GUNTER’S OVEN
When I’m investigating a case, nothing clears my head like surfing. There’s something about getting out there among the waves, surrounded by sea and sky, that helps me focus my concentration, free my subconscious mind to look for patterns and ask questions I haven’t thought of yet.
But my back was still red and scaly, flaking skin all over my sheets that Saturday morning, so I knew surfing was out. I decided to roller blade instead, and, to make the best of a bad situation, to blade over to Gunter’s house and see how he was doing, now that he was home from the hospital. Before I left, though, I tried to get hold of Mike Riccardi but couldn’t reach him, leaving him a message.
It was a gorgeous morning, only a few puffy clouds congregating over the tops of the Ko’olau mountains. The bad news was that meant there wasn’t going to be any rain.
The rest of the sky was a luminous light blue. A gentle trade wind ruffled the tops of the palm trees as I bladed toward Diamond Head on Ala Wai Boulevard, shutting out the hotel vans and idle tourists in rental cars, the blaring horns and distant sirens. Instead I concentrated on the serene waters of the canal next to me, on the outrigger canoes full of weekend athletes that pulled past, grunting and shouting. Diamond Head itself loomed ahead of me, its brown and green flanks still free of development.
I crossed the triangular intersection where Ala Wai ends at Kapahulu and continued on behind Diamond Head Elementary to Gunter’s little house. The windows were open and his car was in the driveway. I skated up to the front door and rang the bell, looking down at the welcome mat as I did. It read, “Prize Patrol: Sorry we missed you. Leave the $1,000,000 check under the mat.”
Gunter came to the door looking sexy in a tank top that read “America’s Most Wanted” and a pair of tight nylon running shorts slit up the side. He’d gotten a new haircut, shaving the sides down to nothing and leaving only a crown of blond fuzz at the top. I could see rough red patches on one side of his head, and he still had a couple of bandages on his arms.
“Hey, babe, you weren’t who I was expecting.” He leaned forward to kiss me as I tried to step inside. I caught the edge of my skate on the mat and stumbled into his arms. “If you want to jump my bones there are more subtle ways to tell me,” he said, smiling.
I regained my balance and clomped forward into his living room. “When I’m ready to jump your bones you’ll know about it.” Though I’d been happy in the past to get sweaty with Gunter, I’d experienced something new and different with Mike and I wanted to explore it. “Who were you expecting?” I asked, sitting on the couch.
“The artist you sent by yesterday. We’re continuing our artistic collaboration.” Gunter posed, as if for a portrait.
“Interesting.” I hadn’t been kidding when I’d described the guy as fifty and pot-bellied. Not what I’d expect as Gunter’s type.
A little disappointment showed on Gunter’s face. “Not as interesting as it might be. He’s bringing his girlfriend along.” A sly smile crept on his face. “Apparently this is a little fantasy of hers.”
“So will you-” I waved my hand a little in the air because I didn’t want to actually say the words- “with her, too?”
“I can do it, you know,” he said indignantly. “It’s not my favorite thing in the world or anything, but I am capable.”
“I didn’t mean to imply you weren’t.”
“Of course, there may be some surprises along the way that they hadn’t anticipated.” There was that sly smile again. “For both of them. You ever hear of the Eiffel Tower?”
“Big metal thing in Paris? Yeah.”
“Not exactly what I meant,” Gunter said. “Picture this woman lying flat, her boyfriend at the front, getting a blow job. Me behind her.”
“I get the picture. But where does the Eiffel Tower come in? You speak French to each other?”
“The two guys lean forward toward each other,” Gunter said. “Straight guys high five.”
“Oh.”
“And we might do a little ski poling.” He made some motions with his hands, which could either be the action of arms on ski poles-or someone jerking two guys off simultaneously. “You can stick around, you know. The more the merrier, I always say.”
“I’m sure you do.”
“Now, you’re not going all closeted on me, are you Kimo?”
“I hardly think that’s possible, unless I leave the state.”
“Because you know a boy needs sex. I don’t want to hear about you going with any prostitutes or anything nasty like that. You know if you need some lovin’, just come over to Gunter’s oven. It’s always hot here.”
I must have blushed, because he said, “You are getting some! And you haven’t told me about it. You naughty boy!” He sat next to me on the sofa. “Okay, dish.”
My mind seemed like it was overflowing. I wanted to tell him everything about Mike Riccardi, but at the same time I was scared that talking might jinx things. And there was something else running around in my head, too, something that Gunter had said. I was thinking when he said, “Now, Kimo, you’re not going to hold out on me, are you?”
I gave up. I told him about seeing Mike on Monday morning at police headquarters when I was carrying the dead chicken, and then the coincidence of seeing him again Wednesday night. Then about stripping down in front of him, and the look in his eyes.
“Good, your gaydar is improving. So what happened next?”
I must have blushed again, because he dug an elbow in my ribs and said, “You dog. I want to know all the details.”
It felt great to talk about him, as if it made what I felt more real by sharing it. “Young love,” Gunter sighed. “It’s so sweet. I remember my first love.”
“How old were you? Thirteen?”
Gunter gave me a look. “Actually I was twelve. I was an early bloomer.”
“I’ll bet.” Then it came to me. “You said something about prostitutes before, didn’t you?”
“I did not have sex with a prostitute when I was twelve years old,” Gunter said. “I had to wait until I was at least nineteen for that.”
“No, what you said about closeted guys going with prostitutes. The guy we saw the night of the bombing, the one you worked on the sketch of. He look closeted?”
“Absolutely.”
I remembered catching that glimpse the night before, of the guy in the dark sedan. Maybe it was the same guy, after all. “So maybe I should circulate the sketch among prostitutes, see if any of them recognize him.”
“Adult book stores, too,” Gunter said. “And gay bars. You never know who’ll show up in one.”
“That’s true. It’s where I met you.” I leaned over and kissed him. “Thanks, Gunter. That’s a great idea.”
I stood up. “I’d better get back on the pavement. I don’t want to disrupt your artistic endeavors.” This time it was my turn to strike a pose. He jumped up and tried to tickle me but I raced him to the front door.
I bladed home, showered, and changed, then headed to The Queen’s Medical Center to check on my various charges. Arleen and Harry were there to check Robert out of the hospital, and take him up to Arleen’s mother’s, where he and Brandon could both be monitored.
Sandra Guarino was improving, too. When I got to her room, she was preparing to be discharged. Sandra and Cathy were sitting together on the bed, Sandra in street clothes, and they were holding hands and chatting softly. Sandra’s parents were sitting by the window overlooking the highway, not saying anything.
“Kimo! I’m so glad you’re here!” Sandra tried to get up, but she was still too weak. Cathy held her arm as she sank back to the bed. I walked over, leaned down, and kissed her cheek. She took my hand and squeezed. “So do I get to call you my hero and bat my eyelashes?”
“I doubt you even know how to bat your eyelashes,” I said, smiling.
“Never underestimate the power of a woman.”
“Or the power of a gay man who’s also a great friend,” Cathy said.
