'll be right back.”

Reggie walked off to the bathroom to get dressed.

...

The first thing Yuki noticed about Lono's apartment was the complete absence of chairs. There wasn't a single one. Not that there was that much furniture. There wasn't a table or a sofa either.

Yuki laughed. “Do you have kathisophobia?”

“What's that?”

“Fear of sitting down.”

Lono smiled. “I've got a futon. That's where I sit.”

He gave Yuki a brief tour. It was a lovely apartment: large and open, loft-style modern, with a new gourmet kitchen, a balcony, and big windows that looked out over downtown Honolulu and the ocean beyond. But it looked like he'd just moved in, plopped a futon on the floor, and hung his clothes in the closet. There was exactly one bowl, one plate, two coffee mugs, four glass tumblers, and seven wooden chopsticks in the kitchen cupboards and drawers.

“Don't you have a can opener?”

Lono shrugged. “I don't cook much.”

“I'm not talking about cooking. I'm talking about opening cans. I would at least expect a bachelor to have a microwave.”

“I've been meaning to get one. The thing is, I don't spend a lot of time here.”

“I like it. You just need to move in.”

But the apartment wasn't completely barren. There were several bookshelves filled with books, a TV set and DVD
player, a small superexpensive stereo system with its attendant stacks of CDs, an Apple G4 Powerbook sitting on the futon, and a scattering of little fake mice.

“Do you have a cat?”

Lono nodded. “Yeah. He's around here somewhere.”

Yuki looked around. It's not like there was anywhere for a cat to hide.

“You sure?”

“Maybe he got out.”

Lono went over to the balcony and slid the door open. A large ball of tabby-orange fluff and fuzz came trotting into the house, hair flying off and drifting in its wake. Lono looked at the cat.

“What were you doing out there?”

The cat, naturally, didn't answer and headed straight for his food dish.

“What's its name?”

“Topaz.”

Yuki bent down to scratch the cat's head. “Hi, Topaz.”

Lono looked at Yuki. “I have a present for you.”

Lono went to the closet and opened the door. He took a gift-wrapped box out and handed it to her.

“I hope you like it.”

Yuki blushed. No one had given her a present, not like this anyway, since she was a little girl.

“It's not my birthday.”

“I saw it and I thought of you.”

Yuki felt slightly embarrassed by the way she tore the package open, just like a little kid at Christmas; she couldn't help herself. She lifted the lid off the box to reveal a supercool, powder-blue vintage-looking Puma tracksuit with dark
blue stripes running down the sides of the sleeves and pants. Lono grinned.

“It's kind of hip-hop. But, I don't know. I thought you'd look good in it. It's your style.”

Although it was something that Yuki never would've got for herself—after all, she wasn't a professional athlete or megaplatinum rapper—it did fit right in with her new look. She liked that Lono thought it was her style. When was something this cool ever her style?

“I love it.”

“Try it on.”

Yuki slung the jacket over her shoulders and zipped it up. It fit perfectly and made her look totally street-chic savvy. Looking in the mirror, she realized,
This beats the hell out of a peasant blouse from Turkey
. Yuki stuck her hands in the pockets and bumped up against something metallic. She knew right away what it was.

“What's this?”

Lono looked sheepish. “I know we just met and everything. But I thought. . . you know, if you get tired of the hotel you can always come over here.”

Yuki took the key out of her pocket and examined it. No one had ever given her a key to his place before.

“Does this mean we're going steady?”

“If you'd like to.”

Yuki walked over to him, stood on her tiptoes, and wrapped her arms around him. “I'd like to.”

She dropped her head to one side and gave him the hottest, wettest soul kiss she could muster. She kissed him like she meant it.

...

Joseph climbed the rickety wooden stairs, past clumps of ginger, banana plants, and hairy overgrown ferns, up to Hannah's apartment in an old Hawaiian house. Neo-Victorian but with tropical additions like a corrugated steel roof, the house rose out of an overgrown valley above Honolulu. It had been sliced up into six apartments, each with a view of the city and the harbor beyond. Hannah's consisted of two small rooms that had formerly been the library and study. A funky kitchenette, suitable for making instant ramen noodles or toasting bread, had been stuck against the wall of the main room.

Joseph didn't spend much time there, preferring the comparative spaciousness and cleanliness of his home, but he had to admit to a fondness for the old house. Especially when he would lie curled up in bed with Hannah and listen to a heavy rain hit the metal roof like ten thousand Taiko drummers on a wind-driven rampage. It was unbelievably loud and he loved it. Nothing else in the world sounded like that.

Joseph knocked on the door. Hannah answered it, still wearing her teaching clothes. She did not look happy to see him.

“I knew you'd eventually come around for an explanation.”

“I was worried. I called.”

“I didn't feel like talking.”

Joseph nodded. “Do you feel like talking now?”

Hannah heaved a sigh. “I've got tests to grade.”

Joseph looked her in the eye. “I'm just trying to figure out what it means.”

Hannah shrugged. “You were leaving. I decided to go first.”

“I hadn't made a decision.”

Hannah shrugged. “I did.”

...

Baxter had done his homework. Find yourself in a strange town in need of illegal items, what do you do? You ask a seedy-looking cab driver. Preferably one that doesn't have a Mohawk. Baxter strolled down Kalakaua Avenue, scanning the streets for a suitable cabbie. Reggie trolled along beside him.

“What're we doing, man?”

“We need guns.”

“So? Let's go to a gun store. This is America, man. We can just go buy 'em.”

Baxter shook his head in dismay. “We need some that can't be traced back to us. Jesus, get a clue.”

“We buy 'em. Whack the dude. Throw 'em in the fucking ocean. What's the problem?”

“We have to register. There's a waiting period. And then the cops figure out that we used a .44 on the guy and they ask the local gun stores if anyone bought a .44 recently and then they give them our names and addresses.”

Reggie shrugged. “We'll be back in Vegas, man.”

Baxter shook his head. It was like talking to a brick wall.

“Besides, we don't have to use a .44.”

“It was just an example. If we use a .38 it's the same thing.”

“No it's not. A .44's much bigger.”

Baxter looked at Reggie. He studied his eyes. “Did you toke up?”

Reggie shrugged. “A couple puffs.”

“Fuck. I knew it.”

Reggie shrugged. “What's the big deal?”

Baxter turned, grabbing Reggie by the collar, and braced him against the wall of a building.

“Dude, what're you doin', man?”

Baxter put his face an inch away from Reggie's. “We're here on business. I need you to be clear. Serious. We gotta focus.”

“I'm focused.”

“You're stoned.”

Reggie dropped his head. Baxter released his grip.

“Dude, those chicks from Kansas City were sweet.”

Baxter shook his head. From now on, he thought, I work alone.

...

It took about half an hour, but Baxter recognized the cabbie right away. It was the same type of guy he'd seen dozens of times in Vegas: the thinning hair, the deep bags under the eyes, the bloodshot nose and paunchy gut under the big floppy shirt. These were the guys, losers at cards, losers in love, losers in life. They were always dropping tourists at the strip club and then ingratiating their way in for a free drink, a free peek, maybe even a complimentary lap dance. The management tolerated them because they kept bringing people to the club.

They climbed into his cab.

“Where you wanna go?”

Baxter tried to feel the guy out. “I don't know. Chinatown?”

“Chinatown? What do you wanna go there for?”

“I heard you could have some fun there.”

The cabdriver—the license laminated to the dashboard said his name was Don Kloots—looked at them in the rearview. “It's fun if you like smoking crack.”

Baxter shifted. “We're not into drugs.”

Don Kloots smiled. “You fellas here for a convention?”

Reggie shook his head. “No way, man. Why would you say that?”

Don Kloots shrugged. “You got matching suits.”

“We could be musicians.”

Baxter gave Reggie a look. He spoke to Don. “What would you suggest?”

“For fun?”

“Yeah. For fun.”

Don Kloots thought about it. “You want some pussy? I know a couple of great places for that.”

Reggie smiled. “That sounds excellent.”

Baxter shook his head at Reggie. “What else you got?”

“Most of the gambling is Asian stuff. Pai Gow. Mahjongg. We do get the occasional cockfight. Sometimes some Muy Thai or Escrima.”

“Escrima? What's that?”

“Filipino stickfighting. It's awesome.”

“Is it legal?”

Don Kloots nodded. “The fighting is. The betting isn't.”

“Sounds dangerous.”

“You wouldn't want to face a pissed-off
Pinoy
with a couple of sticks in his hands, I'll tell you that.”

Baxter folded a hundred-dollar bill and passed it up to the driver. “If I wanted some protection while I was here, what would you suggest?”

“I'd suggest you use a condom.”

Reggie snorted. “Funny, dude.”

Baxter plucked a second C-note out of his pocket and handed it to Don. “We need something a little stronger than rubber.”

Don Kloots pulled his cab over to the curb near the Hilton Village. He turned around and faced Baxter and Reggie.

“Look. I don't deal with this kind of thing, okay? I'm strictly tourist-friendly. You want something like that, I can't help.”

“Do you know someone who can?”

“Maybe.”

Don Kloots looked like he was thinking about it. Baxter tried to help him make up his mind by handing him another hundred-dollar bill.

“You need to find a guy named Lono.”

“Lono?”

“He's not a dealer, but he's connected. He'll know where to send you.”

“Where can we find him?”

“That's the tricky part. He doesn't like to be found.”

Baxter was getting annoyed. He felt like punching Don Kloots in the face and getting his three hundred bucks back.

“You got a suggestion?”

Don Kloots nodded. “Go into this Thai restaurant. Tell the hostess you're looking for someone named Lono. Then sit down and have a nice long dinner.”