Neil Plakcy - Mahu

“Jesus, Kimo.”

I waited for him to say something else. He just said, “Jesus,” again and shook his head.

“You goddamned motherfucker!” There was a loud thud immediately after that, and both of us turned toward the sound, which caused a momentary stop to the bustle of the Makai Market. A young guy with long, scraggly blond hair and a brownish blond goatee was screaming at another loser across an overturned table from him. “Why the fuck’d you do that, man?” the blond guy screamed again. “Why’d you fucking do that?”

“She was fucking there, man,” the other loser said. He was about the same build, drug-thin and disheveled. Akoni and I both looked around for security, but like a pay phone when you’ve just gotten an emergency beep, they were nowhere in sight. “She fucking wanted it, anyway.”

The two guys started pushing and shoving each other, and the crowd backed away, giving them a clear circle. I looked at Akoni and he looked at me, and we both stood up.

He took the blond and I took his friend, and we strong-armed them out of the Market in different directions. I talked low and calm to my loser as I walked him to the parking lot, though my heart was racing. “You just gotta take it outside, man,” I said. “You got a beef with your buddy, you just take it outside, you work out your differences, and nobody gets hurt, all right?”

“I knew she was his girlfriend, but, fuck shit, man, a stiff prick has no conscience, right?”

“All depends on your definition of friendship,” I said. I released his arms when we got to the parking lot. Because of the configuration of the mall, I knew Akoni and his friend were around the corner, out of harm’s way for now. I watched the guy stumble down to the bus stop, and it seemed the danger had gone out of him.

I met Akoni back at the table where we’d been sitting. A couple of cleaners had materialized from the shadows and righted the chairs and tables, and the conversational buzz had returned. We sat back down.

“Now let’s get back to you,” Akoni said. “What the hell were you doing at the Rod and Reel Club at two o’clock in the morning?” He crumpled his coffee cup and I could see he was mad. I knew him inside and out. He’d wanted to punch the blond guy, but he hadn’t, and his anger had to go somewhere. It was all mixed up with me, the blond guy and his friend, and having to get up so early in the morning for a murder case. “Were you tailing somebody again? We’ve been through this before, Kimo, the Allen case. I told you I can’t have a partner who goes off on his own, tailing people and doing stuff without telling me…”

“I wasn’t tailing anybody, Akoni.”

He stopped talking. It took him a minute, then he said, “Then tell me what the hell you were doing at a gay bar at two a.m., drinking beers and talking to a guy who tried to pick you up.”

“I didn’t talk to him,” I said. “He stuck his tongue in my ear and I walked away.”

“He stuck his…” Akoni was almost speechless, stuttering. “He stuck his tongue in your ear and you walked away. Jesus Christ, why didn’t you clock the guy!”

“I guess he was just trying to be friendly.”

Akoni put his left hand over his face and shook his head. When he put his hand down his face was dead serious. “Brah, you in a heap of trouble. And I don’t know what to do. Man, I thought I knew you. But I can see I don’t know dick about you.”

I couldn’t help it. I started to laugh. “It’s a figure of speech, man,” Akoni said. “Jesus, Kimo, you got to take this seriously.”

“Akoni, if I wasn’t laughing, I’d be crying. I mean it, man. You have no idea how broken up about this I’ve been. I mean, leaving that guy in the alley, it was the hardest thing I ever did. I thought I could walk away, I wouldn’t have to admit what I’d been doing.” My throat suddenly got dry but I knew I had to keep going. “I thought I’d never have to sit here and tell you I’m gay.”

“Oh, man. What do you got to be gay for? You were always such a stud, Kimo.”

“I was trying to avoid the truth. But now my fingerprint’s on that dead guy’s neck and I’ve got to explain why.”

There was a moment when the noise in the Makai Market died away and I could hear the birds chirping. In the background I heard a blender making some frothy drink, the sizzle of meat on a grill. The sun must have come out from behind a cloud, because suddenly the center of the food court was flooded with a much brighter light. I didn’t exactly feel good, but there was a weight off my chest, something that had been keeping me from breathing. And that was okay.

“You know you could get fried for this,” Akoni said after a while. “Being gay is one thing. But you witnessed a homicide and you walked away.” He shook his head. “That’s a hard rap to walk out of.”

“I didn’t witness a homicide.” Two elderly Chinese women came over and sat down at the table next to us, and I lowered my voice. “I saw a guy drag something down the alley, and it wasn’t until the Cherokee was gone that I realized that something was a body. I checked the guy’s pulse, and when I couldn’t get one I called for help. And I walked away. I know I did wrong. But I didn’t do anything an ordinary citizen wouldn’t have. Hell, I did more than your average Joe.”

“You’re a cop, Kimo. You have a different standard to live up to.”

I didn’t know what to say. He was right. The two women next to us began gossiping in Chinese, their voices high and chattery. I think life is like some kind of ongoing movie. Sometimes you play a minor character, sitting back, commenting on the action around you. Then sometimes, you have to step forward, take the starring role. This was one of those times. I was moving out of the background, up to center stage.

We sat there for a while, not talking. Finally Akoni said, “When we get back to the station, you run the guy’s prints and the print Doc pulled off his neck through the computer. I don’t want to know about it.”

“I can’t put you in that position.”

“What position?” Akoni said. “What position is that? We don’t do everything together. You question some people, I question some people. You fill out some reports, I fill out others. We work together. You run those prints through. Who knows, maybe that one from the neck is smudged. You never know with prints.”

“I can’t wreck evidence. That would make it even worse.”

“You stupid?” he asked. “Did I say you should smudge the print? No. Did I say you should destroy evidence or lie about anything? No. Put it in your goddamn report. The fingerprint on the victim’s neck matches the index finger of Detective Kanapa‘aka. If that’s the finger you used. Leave it there. Who’s going to challenge it? You’re the detective on the case. End of story.”

“I had to tell you,” I said.

He looked at me. “No, you didn’t.” Then he stood up. “Come on, let’s get back to the station.”

The print from the guy’s throat was a clear match. Detective Kimo Kanapa‘aka, Waikiki Station. More important, though, was the match to the dead guy’s prints. We now had a name to go with our stiff: Thomas Pang. He had a couple of minor arrests in the past, nothing for the last few years. He was suspected of tong activity, but nothing was ever proven.

I dutifully made notes for the case file, then turned back to the computer and punched in a few keys. After a minute, a list began scrolling down the screen.

Tommy Pang had a long record, from possession of illegal weapons to armed robbery. It was clear he had been a low-level jack of all trades for one of the tongs, the kind of guy who takes the rap for whatever goes down. But he had served remarkably little jail time given all his time in court. He’d often been acquitted, or charges had been dropped, and the few times he’d actually been convicted he had paid fines or served at most a few months behind bars.