Mahu Vice m-4

by Neil S. Plakcy

  “Yes.” She looked at me with a keen interest in her dark eyes. “This help you find who burn down your father’s shopping center?”

  “I hope so.” I kissed her cheek and thanked her for her help. As we drove back down to the station, Ray said, “That woman should open a restaurant.”

  “You guys need to get out more. Don’t get me wrong, Aunt Mei-Mei’s a great cook. But I can show you places in Chinatown that make her look like an amateur.”

  “Maybe we’ll double date sometime. Me and Julie, and you and the fireman.”

  I remembered the dinner Mike and I had with Terri and Levi Hirsch on Saturday night. It was fun, despite all the angst over our relationship that had arisen in the truck on the way there and home.

  “Yeah,” I said. “We’ll do that sometime.”

  NOBODY DIES IN CHINATOWN

  I e-mailed the law student and asked him about the office he’d visited. Then I called a guy I knew in Immigration and Customs Enforcement, a freckled, red-headed haole from the mainland named Frank O’Connor, and arranged to meet him at the Kope Bean near his office on Ala Moana Boulevard. Ray stayed at the station to work on getting phone records from the office across from the shopping center.

  The first time I met Frank I mistook him for an intern, but I was assured he was a Stanford grad who’d distinguished himself in the San Francisco office before being posted to Honolulu. We had worked together a year before, when an illegal immigrant had turned up dead in the lobby of a downtown office building.

  “What’s up?” he asked, settling into one of the big armchairs in the window of the coffee shop.

  “You know anything about smuggling illegals in from China for prostitution?”

  “Big topic. What specifically do you want to know?

  “How do they get in? Boat?”

  “Pretty long sail. Sometimes, yeah, they come up from the Marianas that way, but mostly they fly into Honolulu on tourist visas, then they disappear. There’s a saying, you know. Nobody dies in Chinatown. Somebody dies, somebody new comes in and takes over the identity.”

  “One ring behind everything, or multiple?”

  “Multiple. You’re from Homicide. You have a dead girl?”

  “Two girls, two guys. Three of them might be from Gansu Province.”

  Frank nodded. “Somebody’s been bringing people in from Gansu, promising them a better life in the U.S. But they’re so much in debt from the travel that they don’t have any choice but to work it off.”

  I gave Frank the information we had on the acupuncture clinic and the other places that had burned, and he said he’d see if they had any leads. Then I remembered the poster we’d found at the abandoned office. “You recognize this?” I asked, showing him the name and address as Aunt Mei-Mei had written it.

  “Where’d you get this?” he asked, immediately on alert.

  “It was on the back of a poster.” I explained where we’d found it.

  “I recognize the name-a guy we’ve been looking at, on the ground in Gansu. He recruits the prostitutes and sends them here.”

  He drained the last of his coffee. “The new China’s a tough place. Especially in a province like Gansu, where there are few resources. Lots of girls, and some boys, too, get recruited to go into prostitution. Most of them end up in the big cities, Beijing, Shanghai. Prostitution’s tolerated there. You have a lot of men who go to the cities to work on construction, leaving their wives and families back home, and they need a little love.”

  “So how do they get to the U.S.? Why not just stay in Beijing?”

  Frank shrugged. “It’s the old story. The streets of America are paved in gold. Guys like Guo Yeng-Shen convince these kids that they can do better over here. They get fake social security numbers, and they think they’re working toward green cards. But when they’ve exhausted their usefulness they either disappear or get sent back home.”

  The talk about illegal aliens reminded me of my conversation with Sergei, and I knew I couldn’t wait any longer to talk to Haoa. After I left Frank, I pulled out my cell phone and called my brother.

  “Hey, brah, howzit?” he said.

  “I need to talk to you. Can I meet you somewhere?”

  “Sounds serious. What’s up?”

  “I’ll tell you when I see you. Where are you now?”

  “Out by the airport.” He gave me the name of a hotel. “I’m giving them a quote for landscaping. You want to meet me in half an hour? I’ll buy you lunch.”

  I’d just walked into the hotel’s restaurant when he came in, wearing pressed khakis and a white polo shirt with his landscaping business’s logo embroidered on it. With his sunglasses on his head, he looked like the model of a prosperous island businessman.

  He charmed the hostess, as he does with any woman from six to ninety-six, and she giggled as she seated us at a table overlooking the pool. “Look at that grass,” he said, pointing out the window. “Looks like crap, because they’re cutting it too short, and it burns.”

  I ordered a burger, and Haoa a chicken Caesar salad. “Tatiana’s got me on a diet,” he grumbled.

  I told the waiter to change my order to a chicken Caesar as well. “Couldn’t eat a burger in front of you.”

  “You’re a prince among men. So what’s with all the urgency?”

  “I was talking to Sergei on Friday night. I’m worried he might be hiring illegal aliens to work on your crews.”

  I’ve known my brother all my life, and I can read him pretty well. Unless he’d turned into a masterful liar, this was all news to him. He groaned. “Please do not tell me that my lame-ass brother-in-law is involved in something shady. Tatiana thinks he’s gone totally straight.”

  We both laughed. “Well, in a manner of speaking,” Haoa said.

  “Was he in trouble in Alaska?”

  The food arrived. Haoa looked at his salad and said, “I wish I’d ordered the burger.”

  I waited.

  “Yeah, Sergei’s a general fuckup. Nothing major, you understand. But every other week he was in some kind of trouble. Getting drunk at a bar. Beating up a guy who made a crack at him. Pissing in the street where a cop could see him. Receiving stolen goods. Possession with intent to distribute.”

  “Whoa. And you hired this guy?”

  “Tatiana swore up and down that she would keep him in line. Hell, I see the way she runs me and the kids. I figured she could do the same for him.” He shrugged. “Everybody needs a second chance, Kimo. Sergei’s a fun guy, Tatiana loves him, I thought I was doing a good deed.”

  “We don’t actually know that he’s doing anything shady.”

  Haoa frowned. “A leopard doesn’t change his spots.” He ate some lettuce and then said, “I’ve had my suspicions. We’ve been expanding like crazy the last six months, and it’s hard to hire good help for what I can afford to pay. But Sergei, it’s like he found this pipeline of guys. And they’re good workers, too.”

  “Chinese?”

  “All kinds. Chinese, Filipino, Indonesian.”

  “You ever ask to see their papers?”

  He shook his head. “That’s what I have him for.” He looked at me. “What am I gonna do, Kimo? I could lose my business over this. Hell, I could go to jail, couldn’t I? Who’ll take care of Tatiana and the kids?” He put his fork down on the table and it skittered away and fell to the floor. “Jesus, I’m fucked, aren’t I?”

  “You’re not fucked yet. I was talking to a guy in Immigration today about something else. He’s a good guy. Let me ask him what you should do. You cooperate, maybe all you get is a fine.”

  “Can you do that?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know, Haoa. But you know I’ll do everything I can to protect you. After everything you’ve done for me…”

  “Thanks, brah.” He shivered. “Shit, I’ve got to tell Tatiana about this.”

  “Who did all your paperwork before you hired Sergei?”

  “Had another guy, but he quit. Tatiana was helping me out
when she suggested we bring in Sergei.”

  “So get Tatiana to go in and look things over,” I said. “Before we go all crazy. Meantime, I’ll talk to my guy, but I won’t use any names yet. See what he says.”

  “We’ve got to do this fast.” Haoa pushed the half-eaten salad away from him. “I’ve got no appetite anymore.”

  “Poor guy,” I said. “You’ll waste away to nothing in a few days.”

  “Get even skinnier on prison food,” he grumbled.

  I looked at my watch. “I’ve got to get back to work.” I reached over and clasped his shoulder. “Don’t worry, brah. I’m going to take care of you.”

  BURN VICTIM

  Ray and I spent the rest of the afternoon wading through information online. I had no idea there were so many different names for male prostitutes-from man-whores to program boys. Men had been selling sex to other men since ancient Greece and Rome, beginning in the United States in the late 1600s.

  Men who identified as straight and yet had sex with other men for money were called gay for pay. Hustlers were guys like Jimmy Ah Wong, Frankie, and Lolo, who solicited for sex on the street. Escorts, like Lucas, made contact with clients through personal ads, Web sites, and agencies. According to the research I found, most guys who sold sex supplemented their income in other ways: pornographic actor or model, go-go boy, or by performing in sex shows or on a Web site. That matched what I’d seen on MenSayHi. com. Another common trade was massage therapist, which connected to the businesses Norma Ching and Treasure Chen had been running.

  When I got home, I found an e-mail from the law student, who needed to talk to me. Between him and Brian Izumigawa, I couldn’t seem to get rid of past tricks. “Where are you?” the student asked when I called his cell. “I need your help.”

  “I’m at my apartment in Waikiki. You want me to meet you up at UH again?”

  “No, I’ll come down there. Give me your address.”

  “You want to come to my apartment?”

  “Please. I have to show you something. In private.”

  Reluctantly, I told him where I lived. It didn’t sound like he wanted to hook up, and I didn’t have the energy to argue with him. While I was cleaning up, Gunter called me. “I’m still at work, but I need to talk to you. Can I come over when my shift is done?”

  What was up? Why were all these guys desperate to talk to me at my apartment? “Sure, Gunter. I’ll be here.”

  About a half hour later, my doorbell rang. I looked out the peephole and recognized the South Asian guy. “Thank you, thank you,” he said, bursting into the apartment. “I didn’t know who else to talk to. I’m in terrible trouble.”

  “Slow down,” I said, closing the door behind him. “Come sit down, and tell me what’s wrong.”

  “I can’t,” he said, and he burst into tears.

  Awkwardly, I put my arms around his shoulders and hugged him, and he cried against me. “It’s okay. You can tell me anything.”

  “I have to show you,” he said, sniffling. He pulled away and turned his back to me. He undid his pants and pushed them and his white briefs to the floor, then leaned against my sofa.

  “Holy shit! What happened?”

  His hairless mocha buttocks were dotted with burns, and there was a white gauze patch awkwardly taped over his anus. “That fucker,” he said, talking through tears. “He burned me.”

  I remembered the cream that Mike had used on my back when I’d been scorched at the Hawai’i Marriage Project fire. Unfortunately, I’d used it up and never replaced it. “I’ve got to make a call,” I said. “Don’t worry, I’m going to take care of you. Lie down on the sofa on your stomach.”

  He leaned down to pull up his pants, and I said, “You might as well leave those off.” He stepped out of them and lay down on the couch.

  I dialed Mike Riccardi on my cell. “You still have some of that burn cream?” I asked, as soon as he picked up.

  “Hello to you, too. Yup. I’ve always got a tube in my truck.”

  “How quickly can you get over to my apartment?”

  “You burned yourself?”

  “Not me. Another guy.”

  “Give me a half hour,” he said.

  I sat down on the floor, so that my head was about the same level as the law student’s. “Why don’t you tell me what happened? My friend is on his way over with some cream to help you out.”

  “Nobody can know,” he said. “I did not realize how bad it was until this morning. Fortunately my wife did not see me.”

  “Start at the beginning. Who did this to you?”

  “The man I had sex with the night of the fire. He called me yesterday, when I was at the library. He told me that he wanted to see me.”

  He started crying again, and I patted his shoulder. “Take your time.”

  “I said that I did not want to. I am trying to be a good husband. But he said that he had taken pictures of me that night, and that he would send them to my wife if I did not do what he said. He told me to come to an apartment. He made me take all my clothes off and lie down on the bed.”

  He began sobbing again. “I am so ashamed. I should never have gone with him in the first place. Now my life will be ruined.”

  “Where was the apartment?” I asked.

  “In Kaka’ako,” he said. “A beautiful high-rise.”

  On a hunch, I told him the address of the building where Ray and I had found Treasure Chen hiding. With her moved to Norma’s, anyone else could be using the place. “Apartment 609?”

  He looked up at me, tears streaking his face. He was quite handsome, and I could see that many men would find him attractive. “How did you know?”

  “It’s an address that has come up in our investigations.”

  That brought on a fresh round of tears. “He is a criminal. I knew it.”

  “What did he do once you were lying on the bed?”

  “He tied my hands and feet to the bedposts. It was very uncomfortable, my legs stretched open so wide. He lit a cigar, and he began blowing the smoke into my bottom. I just wanted him to fuck me so that I could go, but he wouldn’t.”

  I tried to remember the bed in the apartment. It had a wooden headboard and footboard, with posts at each corner. “I kept asking him to let me go, and he got angry. He said I could go when he said so. Then I felt something burning.”

  I had to get up to answer the door. Mike stepped in, then stopped when he saw the law student on the couch, naked from the waist down, his buttocks burned and bandaged. “What’s up?”

  “This is my friend Mike,” I said to the law student. “He’s a fireman. He’s accustomed to dealing with burns.”

  “Man, somebody burned you good,” Mike said, squatting down next to him. “What’s your name?”

  He sniffled. “Fouad,” he said. “Fouad Khan.”

  I filled Mike in on what Fouad had said so far.

  “Let me get a look at you,” Mike said, and he began carefully peeling off the tape that held down the gauze. Fouad whimpered and squirmed.

  “You were saying that you felt something burn you,” I said to Fouad.

  “He was tapping his cigar ash on me,” he said. “And then he put the lit cigar right onto me. I cried out and begged him to stop, but he wouldn’t.”

  Mike peeled off the bandage and said, in a low voice, “Man, that looks nasty.”

  Fouad’s anus was red and inflamed. “He kept relighting the cigar and then putting it out on me.” He was crying again. “I looked around and saw that he had taken off his pants, and I was relieved. I thought that at last he would finish and I could go home.”

  Mike squeezed some salve into his palm and began massaging it into Fouad’s buttocks, slowly and carefully. “But he would not,” Fouad said, wincing and crying. “I saw him stroking himself, and then when I thought he would finish, instead, he put the cigar in me.”

  I couldn’t believe he had so many tears in him. I wasn’t sure if it was the memory or Mike touching his burns. I gras
ped his hand and squeezed. “He ejaculated on me then,” Fouad said. “And after that he said I could go, but that I would have to come whenever he asked, or he would show the pictures to my wife.”

  I exchanged a glance with Mike. “Okay, buddy, I’m going to put some cream where you’re burned the worst,” he said to Fouad. “This might sting a little.”

  It appeared to sting a lot. Fouad grasped my hand and squeezed until I worried he might break a couple of bones. “You ought to go to the emergency room,” Mike said. “These burns are nasty, and you don’t know what kind of damage was done inside.”

  “No,” Fouad insisted through his tears. “No hospital.”

  “Hold on a minute,” I said. “Suppose we said that you were attacked. Last night, leaving the library. Two or three men attacked you. Maybe they thought you were Arabic, and they said anti-Arab things.”

  I saw Mike nodding. “They held you down, pulled your pants down, and burned you,” he said.

  “You were embarrassed to go to the police last night, but if you go to the emergency room now, they’ll call the police for you. You can report the assault.”

  “But that is against the law,” Fouad said. “To make a false report.”

  “Someone raped and burned you,” I said. “That’s the truth. You tell the officer that you didn’t see anyone’s face, and they won’t be able to pursue the case. It’s not right-but it will be something you can explain to your wife. And if we catch this guy, then you’ll be safe.”

  Fouad nodded.

  “I need you to describe this man to me, tell me anything you can about him.”

  While Mike continued to administer the burn cream, Fouad said, “He is about fifty years old. Caucasian. His hair is dark brown, going to gray, and his face is red, like a man who drinks a lot.”

  I took notes. “Anything else?”

  “He has a very good body. Like he works out in the gym.”

  “How does he dress?”

  “As if he has been in the military. Those shirts, with the little flaps.”