“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.
