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Keith checked the sky, his eyes running from one constellation to the next. He checked and double-checked his chart. He had to be careful. Sometimes he'd pick up phantom stars, really just optical illusions, his brain sending signals through his overheated synapses. Other times he'd locate a constellation, only for it to appear animated, dancing in the night sky.

The chart he was drawing in the sand was complex. To the untrained eye it might've looked like some kind of insane petroglyph, but Keith wasn't working in two-D. He was charting his course using three dimensions. It was important. After all, he'd be sailing through a three-D world.

...

“So, did they offer you a part?”

Lono looked at her. “A part of what?”

Yuki laughed. “A part in their movie. You'd make a pretty good tough guy.”

“What makes you think those haoles are in the film business? Did they say something?”

“Why are you so serious? I was joking.”

“I just wondered where they were from.”

“Well, if you really want to know, they're from Las Vegas.”

“Is that what they said?”

Yuki nodded. She could see from his expression that something was wrong. “Why are you so worried about it?”

Lono thought about what he could tell her. With the exception of Yakuza on vacation, it was unusual for contract killers, even amateur ones, to visit the islands. But these two were here, and it wasn't for pineapple and poi.

Lono thought about Las Vegas. He thought about all the gamblers and deadbeats he knew. He searched his memory for any clue as to why these guys were here. And then, as always, his unique talent for piecing disparate scraps of information into a clear picture of what was about to go down kicked in. He knew, intuitively, why they were here and why they wanted guns.

“I need to make a phone call.”

...

The pubic hair went up his nose, tickling him like a snoutful of black pepper, and for the second time Joseph had to lift his head from between Tamara's strong, flexible thighs and sneeze.

She laughed. “I think you're allergic to me.”

Joseph rubbed his nose vigorously, trying to suppress another sneeze. “No. I'm just. . . I don't know. Maybe you need a trim.”

She laughed some more. “I'll take it up with my hairdresser.”

Joseph put his head back between her legs, found the groove between her labia lips with his tongue, and began to suck gently on her clitoris. Tamara moaned and arched her back. She was enjoying herself.

Joseph was glad of that. He'd been unable to get an erection, no matter what they tried. For some reason—and he really didn't understand it because she was every bit as sexy with her clothes off as he'd thought she'd be—he just couldn't get it up. Even if his mind was elsewhere, thinking about Hannah and going to New York, he thought his body would respond. But it didn't. It let him down: literally. She'd been nice about it, saying “Maybe it's too soon,” making excuses for him when he could see that she was disappointed. He was frustrated. This never happened to him with Hannah.

He went down on her to cover for his lack of turgidity. He was trying to be enthusiastic; he wanted to make her come. It was the least he could do for an old high school classmate.

...

Lono had called in some favors; he'd asked his friends to find out what they knew about these two jokers from Vegas. The answer came back loud and clear: Nobody had ever heard of them. They weren't connected to La Cosa Nostra, the Russian or Armenian mafias, any of the drug cartels that anyone
knew, or any outlaw motorcycle gangs or local security companies. They weren't law enforcement. They were definitely freelance, probably amateurs.

Lono knew that it wasn't uncommon for friends or relatives of someone in dire straits to ask for a favor. People did it for love. They did it for money. Some of them even did it for fun. The general public seemed to be under the impression that being a hitman was easy. Blame it on Hollywood.

The one disturbing piece of information Lono learned was that someone in Las Vegas had actually put a contract out on Sid. No one knew who did the hiring or who'd been contracted for the job. Lono couldn't imagine why someone would hire these two morons to do the job. But it didn't matter. They'd be dead soon.

...

It had been a busy night at the discothèque. First there was some Japanese businessman, a big shot with Sony, who decided he'd had too much to drink so he took off his suit jacket, rolled it into a nice little pillow, and lay down for a good night's sleep on one of the banquettes. Wilson studied the sleeping businessman. He had a keen eye for details and guessed he weighed about 130 pounds. The man had short stubby legs. That was good; that would give Wilson some decent leverage. Then he tested the strength of the drunk's belt, making sure it was buckled securely. Wilson smiled. Things were lining up. Maybe tonight he could break his record and chuck this guy twenty-five feet into the street. That was the distance that had been eluding him for the last few years.

Unfortunately for Wilson, the businessman's friends must've realized something was going on, quickly hoisted the drunk to his feet, and got him the hell out of there. Wilson was disappointed but philosophical. There would always be another chance.

He forgot about chucking the drunk when his cell phone rang.

...

Wilson and Lono had been part of the starting defensive line for the Mighty Menehunes of Moanalua High School during the year they vied for the state championship. They'd been good friends ever since. Lono called Wilson and told him about the two haoles. He had excellent instincts about these things, an innate ability to read people, and he was confident that he was right. The two were hitmen from the mainland and they'd come to kill Wilson's dad. Why else would they need guns?

Joseph ordered a bowl of congee with dried shrimp and chilies for breakfast. He'd gotten up bright and early and gone for a run. He needed to think, and jogging on a beautiful beach was a good way to do it.

He spooned the spicy gloop into his mouth and looked out at the street. Businessmen and women walked by on their way to office buildings down on King Street. Other people were walking around too. Misplaced tourists wondering where they could find an Egg McMuffin. Workmen with dusty shorts and faded T-shirts on their way to repair something. Hotel workers cutting across town to get to the Hilton on time so they could spend their morning replacing spunk-stained sheets and picking up empty beer cans. Surfer dudes and dudettes, the real and the wannabe, all shuffling around on their way somewhere. Everybody was on the way somewhere. They all had lives. Places to go, people to see. It was Joseph who felt trapped.

But what was trapping him? Joseph realized nothing was holding him here. His girlfriend had dumped him. His family had abandoned him. He'd been fired from his job. The ties that bind had been severed.

He decided to call the chef in New York.

...

Keith had spent the early morning hours scouting the area around the beach. He'd found several small fishing boats, a couple of plastic kayaks, and some kind of church camp that had a dozen red canoes stacked up against a tree.

Since he didn't have an outboard motor, the canoes seemed to be the best bet for a long trip.

Keith popped another hit of ecstasy—he wanted to stay rolling—and walked into town for supplies. The morning was exceptionally beautiful. The sun rose over the ocean hot and golden, like an advertisement for pancakes. The blue of the water was deep and vibrant, like something spiritual. That's the best description Keith could come up with: spiritual blue.

Keith watched in amazement as the trees seemed to awaken with the light. He could see photosynthesis taking place. Or maybe that was just the trees' aura. The birds could see it. He heard them talking about it.

He stopped at a little hole-in-the-wall café and devoured a massive pile of fried Spam, eggs over medium, macaroni salad thickly bound with mayonnaise, and white rice smothered in gravy, all of it choked down with coffee that tasted like boiled dishwater. Although the textures of the food reminded him of molten whale blubber, the flavors were good, the fat and grease deeply satisfying as it settled in his gut like a quart of Spackle. He felt better, energized. He had work to do. The dolphins were waiting.

...

For the one thousand seven hundred and ninety-fourth time in his life, Chad woke up feeling guilty. Not that he was counting. It had been a long lunch with the handsome Cuban—he eventually left around three in the morning—and Chad never did find time to visit Francis in the hospital. Or call. Or send flowers. Or even think about him.

So here he was, lying in bed, feeling guilty. He considered the possibility that perhaps there was something vaguely dysfunctional in their relationship. He shouldn't feel guilty all the time, should he? Chad vowed he'd discuss this with his shrink when he got back home. He didn't like feeling guilty.

After a few minutes of rolling it around in his head, the guilt turned to resentment. Once Chad had a cup of coffee and started to check his e-mails, the resentment turned to anger. Why was he wasting his time here? Why couldn't Francis look after himself? He had important things to do. Studio heads needed to know what he thought of the script for a new action movie—Interpol's most dangerous prisoners unite and take over the Louvre. Chad had high hopes for this one. It was international—they could fill it with foreign stars and make a killing overseas—plus it was arty. Who wouldn't want to see someone shot to death and dying next to Michelangelo's
Pietà
? I mean, come on. That's classic. And Chad loved the line in the script where Dieter, the knife expert from Hamburg, says, “It's time to wipe that smile off the bitch's face,” and slices Mona Lisa's lips with one of those razor-sharp kung fu throwing stars.

It had “hit” written all over it, and that meant he had work to do. There were dozens of meetings he'd had to reschedule. Sit-downs with hot young hip-hop directors, lunches with the
new writers that everyone would be talking about, and drinks with their agents. Chad was annoyed; he was missing the flavor-of-the-month.

He suddenly came to the realization that Francis was a drag. He was like a big dead weight that Chad had to carry with him wherever he went. Sure, he was smart and fun and took care of the dogs while Chad was working, but he could always hire someone to do that. A dog walker doesn't care who you're fucking. A housekeeper wouldn't tell him to cut down on the martinis. Did the gardener ever sit around pouting because he couldn't go with him to Cannes? The answer was so clear, Chad was appalled that he hadn't considered it sooner. Who needs the wear and tear, the grief and hassle of a relationship? It's really kind of Old World when you think about it. Not a progressive situation at all. If he saved what he spent on a shrink to help him deal with his relationship, he could hire a personal chef. Why hadn't he thought of this? A staff is much better than a boyfriend.

...

Hannah stood in front of her class describing the early childhood-in-exile of Kamehameha. Fearing that a jealous kahuna would kill the future warrior king, his family kept him hidden, raising him in the forests of the Big Island. In his exile, Kamehameha studied hard, learning the myths and legends of the Hawaiian people and mastering the art of
lua:
bone breaking. He grew into a great leader and powerful warrior, eventually returning and uniting the islands into one kingdom.

She was interrupted by a shout as the normally attentive Keanu Cho decided to demonstrate his mastery of
lua
on George Onishi's arm. As the two boys scuffled between desks—and Lisa Nakashima loudly pointed out that this time she wasn't the cause of the disturbance—the bell rang, signaling recess.

The wrestling ended abruptly and the children tore out of the room. Hannah didn't even bother to tell them to walk. She was happy to see them energized and excited. She sat down at her desk and took a thermos out of her bottom drawer. She unscrewed the lid and poured herself a cup of hot green tea and thought about Joseph. Wondering if he would return. Wondering if they would be reunited. And as she sipped her tea, she began to cry.

...

Baxter was feeling good. Things were falling into place. The career switch from strip-club doorman to all-around international supercriminal cool cat had been surprisingly easy. Who knew? He should've done it years ago. All you need is to find the right person and he hooks you up. A, B, C: easy as 1, 2, 3. It's a done deal. The criminal underworld, he realized, was actually a very cooperative society. We're all on the same team here.

The Lono dude had called and arranged everything. He'd found some guns for a decent price and arranged a meet. He'd swing by the hotel later and take them out to meet the man. All Baxter had to do was kick back and be cool.

Baxter cringed when he thought about how uncool he'd been. Getting buzzed on beer when he should've been straight-up serious. Letting Reggie get stoned and act like a fool. It was definitely bush league; they'd have to do better.
They'd have to be more like Lono. Lono was ice cold. Baxter'd even offered Lono a C-note, but he'd refused. Who refuses free money? Only the coolest of cucumbers.

It made sense to him now. Lono would get a kickback from the gun dealer. That's how it worked. Everyone was cool. Everyone took care of the people who took care of them.

Baxter felt like he was a part of something big, something dangerous and exciting. It made him feel good about himself. And it beat the hell out of busting some asshole's arm because he touched a stripper's tit.

Baxter poured another dollop of fake maple syrup on his macadamia-nut pancakes and forked a big sticky glob into his mouth. He looked over and saw Reggie working the buffet line like a pro, coming back with his plate piled high with sausages and scrambled eggs.