Mahu Vice m-4

by Neil S. Plakcy

  I saw Haoa and Tatiana look at each other, and once again I remembered that magnetism that drew them together. Did Mike and I have that, too?

  “Trick?” Frank asked.

  “A guy I met online,” Sergei said. “Stan. He puts security guys in all these big high-rises, so he said he knew what I was going through.”

  I looked at Ray, and both our eyebrows raised. “You know Stan’s last name?”

  Sergei shook his head. “Something Italian, I think. We didn’t trade business cards, you know?”

  “We’ve been following someone in a different case,” I said to Frank. “Stan LoCicero. He owns a company called Mahalo Manpower.”

  “Yeah, that’s it,” Sergei said.

  “We’ll talk about your case later,” Frank said. Despite his youthful looks and the goofy red hair, he had a way of speaking that commanded respect. “So this guy, Stan. How’d you move forward with him?”

  “He said he’d send a couple of guys over, but I shouldn’t look too closely at their papers.” He looked at Haoa. “It was just when you were getting the contract for that industrial park by the airport, and you were pressuring me to find you guys.”

  Haoa didn’t say anything, just stared at Sergei.

  Sergei looked back at Frank. “So these three Chinese guys show up the next morning. They hardly speak English, but they look like they can work. I filled out some papers for them and sent them off to Naleo, one of Haoa’s superintendents.”

  He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Later that morning, Stan called. I thanked him for the guys, and he told me how it was going to work.”

  Frank said, “And how was that?”

  “I was supposed to short each guy’s pay, and give the difference to Stan. Oh, and he said I could keep a little piece for myself, too. For my trouble.”

  Haoa’s rage was simmering, but Tatiana kept her hand on his.

  “You have anything in writing from Stan?” Frank asked.

  Sergei toyed with his puka shell necklace. “No contract. I just wrote a check to Mahalo Manpower every week, for consulting services.”

  “You never questioned these checks?” Frank asked Haoa.

  My brother shook his head. “We have an electric check writer and a stamp with my signature. When Tatiana started managing the accounts I got out of the habit of paying attention.”

  “Mr. Baranov, I’m going to need something I can take to a judge,” Frank said. “We’ll wire you up. You’ve got to get something incriminating on tape if you want to walk away from this.”

  “I can’t. I’m scared.”

  “I’ll go with you,” Haoa said. That probably scared Sergei even more.

  “How about this,” Ray said. “Stan knows Kimo, but he doesn’t know me. Suppose we say I’m your new boss, Sergei. And I’ve figured out what you’re up to, and I want a cut. I go with you to meet with Stan.”

  “What do you think, Mr. Baranov? You’re not going to get a better offer.”

  Sergei nodded. “Haoa and Tatiana didn’t know anything about what I was doing.” He turned to them. “I’m so, so sorry. You guys gave me a chance, and I fucked it up. That’s all I ever do, isn’t it? I just screw up, every time.”

  Tatiana said, “This could be what turns things around for you, Sergei. You’ll put this jerk Stan behind bars; you’ll help all these people who are being victimized.”

  It was touching to see Tatiana still believed in her brother. I wished I did, too.

  While we sat there, Sergei pulled out his cell phone and called Stan, and did a pretty convincing job of explaining that his new boss wanted a cut. “Give it to him out of yours,” we heard Stan say.

  “He wants more than I get,” Sergei whined. “He’s gonna call the cops.”

  They arranged to meet at the Rod and Reel Club that evening at six. Ray and I made a plan to meet Sergei at five to get him wired up and rehearse their story. “You’ll keep tabs on your brother, Mrs. Kanapa’aka?” Frank asked.

  “I’m not letting him out of my sight,” Tatiana said.

  Frank turned his attention to Haoa. “You have a list of the employees you think don’t have proper working papers?” he asked.

  Haoa nodded. “Six of them. All Chinese.”

  “I want you to talk to each one of them, Kimo,” Frank said. “See if you can get anything out of them.”

  “You’re going to need an interpreter,” Sergei said. “Most of these guys don’t speak more English than good morning, yes sir, and paycheck.”

  “I’ll try, but it takes a couple of days to line up an interpreter,” I said.

  “We don’t have a couple of days,” Frank said. “As soon as these guys get the idea that something’s up, they’ll be in the wind.”

  “Aunt Mei-Mei speaks Cantonese,” Haoa said. “You could ask her.”

  “And Harry speaks pretty decent Mandarin,” I said. “You round up the guys and bring them to the station. I’ll get Harry and Aunt Mei-Mei.”

  Haoa, Tatiana, and Sergei left, and Frank said, “Before I let you out of here, I want to hear about your case.”

  “It’s complicated,” I said.

  Frank sat back in his rolling armchair. “I may be a federal agent but I can do complicated.”

  I started with the arson and the prostitution, and finished up with the blackmail attempt on Brian Izumigawa. “It looks like this guy Stan may be involved somehow. We’re not sure yet.”

  “Federal trumps local, you know,” Frank said. “I don’t want you to do anything on your case that might mess up mine.”

  I wasn’t going to get into a pissing contest with the guy, because I knew I’d lose. “You’ve got it, boss,” I said.

  INTERVIEWING THE ILLEGALS

  The demonstration was still going on, and I recognized a guy I’d gone to Punahou with, as well as a couple of mokes, or local criminals, that I’d arrested a time or two. I nodded and smiled at everybody. Including my mother.

  She was wearing a formal muumuu in a Hawaiian quilt pattern and carrying a sign that read Protect My Islands for My Grandchildren. It wasn’t a surprise to see her there; both she and my father are half-Hawaiian, and they’d brought us up to value that part of our heritage. I knew she’d been volunteering with Kingdom of Hawai’i; she said she wanted to make sure that native culture and traditions were maintained.

  I stopped to kiss her hello. Ray hung back until I motioned him over. He and I had been working together for over a year by then, and he’d met my parents a couple of times.

  “We just met your other son upstairs,” he said. I glared at him, and from the way he pursed his lips I figured he’d realized it wasn’t the right thing to say.

  “Which son? Lui?”

  “Haoa,” I said. “Oh, look, there he is.” I waved over Haoa, Tatiana, and Sergei. “Gotta go, Mom. Try to stay out of trouble.”

  “Your mom some kind of civic activist?” Ray asked, as we hurried away.

  “Long story. Goes back to 1892 and the U.S. taking down the monarchy.”

  “Sounds like it’ll have to wait.”

  When we got to the Wrangler, he said, “When we get back to the station, you ought to match up the pictures on the site to the list of names,” Ray said. “I’m gay friendly and all, but…”

  “No problem. I’ll do that. Why don’t you check in with Treasure?”

  The time ticked by. It was a lot less fun than you’d think, looking over all the picture sets and trying to figure out who was the target and who else was involved. Lucas was in many of the shots, but there were also a lot of unnamed guys. Some looked Chinese, some Filipino, a couple Indonesian. Whether they were hookers or escorts or illegal immigrants was impossible to tell.

  The only common denominator was that they were all male. Some displayed fetishes-diapers, urine, and kinky toys. Others were just vanilla sex. My shots, from the rear, were among the most ordinary.

  Ray spoke to Treasure, and she admitted knowing Stan LoCicero. She said she thought Stan was cr
eepy. Unfortunately, creepy was not against the law in Hawai’i.

  I called Mike and brought him up to speed. “Stan sounds like a good candidate for the arsons,” he said. “We can get a warrant for his house if you get something useful on that tape.”

  After scouring the Internet and police records, I found decent head shots of Richard Hu and Stan LoCicero, and put together a pair of photo arrays of guys who looked similar to them.

  At three o’clock, Haoa and his superintendent, Naleo, showed up with a half-dozen Chinese men. Naleo was a Hawaiian bodybuilder, mid to late twenties, with some kind of inscription tattooed on his neck. He wore the Kanapa’aka Landscaping polo shirt, which clung to him in places that made me miss Mike Riccardi. He didn’t look happy to be in a police station, but maybe he was just nervous he’d get implicated in something.

  Harry brought Aunt Mei-Mei, who had dressed up for the occasion in a bright blue pants suit with a blue-and-white striped blouse. She looked like she was going out for a ladies’ lunch with my mother. Maybe they’d meet up after my mother was done protesting outside the federal building.

  Naleo brought the men into our conference room one by one. The first guy, Long, was tall and good-looking, with a shaved head and a big chest. I was pretty sure I recognized him from a couple of the pictures. He spoke a dialect that only Aunt Mei-Mei could comprehend. “Too bad Norma not here,” she said to me. “She speak like him.”

  Long knew he was going back to China, and he wasn’t happy. There wasn’t much I could offer him without Frank O’Connor’s approval, so I brought my laptop in and logged onto the MenSayHi Web site.

  It took me a few minutes to find the right pictures. Long, naked, stood over a nude haole man in a bathtub, a stream of urine flowing out of his fat dick, which was certainly long. The picture had been taken from the side, showing Long in profile, the haole full face. I’d identified him as an attorney with a prominent law firm that handled corporate litigation.

  “Is this you?” I asked, showing Long the image on the laptop.

  His face gave him away, though he didn’t say anything.

  “Too bad,” I said. “If this was you, we might be able to help you.”

  Aunt Mei-Mei didn’t see the picture, but I knew she had an idea what was going on. She translated, and Long looked interested.

  “See, we want to get the guy who hired the men in these pictures,” I said. “If you help us arrest him we can’t send you back to China, at least not until after the trial is over. And after that, who knows?”

  I could see the emotions warring in Long’s face. He didn’t want to admit that it was him in the photo. Maybe he was ashamed, or maybe he knew what he’d done was illegal. But he was smart enough to realize that this might be his ticket to stay in the U.S.

  He said something in his guttural dialect, which Aunt Mei-Mei translated. “He says yes, this is him.”

  In bits and pieces, we learned his story. He had been recruited in Gansu. He did not like having sex with men, but he needed money for his wife and family back in China. He had worked at the massage parlor in Waikele for about six months, and then at a series of manual jobs.

  I showed him the array of photos that included Stan LoCicero. He didn’t recognize anyone. Then I showed him the array with Richard Hu, and Long said Mr. Hu had picked him up at the airport-he was the man who had brought him to the massage parlor. Long was very excited, chattering on so fast that Aunt Mei-Mei had to stop him several times so she could catch up.

  It was good news for Frank O’Connor, but not for us, because Long couldn’t implicate Stan LoCicero in anything. I stopped the tape, thanked Long, and then turned him over to a federal marshal, who would see that he didn’t disappear until his role in Mr. Hu’s case was over and his immigration status resolved.

  Harry translated for four of the remaining five, Aunt Mei-Mei the last. They all told variations of the same story and could only implicate Mr. Hu, not Stan. After the marshals had taken away all six, Harry said, “I have some stuff for you on Stan LoCicero. You got a computer I can hook up to?”

  He plugged a little USB drive into my computer and started printing, while Aunt Mei-Mei sat at the big table, her hands resting on the wood in front of her, like a little blue bird.

  “Arrest records from New Jersey, Illinois, and Nevada,” Harry said, as the aged printer started spitting out paper. “A couple for arson, a couple for petty theft, one for indecent exposure.”

  “Stan’s been a busy guy,” I said, pulling the first pages off. Ray and I started reading. I didn’t ask how Harry got hold of some of this stuff, but after all, he was a police consultant. For all I knew he’d found a legal way to access the documents based on that. Or at least I hoped so.

  Back in Jersey, Stan had been a breeder of Siberian Huskies. He worked in maintenance, security, and as a motorcycle mechanic. Harry found the incorporation papers for Mahalo Manpower, which indicated that Stan owned a 25 percent share in the business; the rest was owned by Wah Shing.

  Unfortunately, there was nothing in Stan’s record that we could take to a judge. Yes, there was a connection between him and the management of the acupuncture clinic, and yes, he had a record for arson. But a judge would see that as purely circumstantial. We still needed Sergei to get Stan on tape.

  INCIDENT AT THE ROD AND REEL

  I spoke to Mike during the afternoon, telling him our plans. “You need anything from me?” he asked.

  “Nope. I’ll let you know how it goes.”

  Walking back into the federal building, Ray and I saw the debris from the demonstration everywhere-crumpled flyers, crushed leis, and a lot of empty plastic water bottles. The wind had picked up, stirring the trash along the street and adding to my nerves. I was worried about the evening; Sergei was a certified fuckup, and I didn’t trust Stan LoCicero.

  I was relieved to see that Sergei was there and ready to go. He’d had a serious conversation with his sister, and he recognized that he didn’t have any other options beyond cooperation. He was also pretty familiar with the process of getting wired up. I guess he’d been in trouble enough in Alaska to know the drill.

  He and Ray went over their story a few times, getting the details straight. “Remember, we need something on the wire that shows that LoCicero knows these guys are illegal,” Frank said. “You’ve got to pin him down.”

  “Leave that to me,” Ray said.

  Sergei rode with Ray in the Highlander, and I drove the Wrangler home, then walked over to the club to join Frank in a surveillance van. Darkness was falling, but Kuhio Avenue hummed with traffic, and a young guy in a straw hat strummed a ukulele for the tourists, who dropped tips in a cup. A group of Japanese sightseers, led by a middle-aged woman waving a small rising sun flag, passed us, eagerly pointing and snapping pictures of an old Hawaiian woman in a yellow muumuu.

  A few minutes before six, Ray and Sergei came into sight, walking down Kuhio Avenue toward the Rod and Reel Club. Frank had just made a note in his record when I heard the rumble of a motorcycle in the background.

  “That’s gotta be Stan,” I said.

  The motorcycle came out of the alley alongside the club and turned onto Kuhio Avenue. The driver was a husky guy in full leather and a black helmet, but I couldn’t see anything beyond that in the dark. I couldn’t tell if he was black, white, or some shade in between. If I hadn’t been watching closely, I might not have seen the flare from the gun the motorcyclist pointed at Sergei and Ray. The bike was loud, but I thought I heard at least three shots.

  Sergei fell to the ground, and tourists scattered. A woman screamed and a Cadillac SUV blasted its horn as the biker pulled in front of him on Kuhio. Ray pulled his gun but didn’t fire. I jumped out of the van. As I slammed the door behind me, I said, “Go after him!”

  Frank’s driver pulled out onto Kuhio, nearly sideswiping a tourist couple in an open convertible, and took off after the biker.

  I dialed 911 on my cell phone and gave our information to the dispatcher
as I ran to Sergei, who was lying on the sidewalk clutching his side. Ray was already leaning over him. “Too many tourists and cars to get a clean shot,” he said to me.

  “Where were you shot?” I asked Sergei, leaning down next to Ray.

  “My side. It hurts.”

  “I called an ambulance, brah,” I said. “You’ll be okay.”

  “You said you’d look out for me, Kimo.” He winced from the pain.

  I grabbed his hand and squeezed. “I will.” I stood up and stepped away, dialing Haoa’s house, and when my niece Ashley answered I said, “I need to talk to your mom. Right away.”

  “I’m on a call, Uncle Kimo.”

  “Get off it, then. This is an emergency, and I need your Mom.”

  My ear reverberated as she slammed the phone down onto some hard surface, and then I heard her call for Tatiana. “What is it?” Tatiana said, when she answered. “Is everything okay?”

  Ray pulled off his shirt and tore it into strips, trying to staunch the bleeding from Sergei’s stomach.

  “Sergei’s been shot.” I handed him the phone.

  “I’m sorry, sis,” he panted. “I screwed up.”

  Squatting there on the sidewalk next to Sergei, I could hear Tatiana through the phone. “Don’t you dare die on me, Sergei. Don’t you dare.”

  People clustered around us, and I motioned to them to back away. “Police. Everything’s under control.”

  The ambulance siren grew. Ray was sweating as he leaned over Sergei, shirtless, applying pressure to the gunshot wound. “Don’t hate me, sis,” Sergei rasped. “I didn’t meant to hurt you or Howie.”

  Tatiana was crying when I took the phone from Sergei. The ambulance pulled up and a couple of EMTs jumped out. A patrol car arrived, sirens blasting, and a uniform from the Waikiki station started cordoning off the area.

  “The ambulance is here, Tatiana,” I said. “I’ll go with Sergei to Queen’s.”

  “I’ll be there as soon as I can,” she said.

  The EMTs leaned down to where Sergei lay. One took his vital signs while the other took over from Ray, who leaned back, breathing heavily.