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He needed to think. He'd watched Sid stomp and yell
at the producer. That had failed. They'd braced Jack Lucey in the strip club, and all it'd done was piss him off. The union couldn't help, the local politicians couldn't help, and the sabotage angle was too risky. In other words, unless Joseph thought up a new approach or convinced Sid to back off, something bad was going to happen.

He watched as the yoga class went through a series of painful-looking back bends. He heard the crunch of tires on gravel and turned to see Wilson's van pull into a space. Wilson saw him and waved, sauntering over like a man who had all the time in the world.

“Hey, cousin.”

“Joseph, how's it?”

“I'm waiting for you.”

“Sorry, brah. I had things.”

Wilson sat down next to him and looked over at the yoga class. He watched as the yoga teacher bent forward into a triangle pose.

“Look at her ass. It's a rock.”

Joseph smiled and nodded. He'd noticed.

“Chick like dat can hurt you, man. Hurt you inna good way.”

“I thought you said it was urgent.”

Wilson continued to stare at the yoga teacher. “Yeah, brah. It is.”

The breeze off the ocean picked up. A set of waves rolled in to shore. A formation of pelicans flew by. Wilson continued to watch the yoga class.

“You want to tell me about it?”

“Man, maybe I should take yoga fo' meet some girls like dat. I bet chicks get hot fo' a dude who can yoga.”

Joseph turned and looked at the beach. “I wouldn't know.”

“Shit, look at dat.”

Joseph looked back at the yoga class and watched as the instructor did a pose where she balanced herself on her hands and placed her knees on her elbows. The overall effort highlighted her finely toned ass and brought it into clear view.

“I am definitely takin' me some yoga.”

Joseph stood up. “I'm going for a jog. You want to come?”

Wilson looked deeply hurt. “Wot?”

“I don't have all day.”

“Wot's your problem, man? Can't we just sit and enjoy da view?”

Joseph sat back down. “What's so urgent?”

Wilson glanced over at the yoga class and then turned to Joseph. “It's Dad. He's gone Vietnam.”

“What?”

“Like last night I come home—you know, late like—an' he was at da kitchen table cleanin' his guns.”

“I didn't know he had guns.”

“Yeah. From the Marine Corps. He's got like a M-16 and a pistol.”

“What was he doing cleaning them?”

“Dat's wot I ask. He say he was getting ready.”

“Ready for what?”

“Fo' dem Vegas fuckers.”

“Sid needs to calm down.”

“He say it's war, brah. He's fo' real serious.”

“Keep an eye on your dad. I'm going to go talk to the producer again. Maybe we can work something out. Do the overtime meals or something.”

“I hear dat guy's a fag.”

“Yeah. He probably is.”

...

Francis had spent an uncomfortable night. He'd had fun, at first. Disco dancing, picking up a Russian sailor, and partying at his hotel. Who knew vodka could taste so good? But when he was done partying, when his body cried out for a rest, Francis had been unable to sleep. He'd done a little too much meth. So he'd spent a few hours sitting in his hotel room watching patterns emerge and dissolve on his ceiling. Oddly enough his erection, which the Levitra and Viagra had kept loud and proud all night long, wouldn't quit. It just kept throbbing.

Like a lot of things in life, it had been fun for a little while, but now it was annoying.

When Francis got to his office he almost had a heart attack. For a brief second he thought he might've called the phone number that the bartender at the disco had given him, a phone number that delivered teenage male prostitutes to your home, hotel, and—apparently—office.

But the hot young hooker turned around and smiled at him, and to his relief Francis saw that it was Yoko or Yukon or whatever her name was, his erstwhile assistant.

“Good morning.”

“Wow. What happened to you?”

She appeared to blush a little. “I just wanted a change.”

Francis nodded. Any change from the dowdy New Age nobody would've been good, but to transform herself into a kind of punky early David Bowie creature? Genius.

She ran her hand through her hair, pulling it away from her eyes. “Not too much?”

“It's very stylish.”

“Really?

“Absolutely. You look great.”

She beamed. “You want some coffee?”

“Please.”

Francis walked into his office. He felt vaguely weird, slightly nauseated. Kind of like he felt when he came home early one day and found Chad in bed with Geoffrey the real estate agent. They were supposed to be looking for a new house, an investment Chad wanted to make, and from the looks of it they had spent the better part of the afternoon inspecting properties, just nothing to do with land or houses. When he found them lying in each other's arms, Francis felt as if about ten feet of intestines had just been yanked out of his body through his belly button. He became dizzy, disoriented. Like he'd turned on his favorite television show and found it recast with all new actors. Some of it was familiar; the names and dialogue seemed to fit with what he knew. The set looked the same. It was the same couch, the same painting on the wall. But at the same time, it was different. It made his stomach feel funny.

Francis couldn't understand why the same flood of peculiar feelings was hitting him at this moment. It wasn't Chad; Chad could go fuck a goat for all Francis cared. Why was he feeling so strange? Was it his assistant?

Francis couldn't remember if he'd ever been attracted to a woman. He recalled dating girls in high school. He French-kissed them and slipped his hand under their bras. He humped them on the couch when they were babysitting some
neighbor's brats. In college he even had sex with one. It's not like he didn't try it. But he never felt turned on. Whatever it was about women that men were supposed to get, the attraction that caused all the divorces and overpopulation of the planet, he never felt it. But with this new style she'd assumed, his assistant had somehow managed to merge the masculine and the feminine and become something new. Something that made his stomach feel funny.

Yuki came into the office with his coffee. “You take milk, right?”

“Thanks. That's really nice of you.”

“No problem.”

She noticed a stack of contracts on his desk. “You want me to proofread those for you?”

Francis looked at her. “That'd be great. I have to admit I'm burning it at both ends lately.”

“No problem.”

She scooped up the contracts and walked out the door. He watched her ass, flat and boyish, as she left the room. He realized he needed to remember her name.

...

Sid needed ammo. He had a couple of clips for the M-16 that should be enough, he thought; he didn't really expect to shoot anyone with it. The gun had a severe-looking profile; it scared people, said you were serious. It was for show. If he had to do any real shooting he'd use the handguns. They were more practical.

He heard his son enter the house. “Wilson? You wanna go wid me fo' da sports store?”

Wilson entered the kitchen and took a beer out of the fridge. “We goin' fishing?”

“I need ammo.”

Wilson's expression betrayed his nervousness. “Wot you need ammo for?”

“Why you look like you need da bathroom?”

“You don't need ammo.”

“If I'm gonna kill dem haoles, I'm gonna need more. Look at dis. I only got six rounds.” Sid ejected a clip from one of the handguns.

“You don' need more. You already got too much.”

Sid looked at Wilson. “Why you so stupid?”

“Why you always say I'm stupid?” Wilson sat down at the table next to his father. “I don' wanna see you in prison.”

Sid slid the clip back into the gun. “I'd die before lettin' dem take our work.”

“Joseph says there'll be more work.”

Sid sighed. “He don' know. You young ones don' know.”

Wilson didn't feel like drinking his beer anymore. He left it sitting on the table. He watched as his father sadly shook his head and fingered the pistol.

“You gonna tell me wot I don't know?”

“When Captain Cook land here he feel like a god. He wants us to bow down an' kiss his feet. An' you know wot we did? We killed him. We clubbed him an' speared him like a little
moana
fish. Haoles keep comin' here actin' like dey King Shit. You know what I say? I say we should club all dem too.”

With that Sid stood up and tucked one of the pistols into the elastic waistband of his tracksuit.

“Now I'm gonna get some ammo.”

...

The visit with Francis changed everything. Joseph left the production offices in shock, reeling from the conversation, feeling like he'd just been the guest star on a
Twilight Zone
episode. Even though he didn't have an appointment, the producer had seemed happy to see him. Glad he'd stopped by. Joseph had been relaxed and friendly in his approach. He wanted it to feel off the record. A man-to-man kind of talk. No threats. No undercurrent of retaliation.

Joseph had explained to the producer about the community living here, how tough it was to scrape by in one of the most expensive cities in the world, how local ownership was really important to them, especially given the number of Japanese, Chinese, and Dutch interests buying up large swaths of real estate and swallowing businesses whole. He had even tried to appeal to the producer's spiritual side—after all, he was from California—and told him how an all-Hawaiian production crew got a special blessing from the island gods.

The producer—Francis was his name—had listened. He'd looked into Joseph's eyes, paid attention, nodded when he agreed or understood. It seemed to Joseph that it was all going really well.

The producer told Joseph he preferred using locals. It helped get shooting permits, locations, and police cooperation if they knew their fellow townspeople were getting paid. The producer said he could call the network and make up some story about civic unrest or political pressure and maybe get the other guys knocked out of the picture. But it wouldn't be easy. He'd have to lay his ass on the line.

The producer, Francis, looked Joseph in the eye and asked if he'd lay
his
ass on the line. He said, “If I lay my ass on the line, I expect you to do the same.”

Joseph didn't know what he meant. Did he want a reduced rate? A kickback? That's when it all started to get weird.

The producer stood up and came around from behind his desk. Joseph noticed the erection right away; the front of Francis's pants poked out like a pup tent.

He sat down next to Joseph and said, “I really want to fuck you.”

Joseph resisted his flight-or-fight response. He reminded himself to breathe deeply and keep his cool. It wasn't the gay sex that bothered him—Hawaii was a very liberal state—it was the quid pro quo. It was the way it made him feel like a prostitute. If all it took was sleeping with the producer to solve all these problems, why weren't the real reasons good enough? Why did it have to come down to sex?

The producer pressed his case. It would be so easy. He'd throw in a nice sushi dinner, a few drinks, some ecstasy if he'd like. All Joseph had to do was say yes. Joseph didn't know what to do, so he decided to buy some time. He told the producer that maybe this was the way things were done in Los Angeles but it wasn't the way business was done in Hawaii. Still, in the interest of the community and to preserve the local economy, he'd think about it. He really didn't know what else to say.

...

Francis danced around his office. All his adult life he'd watched directors pull the old casting-couch trick on young
actors and actresses. He'd seen studio execs fucking agents. He'd seen bright young D-boys and D-girls, the people who do the grunt work of tracking and developing screenplays, fuck their way into a vice presidency. And Chad? If he kept fucking the way he was fucking, he was going to be a studio head in a few years.

But Francis had never done it. He'd never traded sex for favors. He'd never traded sex for anything but sex. But now. . . why not? It felt good. He was on top of the world, and if things went his way he'd be under that cute Hawaiian hunk in no time.

Francis sang the chorus from “Kung Fu Fighting” and bumped his ass against his desk like he was doing the Hustle. He shifted his legs and did the Electric Slide to the door before reaching for the knob and breaking into the Robot.

It was a little bit frightening.

Francis threw open the door and looked out at his assistant. For a brief second he thought it was just his lucky day. She was bent over, retrieving a folder from the bottom drawer of the filing cabinet. It took a superhuman amount of willpower and restraint to keep himself from walking up behind her and just thrusting his boner against her ass. Francis found himself standing in the doorway, a disco song in his head, an erection pounding in his khakis, and a bit of drool coming out of his mouth. God, he wanted her. More and more, she was becoming his fantasy cabin boy. Perhaps a three-way with her and the gorgeous Hawaiian was in order? This seemed like a particularly brilliant idea to Francis. Maybe inviting a bona fide female into the mix would seal the deal with the obviously heterosexual Joseph.

He saw how she'd looked at Joseph when he came in. The same way he did. Hungrily.

...

Hannah sat at the kitchen table looking over a stack of essays that her students had turned in. She concentrated, whipping out her red pen and scribbling comments in the margin, as Joseph rinsed a fillet of
opakapaka
and dried it with a paper towel. He held it in the light.