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“Thanks.”

Baxter and Reggie got out of the cab and walked across the street to the Thai restaurant. Reggie turned to Baxter. “I was gettin' the munchies anyway.”

...

Nu‘uanu Street. Where the low, ramshackle buildings and slightly gamey atmosphere of Chinatown crashes into the modern high-rise bustle and polished chrome of the financial district.

The bar was outside on the patio, facing a small Japanese garden miraculously planted in the middle of urban decay. Joseph and Tamara sat at a table facing the garden, isolating themselves from the happy-hour hubbub, drinking mai tais. Normally Joseph would've just had a beer, but this particular spot was well known for its cocktails and Joseph didn't protest when Tamara ordered a couple of the potent drinks.

During the first mai tai they took turns recounting high school memories and talking about people they knew. During the second she told him about the benefits of a regular yoga practice and he told her how to use cellophane noodles to make an interesting vegetarian stir-fry. Halfway through the third, Tamara took the bold step of asking Joseph if he wouldn't like to finish his drink at her house, a proposition he accepted.

...

Reggie didn't even wait for the waitress to pour the beer into the glass. He snatched the bottle out of her hand and chugged half of it down as quickly as he could.

“Ahh. Fuck.”

He slumped back on the banquette and ran the cold bottle across his forehead, hoping the ice-cold glass would staunch the copious flow of perspiration that was raining off his head. He let out a long, low, chili-scented belch.

“That shit is fucking hot, man.”

Baxter nodded. Beads of sweat had formed along his forehead.

“Try some water.”

“Water doesn't cut it. It's like a fuckin' snakebite in your mouth. Beer is the only antidote.”

“That's your fourth one.”

Reggie looked at him. “What? You're my mom now?”

“I want you to stay sharp.”

“I'm sharp. Jesus.”

“Try some rice.”

Reggie spooned a scoop of white rice into his mouth. He cautiously chewed it, as if each grain was made out of wood and he didn't want to get a splinter.

“It fucking hurts, dude.”

Baxter shrugged. “You wanted spicy.”

“I wanted edible.”

Neither of them had eaten Thai food before. They'd expected it to be like the Chinese food you get in Las Vegas, and they weren't prepared for the onslaught of chili, mint, lime, and lemongrass that made the dishes so provocatively pungent and confrontational. It was, without a doubt, the spiciest food either of them had ever put in their mouths.
Hotter than the Killer Nachos at the Hard Rock. Hotter than anything at Taco Bell.

“You want more of this duck stuff?”

Reggie looked at him like he was insane. “I want to live. Go ahead and eat all you want.”

“I like it.”

Reggie shook his head. “Duck in radioactive waste.”

But while Reggie was writhing in agony, Baxter seemed to be enjoying himself. It was partly because he felt a kind of macho pride in being able to swallow the capsicum stew. His lips had become numb and swollen, throbbing from the continuous topical application of chilies, and the inside of his mouth had been thoroughly torched, charred and raw and in ruins. It hurt to chew, like rubbing a wound with salt, but he kept spooning it in.

“You can't get food like this in Vegas.”

Reggie signaled for a fifth beer. “That's 'cause we're gamblers, not fire-eatin' maniacs.”

The way Reggie said it was funny. Baxter laughed. The laughter was contagious and soon, even though it hurt, Reggie was laughing too. Laughing so hard that beer came out his nose and foamed up on his mustache, making him look like an old man. But the beer coming out of his nose was loaded with chili paste and fish sauce. It only took a second for Reggie to register panic. His face turned bright red and he began blowing his nose on the napkin as hard as he could.

“Fuck, man. My nose is on fire.”

Baxter laughed even harder. This, he realized, was more like it. This was what they'd signed up for. Two cool contract killers having a laugh over some Thai food in an exotic locale.

“Stick some ice up it.”

“Fuck you.”

Even though tears were springing out of his eyes like a sprinkler, Reggie was laughing. He couldn't help it. It was funny.

“Wait until tomorrow morning, dude. Then we'll see who's stickin' ice up what.”

Baxter laughed even harder. “That's a good one.”

Then, all at once, Baxter stopped laughing. He felt his stomach catch fire, like a pilot light had just ignited a big gas burner. An acidic churning sensation began to rumble through his belly and climb his throat, burning its way upward toward his mouth. It was not at all pleasant.

“I'll have a beer too.”

...

Yuki and Lono sat at the bar of the Thai restaurant sharing a plate of green papaya salad and sticky rice with a couple skewers of pork
satay
thrown in for protein. Lono picked up a large bottle of Thai beer and refilled his glass. As he did, he looked in the mirror behind the bar, checking out the two strange dudes in their matching black suits. It was hard to figure out just what they were up to. They were eating and drinking like they were on vacation, yet they were dressed like they were in town for a necrophilia convention. Lono thought they could be the horn section of some strange R&B tribute band or, perhaps, undertakers. They could be dealers, but if they were in the drug business they were obvious amateurs. Who wears black suits in Honolulu? And what was with the matching mustaches? It occurred to Lono that they looked
like hitmen in some movie from the seventies, but he couldn't remember which one.

It had always amused Lono that people who wanted to be criminals often went out of their way to look like they were criminals. Which, as anyone who's ever been to prison will tell you, is not the smartest idea. Maybe they were wannabes; maybe they were from Kazakhstan; he didn't know. One thing he was sure of—they weren't cops.

Yuki sipped a cup of hot tea and wiped her hands on a napkin. She turned to Lono.

“What's up?”

Lono smiled at her. She didn't miss much. “Those two guys over there were asking about me.”

Yuki looked in the mirror. “They look like alien hunters.”

Lono chuckled. They did look like alien hunters.

“What're you going to do?”

Lono leaned over and kissed her ear. “Eat.”

Yuki smiled. “You can't be too careful.”

“Especially around alien hunters.”

Yuki giggled. Lono munched on a skewer of spicy grilled pork and watched the two men. She was right; you can't be too careful. He wanted to try and figure these guys out before he sat down with them. He didn't want to walk into anything weird. But he had to admit he was intrigued. What could they be up to? If they wanted a girl, they would've called one of his numbers. Besides, no one gets to meet the pimp. He was merely a middleman in the transaction, a quality control specialist. If they wanted drugs—well, he wasn't sure he'd point them in the direction of any of the dealers he knew.

...

“This is a big waste of time, man.”

Baxter hated to admit it, but Reggie was probably right.

“Those chicks from Kansas City are gonna be at this club. We should go hook up.”

“Let's give him five more minutes.”

“Fuck that. Maybe someone at the club'll know where we can score.”

The waitress came over and cleared their plates. “More beer, sir?”

Reggie looked at Baxter. “Why not?”

Baxter held up two fingers. “And the check, too.”

The waitress left with the dirty plates. Reggie turned to Baxter and playfully mocked him. “That's your third, dude. Don't you wanna stay sharp?”

“Yeah, well, fuck it, it's the only thing keeping my stomach from exploding.”

Reggie laughed. “I knew you'd loosen up.”

Baxter fixed Reggie with a serious look. “I'm not here to party. Understand that. I need this to work out. I really do. All my life this is what I've wanted to do. This is who I am, man. I can't afford to blow this.”

“I'm cool.”

The beers arrived along with the check. Reggie looked at the waitress. “No fortune cookies?”

She shook her head. “Sorry. Fortune cookies Chinese.”

Reggie turned and looked at Baxter. “No fortune cookies.”

“That's life.”

Baxter examined the bill briefly and then threw a wad of twenties on top of it. He shoved the money across the table and that's when he noticed a large Hawaiian man standing next to them in a tank top and cargo shorts.

“You looking for me?”

Baxter was startled. He'd expected someone different. Like the little guy in the movies with the bugging-out eyes that's always looking over his shoulder and talking fast but knows everyone in town and can hook you up in a heartbeat. That's who he expected. He didn't expect a massive Hawaiian dressed like a beach bum.

“You Lono?”

Lono nodded.

“About fucking time, man,” Reggie blurted out.

Lono gave Reggie a hard look. Reggie froze, not sure what to do next. He shrugged sheepishly.

“You know. We been waiting.”

Baxter was still a little off his game. This guy definitely did not look like anyone who could hook you up with anything, except maybe a fishing trip.

“Yeah. What took you so long?”

Lono ignored that. “Let's talk outside. Your partner can wait at the bar.”

Reggie made a squeaky sound of protest, but Baxter shot him a look. “It's cool.”

“Fine. I'll wait at the bar. But then we are definitely going to hook up with those chicks from Kansas City.”

Lono turned and walked out of the restaurant. Baxter followed. Reggie watched them go and then grouchily pulled himself to his feet and walked over to the bar. He sat down next to a chick that looked like a dude. In fact, focused through his beer goggles, he wasn't sure if it was a guy dressed like a chick or a chick dressed like a guy who dressed like a chick. Either way, he ordered a second beer and then turned to the guy chick.

“Know where a dude can score some Maui Wowie around here?”

...

Lono and Baxter walked out onto Kalakaua Avenue just as a bus went by. The street was busy, filled with traffic and tourists, all out looking for a good time. Lono scanned the street, more out of habit than anything else. Baxter looked at him.

“How do I know you're not a cop?”

Lono smiled. Amateurs. “You can't tell?”

Baxter thought about it. “Yeah, you're cool, man.”

Lono didn't say anything; he just looked at Baxter, waiting for him to make his pitch. Baxter leaned forward and spoke quietly.

“We're in the market for something heavy.”

“Heavy?”

“Some nines.”

Lono stood there expressionless, trying to figure out why these two strange-looking men needed guns. Baxter took his expression for one of incomprehension.

“Ninas, you know? When I step up with my nina you'll know I'm straight-trippin'.”

Lono looked at him blankly. Baxter tried again.

“Doctor Dre? Pop a cap? Bust a clip? Gats?”

“Guns?”

Baxter pointed at Lono. “Now you got it.”

“You can buy guns at a sporting goods store.”

“We need something untraceable.”

Lono furrowed his brow. The last thing he wanted to do was set these two up with firearms. He rubbed his chin like he was really considering it.

“It's difficult on the island.”

“We don't care how much it costs. We can pay. We're here on business.”

“What's your line of work?”

Baxter gave Lono his version of a stone-cold glare. “I'd rather not say.”

Lono nodded. “And I'd rather not supply guns for people who are gonna knock over a bank in my hometown.”

“We're not into armed robbery.”

And that was all Lono needed to know.

...

Keith didn't have a piece of paper. He didn't have a pencil or pen. But that didn't stop him. He found a nice patch of sand under a coconut palm, doused it with water to smooth it out, and began to sketch his plans. He charted his course using celestial navigation, drawing in the sand with a stick. He found some rocks to use as landmarks—one for the moon, another for his current position—and a seashell to mark what he believed was the approximate position of his final destination.

Keith was no stranger to working without a compass. He'd been on the ground in Afghanistan for a couple of weeks when the batteries in his GPS failed. He realized, after the fact, that he should not have used the batteries to run his MP3 player, but it was boring digging in and sitting undercover all day long. He needed some tunes. And somehow the tribal
thump and drone of house music lent a texture to the steady aerial bombardments that were constantly shaking the ground and blackening the sky.

At night he'd switch the batteries back into his GPS and move to his next position. Traveling quickly and silently through the black Afghan night, occasionally crossing creeks or rivers, wending his way through pomegranate groves until he reached his next position and dug in for another day of lying immobile, smelling the stench of burning buildings, and grooving to the beats and samples.

His batteries died the day he was scheduled to move to an extraction point forty kilometers northwest of his position. Once the stars came out he was up and running, jogging at a clip, roughly figuring out which direction to head in. He knew that if he cut too far to one side he'd run smack into the Northern Alliance's front lines; a little bit to the other side and he'd be saying hello to the Taliban warriors. But somehow, guided by the stars or by simple dumb luck, he made it to the point and was extracted by helicopter without incident.