Mahu Vice (8 page)

My neighborhood gay bar, the Rod and Reel Club, was like a second home, and as I hoped, Gunter was there, having just come in from his shift at the Grand Kuhio. There was another guy with him, a haole in his fifties wearing what looked at first glance like a police uniform—but wasn’t.

“Hey, Kimo, I want you to meet my new boss,” Gunter said, waving me over. “Stan LoCicero, Kimo Kanapa’aka.”

“The homicide detective,” Stan said, reaching out to shake my hand. “Nice to meet you. I admire everything you’ve done.”

He had an unlit cigar in the corner of his mouth, a ruddy complexion, and the lines and wrinkles that come with a life well lived. But I could see he’d been quite handsome when he was younger. “You don’t know everything I’ve done,” I said, and we all laughed.

I ordered a beer and we talked for a while. I couldn’t help checking Stan out; as Gunter had said, he was hot. His body was in good shape for a man his age—but it was something about his attitude that made him attractive. He looked like the kind of guy who’d learned a few tricks, and who’d be happy to show them off.

“You know, you’re not the only gay cop in Honolulu,” Stan said to me. “I could tell you stories about a captain in the traffic division, for example.”

“Really?” I didn’t know every cop in Honolulu, but I had a feeling that if there was a gay captain somewhere I might have met him.

“No names, of course,” Stan said. “A fella has to be discreet. But if this guy ever pulls you over, it won’t be for speeding. And once you start blowing him, he never says stop.”

We all laughed. “He’s in traffic?” I asked. “Haole, Hawaiian…what?”

Stan pretended to run a zipper over his lips. “My lips are sealed. That is, unless there’s a dick in the vicinity.”

He looked at his watch. “Speaking of which. I’ve got a date with a hot little piece of Japanese ass. Much though I’d like to hang out with you gentlemen, Big Stan needs to have his fun.”

He stood up, shook our hands, and said it had been nice to meet me. “I’ll see you Friday, Gunter.” He laid a bill on the counter. “You guys have a round on me.”

“Thanks, Stan,” Gunter said.

When he’d left, I said, “Big Stan?”

“I told you, he’s hung like a horse.”

“But come on. Do you have a name for your dick?”

“Dick?”

“More like Little Richard,” I said.

“You didn’t say that the last time I plowed your ass,” Gunter said.

“Speaking of assholes. I saw Mike Riccardi tonight.” I told him about running into Mike at the fire on Sunday night, about working with him, and then about our dinner at Aunt Mei-Mei’s.

Gunter had never liked Mike much, because Mike was so closeted, and Mike disapproved of Gunter’s flamboyance and sexual adventuring. “You’re not getting back together with him, are you?” Gunter asked. “Because if you say you are, I’m going to tie you to your bed until you come to your senses.”

“You mean tie me to my bed and fuck me till I’m senseless?”

“You are the best-looking guy in the bar at the moment,” he said. “Well, second best, after me.”

I could go home by myself, I thought. Be good, be celibate. But I was damned horny, after the date with Dr. Phil, seeing Mike, then flirting with Stan LoCicero. Chances were, if I went home by myself, I’d end up online, looking for sex at MenSayHi, and I knew that was a bad idea.

Sex with Gunter wasn’t the smartest idea in the world either. But at the time, it seemed like the safest path to take. I drained the last of my beer and said, “Well, you’re not Big Stan, but you’ll do.”

BEAUTY AND HIDDEN DANGER

I surfed in the early morning, trying to avoid thinking about Mike, Gunter, or the fact that the arson investigation had stalled. We’d interviewed all the tenants except the owner of the acupuncture clinic, for whom the Hong Kong address was a dead end. Everyone we spoke to represented a successful, thriving business without a motive for arson. Even the corporation that had bought the center from my father checked out.

We knew nothing about the victim, other than that his body type matched that of Jingtao, the boy Tico had picked up in the alley. Jingtao may not even have been his name. We passed Tatiana’s sketch out to the cops in the area, and Ray and I canvassed the stores and offices to see if anyone recognized him. No one did.

Ray and I got roped into a stakeout for another case, and we spent the rest of the day sitting in my truck, hoping that a teenaged gangbanger would show up at his mother’s house in Wahiawa. The gangbanger was a suspect in the murder of two drug dealers in Waikiki, one of whom was his girlfriend’s brother. “Want to get this case resolved before Thanksgiving,” Ray said. “Be awkward having that big family dinner when you’re worried your boyfriend might have killed your brother.”

“Think about bringing him home to meet Mama,” I said. “Nice to meet you. Did you kill my son?”

We sat like that, just shooting the shit, and I felt damn lucky that Ray was the guy who’d stumbled into the department when I needed a partner. He was smart, in brains and street knowledge, he was patient, and he had a good heart. Plus he liked Hawaiian music, so we went through CD after CD of Sam Alama and his Islanders, Pua Almeida and his Club Pago Pago Orchestra, and the Brothers Cazimero.

Most days, you spend more time with your partner than you do with your significant other. You’ve got to find a guy who’s on the same wavelength you are, or else you butt heads all day long. Ray and I argued sometimes, but neither of us held a grudge for long.

“Any more ideas on tracking the dead kid?” he asked late in the day. “I was thinking maybe homeless shelters. This might not be the first time he ran away.”

“Good idea. There’s a gay teen center on Waikiki, too. A lot of those kids live on the street. Maybe one of them has seen him.”

I’d volunteered at the center myself, leading a group of kids once a week through workouts and some self-empowerment stuff. I stopped going after I broke up with Mike, when I started thinking that I didn’t have anything good I could say. But maybe it was time to go back.

Just before the end of our shift, the radio crackled with the news that the gangbanger had been nabbed in Waikiki, and I dropped Ray off on my way home. I was feeling at loose ends, so I walked through the humid evening, tiki torches being lit on the street around me, to the Gay Teen Center.

Cathy Selkirk, the tiny, half-Japanese lesbian who ran the center, was in her office, and I settled into the big comfy chair across from her desk to pour out some of my troubles. But first I had to apologize.

“I’m sorry I blew off the group. I was going through some stuff and I didn’t feel much like a role model.”

“Any time you want to come back, the door’s open.”

“I was thinking about it.”

“How about a week from tonight?” Cathy asked. “That’ll give us time to get some posters up, see if we can draw a crowd.”

I agreed, and then I showed her Jingtao’s picture. She didn’t recognize him, but she promised to get it passed around among the kids.

I kissed Cathy good-bye, sent my regards to her partner Sandra, and walked down Kalakaua Boulevard for a while, showing the hookers and the street vendors Jingtao’s picture and not getting any response.

There was a steady stream of traffic down Kalakaua—buses and rental cars and delivery trucks, the occasional horn or screeching brakes blending in with the hawkers selling heritage jewelry and the sound of slack key guitar music coming out of a T-shirt shop. It was just after six, and the sun was setting over the ocean. Tiny white lights wrapped around the trunks of the palm trees, and car headlights bounced off the elegant storefronts and the homeless oddballs equally.

It’s a strange thing, living in a tourist paradise. Every day, you go to work, live your life, and all around you are people who’ve saved all year to spend just a few days in this beautiful place you sometimes take for granted. Every now and then I like to see it through their eyes, and I always end up surprising myself with its beauty and hidden danger.

Thursday morning, Ray and I caught another case, a vehicular homicide near the Aloha Tower. We spent most of the day interviewing witnesses and tracking the suspect car. Just before the end of our shift, the driver turned himself in, accompanied by his attorney. Since I had to go out to the STD clinic that evening, Ray agreed to stick around and walk the guy through the system. “Hell, I can use the overtime,” he said. “Maybe someday Julie and I can afford a second car.”

I felt sorry for him. He was already pulling temporary duty whenever he could: security gigs at the Aloha Bowl flea market, Hawaiian nationalism rallies, special events at the Blaisdell Center. I was lucky that my living needs were simple, and my parents had announced a week before that they were going to start giving each of us an advance on our inheritance, so if I needed anything I’d have that money to fall back on.

On the other hand, I knew I’d rather be sitting around a courtroom waiting for our errant driver to be arraigned than going out to the STD clinic near Tripler to tell Mike’s parents that their son was a drunk. But if I stalled, I’d have to wait another few weeks for them to be on duty, or attempt to corral them somewhere else.

At the clinic, I showed my badge to the receptionist and asked to speak with Dr. Riccardi. “He’s with a patient now,” she said.

“I’ll wait.”

Once again, the reception area was filled with an interesting cross-section of locals who wanted discretion. I avoided eye contact with anyone, and sat in a corner—the location expressing something about how I felt being there. The
People
magazines I’d read the last time I was there were gone, replaced with newer yet still out-of-date editions. I was skimming one when the receptionist called.

I was struck again by how much Mike resembled his father. Mike had a slight epicanthic fold to his eyes, and a mustache, but the shape of the face, the cheekbones, the curve of his lips—they were all the same.

“What can I do for you?” Dr. Riccardi asked, escorting me to a run-down office that was clearly shared by a bunch of different doctors, since there was nothing personal there—just a collection of posters and pamphlets about STDs. “I hope you know I can’t reveal any information about patients without a warrant.”

“I’m not here on an official basis,” I said. “My name is Kimo Kanapa’aka, and I’m a detective with the Honolulu police department.”

“I know who you are, detective,” Dr. Riccardi said, turning to face me. “You’re the man who broke my son’s heart.”

Every now and then, in the homicide business, you run across someone who says something so totally unexpected that you don’t know how to respond. Sometimes it’s a confession, from someone who wasn’t even a suspect. Sometimes it’s the revelation of a life behind the façade we all present to the world.

Dr. Riccardi’s statement was one of those. I’d been so concerned about not outing Mike to his father that I’d never considered his father might already know.

“I may not have been the greatest father, detective, but I know my son. I’m sure Michael has had a few choice words to say about me, and my expectations of him, but I love him, no matter what.” He motioned me to a hard chair across from the desk, and he sat down behind it in a worn armchair.

“Michael’s mother and I always wondered why he never brought any young women home to meet us,” he said. “Was he embarrassed of us? Living in New York, we knew he was uncomfortable that his mother was Korean, and maybe that was why he didn’t bring friends home, but we thought that moving to Hawai’i had helped him get over that.”

He steepled his fingers and stared at me. It wasn’t a comfortable stare at all. I’m accustomed to being the interrogator and I didn’t like the role reversal. From the glare in Dr. Riccardi’s eyes it was clear he didn’t like me, and I didn’t know how I was going to tell him about the vodka in the water bottle without seeming like a tattletale as well as a heartbreaker.

“About a year ago, Mike stopped joining us for dinner, and he didn’t do anything except go to work and then lock himself up in his side of the house. One day, I got fed up.”

I could see from Dr. Riccardi’s eyes that it wasn’t a happy memory. But he worked in an STD clinic; he was accustomed to tough conversations.

“I found him passed out on the sofa, an empty six-pack of beer next to him. I woke him, and had some harsh words for him.” He sighed. “Not one of my finest moments as a father, I know. I demanded to know what was wrong with him. I said that I’d put up with a lot—his poor academic performance, which was far below what I knew he was capable of. His choice of a dangerous career. His Peter Pan complex—trying to remain a boy forever.”

“That must have been difficult for both of you,” I said.

“I suppose I should thank you for prompting the conversation, but I’m afraid I can’t.” Man, if looks could have killed, I’d have been dead in my chair. “He told me about you then.” A hint of a smile crossed his lips. “I still think of him as my little boy, you know. I want to fight his battles for him, though I know I can’t. When he told me how much you had hurt him, I wanted to hurt you in return.”

“Mike hurt me plenty on his own,” I said.

“But you were the one who broke up with him,” Riccardi said. “Because he wouldn’t become the kind of poster child you’ve made yourself for gay rights.”

“I haven’t made myself a poster child. I accepted the responsibility that comes with who I am and what I do. But that isn’t why Mike and I broke up.”

He waved his hand. “This is all old news, isn’t it, detective? Is that why you came here today? To ‘out’ my son to me?”

“Not at all.” I took a deep breath. “Mike and I are working together on a case again, and Monday morning I picked up a water bottle he’d been drinking from—just to take a sip myself. It wasn’t water.”

Dr. Riccardi’s brows closed together and he sighed again. “I was afraid something like this would happen. Seeing you has driven him to drink again. Why can’t you just leave my son alone?”

At that point I’d had enough of Dr. Riccardi’s attitude, and I stood up to leave. “I guarantee you, Dr. Riccardi, I didn’t want to come down here and speak to you. But I didn’t know who else to tell, and I do care about Mike and want to make sure he gets some help.” I took a deep breath. “But if you want to know the truth about why we broke up, it’s in your records here. Patient number 1423.”

I shouldn’t have said anything, and as I drove back to Waikiki I felt lousy. Not only had I told Mike’s dad that Mike was a drunk—I’d branded him as a careless slut as well. From the little I knew of Mike’s relationship with his parents, I could imagine his father’s icy stare, the disappointment radiating from him. I remembered Mike telling me that every time he got sick as a kid, his father took it as a personal affront. “How does it look when a doctor’s son is so careless about the flu,” I remembered Mike repeating to me.

How much worse would it be when it wasn’t the flu Dr. Riccardi was complaining about, but gonorrhea. Especially when he and Mike’s mom volunteered at the safe sex clinic.

It was after eight by the time I got home. I picked up a mystery novel I’d been reading, one of Charles Knief’s Honolulu private eye books, but I couldn’t concentrate. I got online and started making lists of homeless shelters and places that helped teenagers that Ray and I could check out the next day.

Around eleven I looked at the clock, yawned, and stripped down for bed. I’d just turned out the lights when somebody started pounding on my front door. “Jesus, hold on,” I said, jumping up and fumbling around in the dark for a pair of shorts. I looked through the peephole and saw Mike Riccardi there.

“You know what time it is?” I said, when I opened the door. “You’re gonna wake up the whole neighborhood.”

“You had to go and do it,” he said, slurring his words and pushing past me. I closed the door and turned around to look at him. “You had to tell my parents.”

“I was worried about you.”

“Fuck you, Kimo. You were pissed.” A wave of alcohol fumes washed over me. Mike was pissed, too—in more than one sense of the word. He was angry, and he was drunk. “Jesus, Mike, take a look at yourself. You’re drinking vodka out of a water bottle at eight o’clock in the morning. You don’t think that’s a problem?”

“What I do is my business. I’m maintaining.” He wavered a little on his feet, and I was worried he’d fall over on me.

“Yeah, and the first time somebody from the fire department catches you, you’re out on your ass.” I poked him in the chest and pushed him back. “Take a look at yourself, pal. How much have you had to drink?”

“None of your fucking business,” he said, and he burped.

I shook my head. “I couldn’t just walk away and pretend I didn’t see what I saw. I had to tell somebody, and the only person I could trust was your dad.”

Mike’s eyes glazed over, and suddenly he threw up—all over himself and the tile floor in front of my refrigerator. He looked at me and then he just collapsed. I caught him, getting his vomit all over me and my shorts, and he passed out.