Mahu Vice

by Neil S. Plakcy

  Table of Contents

  MAHU VICE

  blurb

  copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  A Return to Surfing

  Feel The Heat

  Ghost Marks

  Betrayal

  We All Have Our Closets

  A Deadly Clause

  Arson Pays Well

  Finalists For Miss Chinatown

  Beauty And Hidden Danger

  The Fireman Or The Tiger

  True Confessions

  Memories Of A Casual Encounter

  What Norma Knows

  Angry Lobsters

  Dating Drama

  Cleaning House

  Treasure Hunt

  Remembering Lucas

  Where All Roads Lead

  Premium Members

  Too Handsome

  69 In 609

  Treasure And The Tapes

  Who Among Us Is Innocent?

  Major Conversational Shifts

  The Gansu Poster

  Nobody Dies In Chinatown

  Burn Victim

  Propositioning Gunter

  Mahalo Manpower

  Men Who Say More Than Hi

  Encounters Of The Sexual Kind

  The Federal Case

  Interviewing The Illegals

  Incident At The Rod And Reel

  Where There’s Smoke

  A White Silk Thong

  Rendezvous At The Regent

  The House In Black Point

  Through The Fire

  Go Big Or Go Home

  About the Author

  Trademarks Acknowledgment

  MLR AUTHORS

  GLBT Resources

  MAHU VICE

  NEIL S. PLAKCY

  mlrpress

  www.mlrpress.com

  When a Chinese teenager dies in a fire at a Honolulu shopping center, homicide detective Kimo Kanapa’aka must overcome his issues with his ex-boyfriend, fire inspector Mike Riccardi, to investigate an underworld of illegal immigration, gambling and prostitution.

  Fourth in the Mahu series, Mahu Vice is a ripped-from-the-headlines look at sexual obsession, the criminal mind, and the price of life in paradise. It’s also a deeply romantic story of two alpha males struggling to find a way to love each other.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright 2011 by Neil Plakcy

  All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

  Published by

  MLR Press, LLC

  3052 Gaines Waterport Rd.

  Albion, NY 14411

  Visit ManLoveRomance Press, LLC on the Internet:

  www.mlrpress.com

  Cover Art by Victoria Landis

  Editing by Kris Jacen

  Print ISBN#978-1-60820-378-9

  Ebook ISBN# 978-1-60820-379-6

  Issued 2011

  This book is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication or distribution via any means is illegal and a violation of International Copyright Law, subject to criminal prosecution and upon conviction, fines and/or imprisonment. This eBook cannot be legally loaned or given to others. No part of this eBook can be shared or reproduced without the express permission of the publisher.

  Dedication

  To Marc, once again. If you were a castle, I’d be your moat, and if you were an ocean, I’d learn to float.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Thanks to the usual suspects: my mother, Shirley Globus Plakcy, and friends Andrew Schulz, Anthony Bidulka, Christine Kling, Eileen Matluck, Jim Born, Joe Pittman, Lois Whitman and Eliot Hess, Mike Jastrzebski, Pam Reinhardt, Pat Brown, Steve Greenberg, and Vicki Hendricks, and my agent, Richard Curtis.

  The members of the Stonewall Library GLBT book group and many online friends have provided support and encouragement. Once again, Cindy Chow helped me make sure Kimo’s world was authentically Hawaiian. And the baristas at many different Kope Bean kept me caffeine fueled to get this book finished.

  Richard Parker’s donation to Equality Maryland provided for his friend Sean Hackbarth to become a character in this book—congratulations to both of them! And it was great to get back in touch with high school friends Karen Gold, Ed Millner, and Stephen Viens, who as requested can be found in these pages. Thanks also to Cara Black for the chapter title “Nobody Dies in Chinatown.”

  Thanks again to my colleagues in the English department at Broward College, to my Florida International University classmates and friends, my fellow members of the Florida chapter of Mystery Writers of America, and everyone who’s e-mailed me or stopped me at a conference to say they’ve enjoyed meeting Kimo and learning about his life.

  And a big mahalo to Laura Baumbach and Kris Jacen, for all their help in bringing the Mahu books out in new editions.

  A RETURN TO SURFING

  “You’ve got a problem, Kimo,” my brother Lui said.

  Lui is ten years older than I am and an inch shorter. Our Japanese grandfather’s genes seem more dominant in him, while I look more haole, or white, thanks to our father’s mother, a blue-eyed blonde from Montana.

  My other brother, Haoa, eight years older, sat next to him, nodding in agreement. He’s the most Hawaiian of the three of us, beefy and round faced. Though we look like we’ve taken a different dip in the gene pool, you can still see the resemblance between us. At thirty-four, I have a slim physique, though I put on some weight when I stop exercising. Black hair, brown eyes with flecks of green, and dimples that come out when I smile give me a package that the guys seem to like.

  “Ever since you dumped that fireman, you’ve been going downhill,” Haoa said. We were sitting outside under the palm trees decorated with fairy lights at the Rod and Reel Club, a gay bar in Waikiki. The fact that my brothers had tracked me down there at six o’clock on a Friday evening, instead of being at home having dinner with their families, meant that they were serious.

  “Mom and Dad say you never come over to see them,” Lui said. “And you don’t go surf, either.”

  Haoa drained the beer in his bottle. “And your buddy Gunter said he took you to the emergency room.”

  I looked at him in surprise. Gunter was my best gay friend, the guy who’d helped me navigate the shoals and reefs of queer culture. A few weeks before, when a sexual adventure had gone wrong for me and I couldn’t stop bleeding, I’d called Gunter for help. I hadn’t known that he’d rat me out to my brothers.

  “You getting cozy with Gunter now, Haoa?” I asked. “Thinking of coming over to play for our team?”

  “Don’t talk stink,” Haoa said. “This is serious, brah. You’re screwed up.”

  I took a long pull on my beer, the second I’d had since I’d left police headquarters in downtown Honolulu, where I was a homicide detective. Haoa was right, of course; I was screwed up, and I could trace it all back to my breakup with Mike Riccardi, the handsome, sexy fire inspector I’d met on a case.

  I’d fallen hard for him; he had a sense of humor, he was smart and kind, and fun to be around. We had a connection that began with hot, smoldering sex, but quickly deepened in a way I’d never experienced before. Mike is half Italian and half Korean, and we both knew what it was like to be a part of many different worlds and yet not feel like you fit in to any of them. We both worked in jobs that required us to be strong and masculine and joke around with other guys—and it was a joy to be able to express doubt, feel emotion, and point out sexy, half-naked men to each other.

  He was my first real boyfriend, and I was so thrilled to be in love that I didn’t pay
attention to the warning signs that things might not work out. He was very closeted, and I was very out—with my friends, my family, my coworkers, and the general public. It wasn’t always my choice, and indeed when I’d been outed I had freaked out, hidden with my parents for a while, and agonized over something I should have accepted years before. And even though it was still hard, two years after coming out, I felt I had a responsibility to be honest in my personal life, to be a good role model.

  Mike tried; I know he did. But guys started talking stink about him at the fire house, kidding him about his friendship with me, and that made him back off. We stopped going out to dinner together, getting takeout instead. We didn’t go to the movies, or shopping, or any place we might be seen together.

  When he went to an arson investigation conference in Santa Cruz, where I’d gone to college, I wanted to go along. “Nobody has to know we’re together,” I’d said. We were sitting in the living area of my studio apartment in Waikiki. “I won’t go to any of your events with you. We’ll just share a room, and while you’re in your meetings, I’ll surf.”

  Mike shook his head. “I can’t do that. These are guys I’ve known for years. Nobody’s bringing a wife or a girlfriend. We’re just going to hang out in the bar after the conference and talk about fires.”

  I believed him. Maybe that was my problem. Or maybe it was the gonorrhea he brought back with him, after a careless night on the town in San Francisco. Either way, when I discovered that he’d lied to me—the other guys all brought spouses—and cheated on me with a skanky guy he picked up at a bar on Castro Street—I dumped his ass.

  I felt lousy about doing it, and about myself. I went into a spiral of bad behavior. I screwed around, and then avoided my parents, my brothers, and my old friends, because I was ashamed of myself. Sitting there with my brothers I knew it was time for a change. I sighed deeply. “I know I’ve got a problem. But I don’t know what to do about it.”

  “Come surf with us tomorrow,” Haoa said. “North Shore waves building.”

  It was late October, and Haoa was right, the North Shore swells were growing. I hadn’t been up to Haleiwa in two years, since I’d gone undercover up there after I was outed.

  “Don’t you guys have stuff to do?” I asked. Lui was the general manager of KVOL, “Erupting News All the Time,” Honolulu’s most tabloid-like TV station, riding every celebrity scandal. He had a wife and three kids. Haoa ran a successful landscaping business; he was married, too, with four kids of his own.

  “It’s time we looked after you, little brother,” Lui said.

  Lui invited my friend Harry Ho, too, and Harry picked me up early on Saturday morning. Skinny and Chinese, with bowl-cut hair and a couple of PhDs from MIT, Harry has been my best friend since high school, and like my family, he’d stood by me when I was dragged out of the closet, taking me surfing then, too. He had been so calm and matter-of-fact, giving me a handhold when inside I felt like I was being churned in the roughest waves I’d ever experienced.

  We strapped my board on the roof next to his, then stopped in St. Louis Heights to pick up my brothers. The roomy SUV accommodated all of us, though I had to yield the front seat to Haoa, whose six-foot-four bulk couldn’t squeeze into the back. Harry had Israel Kamakawiwo’ole’s last real CD in the deck, and we blasted “In Dis Life” as we cruised up the H2 toward the North Shore.

  We were surrounded by newly harvested fields, and the decimation around us mirrored the way I felt inside. But when we crested the last mountain and began to descend toward the shore, all the bad stuff was wiped away. Ahead of us we could see bits of bright, blue-green ocean, interrupted by white swells, the sun shimmering on the water as if it were a bed of diamonds. When we turned off the highway into old town Haleiwa, I felt a familiar sense of anticipation.

  The streets were crowded with weekend surfers, shirtless guys in patterned shorts toting boards longer than they were tall, little kids eager to play in the surf, women in one-piece bathing suits that showed off tattoos up and down their arms. Like all of Hawai’i, the people were a mix of Asian, Hawaiian, and haole. You could tell the locals by their even tans, the tourists by their sunburns.

  It was an eye candy feast, all those muscular men, shorts hanging off hips and showing a hint of butt crack, tribal tattoos around biceps and ankles. I felt like a dog who’d been out in the sun too long with my tongue hanging out. I wanted to surf, and I wanted to get laid, and I was so happy to be spending the day with my brothers and my best friend.

  For the three of them, it was a day away from responsibility, from kids and errands and household chores. For me, it was a chance to reconnect with guys who had always known me and still loved me, no matter what. I’d forgotten how much I enjoyed getting out on the water, challenging my body and satisfying my soul.

  None of us was that agile anymore, so we headed for a good break that wouldn’t kill us, creeping along in traffic and then snagging a lucky parking spot on the Kam Highway. The beach stretched out in both directions, miles of sand and surf, and the sun blasted us as soon as we left the cool comfort of the SUV.

  The waves crashed against the shore, big and small, delivering some surfers upright, while others churned around in white foam as if they were inside a washing machine. The best surfers were out the farthest, tiny toy figures suddenly popping up and riding the top of an incoming wave. There were bodysurfers closer to shore and little keikis frolicking at the water’s edge.

  We raced for the water and launched ourselves in, hopping onto our boards and paddling past the breakers, duck diving under the incoming waves, until the four of us were sitting on our boards waiting for the right waves to break and take us in.

  It was a magical moment—until Lui claimed rights as oldest boy and took the first wave, and then we each followed him, repeating the in-and-out process until the sun was high in the sky and it felt good to collapse on the sand and have it warm our tired muscles.

  “You want to talk about what’s going on?” Harry asked, lying next to me on the sand while my brothers walked up to the road to get us all something to eat from one of the lunch trucks.

  “Nothing much to say.”

  “Yeah, there is,” Harry said. “You’ve turned down every invitation to come to dinner with Arleen and me, to hang out, to surf. Gunter called me after he took you to the ER, you know.”

  “Asshole,” I mumbled.

  “Nope. He was scared. I get the feeling that he’s into some kinky stuff, but whatever it is you’re up to freaked him out.”

  “I’m not up to anything.”

  Harry sat up, shaking the sand off, and I realized how much he’d been working his upper arms. He’d always been a skinny kid, and when he’d gone away to the mainland for school he’d spent all his time in labs and classrooms instead of out on the water. Now that he was back in Hawai’i, he’d joined a gym to get back in prime surfing shape.

  “You know what?” he said. “Fuck you. You don’t trust me enough to talk to me? What, you think I’m going to judge you? Shit, Kimo. If I’m going to judge you for anything, it’s for not being able to keep your balance on a board. Not for who you like to fuck, or how you like to get fucked.”

  He stood up, ready to follow my brothers up the beach.

  “Harry,” I said. “Wait.”

  He looked down at me. “You going to talk?”

  I sat up, and he sat down, so we were on the same level again. He looked at me expectantly, but I didn’t know what to say, how to start. I realized that I was crying.

  “Shit, Kimo, I’m sorry.” He reached around awkwardly and hugged me. “You are messed up, aren’t you?”

  I nodded.

  “This is about Mike?”

  I rubbed my hand across my nose and sniffled. “How’d you know?”

  “I know how I feel about Arleen. If we broke up, I’d go nuts, too.” He looked at me. “Come on, Kimo, why are you punishing yourself?”

  “I thought Terri was the one who had all the em
otional insights,” I said. She was my other high school best friend, a cop’s widow with a young son. She had always been the one we turned to for advice on feelings, as we looked to Harry for logic. Me, I was the one who just pushed through and got things done. “You’re supposed to be the computer geek.”

  He wouldn’t meet my eyes. “Come on, Harry. You talked to Terri about me?”

  “I didn’t tell her the specifics,” Harry protested. “Just that it sounded like you were getting into some very dark stuff, and I was worried about you. Your brothers were worried, too. Hell, even Gunter was worried.”

  I pulled my knees up to my chest and hugged them. I’d become so accustomed to keeping secrets, never telling my family or friends I was gay until I was publicly dragged out of the closet. When those secrets were torn away from me, I felt lost and vulnerable. As I got more comfortable with myself, I swore I wasn’t going to hide anymore. But I’d gone back to my old habits, and that failure to share the load was hurting Harry as much as it was me.

  “I never told you what Mike did.” I explained to Harry about the conference in Santa Cruz, the sleazebag he slept with in San Francisco, the gonorrhea he brought back to me as a souvenir.

  “What a dick,” Harry said. “You’re better off without him.”

  “I should have gone easier on him,” I said, suddenly feeling defensive of Mike. “Hell, I know what it’s like to be stuck in the closet, the kinds of things you do without thinking because you’re screwed up. I should have given him another chance.”

  “Why? So the next time he could give you HIV?” Harry looked at me. “That’s not it, is it? You’re not positive, are you?”

  I shook my head. “Nope. I’ve been careful. And I get tested all the time. I may want to get roughed up a little now and then, but I don’t want to die.”

  “You ever talk to Mike again?”

  “Nope.”

  “Then how do you know he’s not happy? He’s found some other guy stuck in the closet, and they’re both having a gay old time screwing in the dark, while you’re beating yourself up.”