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  MAhu BLood 127

  There are still a bunch of lei stores on South Beretania and Maunakea Streets, but they’re tiny rooms with folding shutters or rolling grills, and most of the leis are behind glass refrigerator cases. You can walk past and only smell car exhaust and fried oil, just a light scent from the flowers the old ladies are stringing.

  North King is the only street with any life on it—groceries with tubs spilling out to the street, stacked with garlic, ginger, hard-boiled eggs and packages of dried mushrooms, noodles and soy sauce.

  There was tinny Chinese music playing somewhere as we walked over to Hotel Street, past a stand with row upon row of leis made of orchids, velvety orange ‘ilima flowers and fragrant maile leaves intertwined with tiny white pikake blossoms. Behind the counter, an elderly grandmother sat stringing even more.

  Chattering teenagers and haole tourists crowded around the booth, debating the merits of different leis and bargaining for better prices.

  Akoni was waiting for us with a longboard-sized macadamia latte in his hand. He’s the kind of oversized Hawaiian you see working the surfboard concessions at Kuhio Beach Park, wearing a XXL aloha shirt, board shorts and rubber slippers. Tack a badge on his shirt and a gun on his hip, and you’ve got my ex-partner.

  The room was pungent with the smell of fresh-ground coffee, decorated like the others in the chain with sepia-tinted photos of coffee pickers and plantations. A group of Japanese tourists sat in the corner comparing pictures on their digital cameras, and a bald old man with a spotted skull stood by the bar telling stories to the barista.

  After Ray and I got our own caffeine bursts, we sat down with Akoni. After seeing pictures of the baby and hearing about how big his lungs were, I asked, “You said you knew about a pai gow game?”

  “There are a few games that float around. You know anything specific?”

  I told him about Dexter Trale and our suspicion that he was laundering money from a Chinatown game through the Kope 128 Neil S. Plakcy

  Bean stores.

  “You’re talking a high stakes game,” Akoni said. “To generate that much cash. There’s only one game for high rollers. We think it runs out of a back room behind the Wing Wah restaurant, but we haven’t been able to get in.”

  “Tell us about how you play. I told Ray all that I knew, which wasn’t much.”

  “There are seven players. Your four tiles are divided into a front hand and a back hand, two tiles each. You twist them around, trying to match up the dots so you end up with two pair.”

  He took a sip of his coffee and sighed happily. “If you lose both hands, you lose whatever you bet. If you win one hand and lose the other, it’s a push, and you get your bet back.”

  “Are you playing against all the other players?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “It’s like blackjack, in that you play against the bank—although the bank can move from person to person.

  That’s how you win big, but it’s also how you can lose a ton, if you’re the bank and you have to pay off the winners.”

  “You know when the next game is?” Ray asked.

  “Rumor on the street is that there’s one going on tonight,”

  Akoni said. “But it’s a closed game—you’ll never get in the front door.”

  “We don’t need to get in the game—we just need to follow Dexter Trale. He’s going to have to stay at the Kope Bean warehouse past his usual shift, because the night guy got killed.

  We figure he won’t bother going home when he finishes—that he’ll just go direct to this game. You want to help out with a surveillance?”

  Akoni yawned. “Tonight?”

  “If you can stay awake that long.”

  “It’ll take a lot more caffeine than this,” Akoni said, holding up his paper cup.

  We worked out the details and left Akoni calling his partner MAhu BLood 129

  to set up his end. Back at headquarters, I called Bunchy Parker again. We still needed to talk to his son Brian about his ability to shoot a rifle and his whereabouts when Edith was killed. But Bunchy swore his son wasn’t there, and he hadn’t seen or spoken to him since the boy left.

  “Who knows, maybe he’ll show up in Chinatown tonight,”

  Ray said. “If Edith’s death and Stuey’s are connected to each other and to this game.”

  I put a request in to see if Brian had left the island by plane, but that was going to take a while. We pitched the stakeout to Lieutenant Sampson, who complained about his budget but eventually authorized the overtime.

  By three o’clock, Ray and I were positioned across from the Kope Bean warehouse in my Jeep, in a parking lot for a shipping company where there was enough traffic that we wouldn’t be noticed.

  We watched as the pallet jockeys left. Dexter remained inside, as we expected, and a beat-up white pickup that matched his registration stayed in the parking lot, sporting a peeling bumper sticker that read “Welcome to Hawai’i. Now go home.” A truck arrived from a restaurant supply company, and from our vantage point we could see the driver unload pallets and Dex check them off on a clipboard.

  A Kope Bean truck pulled in after the supply truck left, and Dex and the driver loaded it up. After that, nothing more happened until five, when Tuli left.

  I called Mike and left a message on his cell that I’d be out late.

  Akoni and his partner Tony Lee had gone home to take a nap, and around seven they showed up to relieve us. Ray and I went off to dinner, and as we were finishing, Akoni called and said that Dex was on the move.

  Trading the lead back and forth, we tracked Dex to Chinatown, where he parked on a side street off North Hotel Street, around the corner from the Wing Wah restaurant. I pulled around to the front of the restaurant and parked down the block, where 130 Neil S. Plakcy

  Ray and I had a good view of people going in and out. Akoni and Tony parked by the side door, facing the alley behind the restaurant.

  It was about nine o’clock by then, and the restaurant was busy. We hunkered down for a long wait. But no more than a few minutes had passed before I saw a familiar figure approach the restaurant and knock on the side door. The sight was so unexpected, though, that it took me until the door had opened, and he’d been ushered in to realize that it was my oldest brother, Lui.

  BRotheR Lui

  “What’s up?” Ray asked. “You recognize somebody?”

  I looked over at him. You have to trust your partner; if you hold back information on one case, then you start to get into a pattern, and that’s the kind of thing that can get you killed.

  “My brother. Lui.”

  “That’s the one from the TV station? You think he’s going in there to eat?”

  “I wish I knew. We don’t even know for certain there’s a pai gow game going on in there.”

  “He ever gamble that you know of?”

  I couldn’t remember. “My other brother, Haoa, he puts a few bets down on ball games. But Lui, he’s always been the straight arrow.”

  My cell rang. “Hey, brah, isn’t that your brother?” Akoni asked.

  We’d been friends since the academy and partners in Waikīkī for a couple of years, so he’d had the chance to meet my family a bunch of times.

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, get him the fuck out of there. You don’t want him falling in the middle of our case.”

  I couldn’t walk up to that side door myself, because ever since I’d come out of the closet and had my picture splashed on the front page of the Honolulu Advertiser and the Star-Bulletin and become part of the nightly news on Lui’s station, KVOL, I was recognized all over town. Usually it was a gay or lesbian person, but I had no way of knowing who would be in that restaurant.

  And if I saw Dex he’d know we were on to him.

  Ray wouldn’t be any good, either; Dex knew him, too. And scratch Akoni and his partner; as soon as vice cops walk in some place, everything closes down.

  132 Neil S. Plakcy

  “All right. Gi
ve me a few minutes to work something out.” I hung up on Akoni, then punched in Haoa’s number.

  After I exchanged some pleasantries with my sister-in-law, she put my brother on the phone.

  “Can you get down to Chinatown, brah? Right now? I need your help.”

  “I’m gonna miss the last half of the game,” he grumbled.

  “Call my cell when you’re on the road. I’ll fill you in.”

  I slapped the phone shut and looked around. Chinatown’s a different place at night. It wakes up, and lights flicker behind storefronts shuttered during the day, though shades are pulled down over any big windows. Restaurant neon glows on every block, and brave tourists mingle with shadowy figures dealing in drugs or other human vices.

  A couple of minutes later Haoa and I were on the phone again. I told him only that we had a pai gow game staked out, and I wanted to make sure Lui wasn’t involved.

  “Shit,” Haoa said. “I told him that game was bad news.”

  “You knew he was playing?”

  “He hinted, thought I might want to join in. You know how much money you can run through in a game like that? I told him no thanks.”

  A guy walked by carrying half a dragon costume, and couples passed us every so often, many talking in Chinese. A string of round red lanterns was suspended over the street, and across from me, a strand of tiny white lights had been wrapped around the trunk of a palm tree.

  When Haoa pulled up down the block and walked over to my Jeep, I said, “We’re not going to bust the game tonight. I want to know if he’s in there for dinner, or if he’s in some back room gambling.”

  “You really want to know?” Haoa said. He’s as tall as I am but broader in the chest, and his skin is a shade darker. He was wearing a dark green U.H. Warriors T-shirt, ratty sweat pants and MAhu BLood 133

  rubber Crocs. “What if he’s got some girl there?”

  Lui had never said anything, but both Haoa and I thought our oldest brother had stepped out on his wife a time or two.

  “Whatever he’s doing, it’s a mistake. I want to know, and you do, too.”

  “Yeah. I’ll be back.”

  I watched him walk across the street and go into the restaurant.

  “You think this is a smart idea?” Ray asked.

  “Maybe, maybe not. But it’s the only one I’ve got.”

  My cell rang, with a call from Harry. I let it go to voice mail, figuring I’d get back to him when things were slow. Then Haoa stepped out onto the sidewalk and pulled his cell out of his pocket. It was weird watching him dial, then having my phone ring with his call.

  “I don’t see Lui anywhere,” he said. “That side door must lead to a private room. Keep your mouth shut. I’m going to conference him in.”

  I was impressed. I didn’t know how to set up a conference call on my cell; I barely knew how to turn the damn thing on and off.

  I held the phone out so Ray could listen, too, and we heard the sound of dialing and ringing. Then I heard Lui’s voice, low. “This is a bad time, brah.”

  “You bet it is,” Haoa said, keeping his own voice low so no one on Lui’s end could overhear him. “If you’re in a pai gow game at the Wing Wah restaurant, get your ass outside pronto.”

  “How the fuck do you know where I am?” Lui said, and I was so surprised at hearing my very proper big brother curse I nearly dropped the phone.

  “Outside. Now,” Haoa said. “Or you’re going to be in a world of trouble.”

  Haoa hung up, and I did too. And then we waited.

  About five minutes passed before Lui walked out of the front door of the restaurant. I saw him start to argue with Haoa, who motioned over toward my Jeep. I said, “I’ll be right back,” to Ray 134 Neil S. Plakcy

  and jumped out.

  “Are you fucking spying on me?” Lui said to me as I walked up. “Your own brother?”

  His tie was askew, and there was alcohol on his breath. This was not the brother I knew, the one who was always so well-groomed, so much in control.

  “Jesus, Lui, get a grip. You walked right in the middle of my case. You expect me to leave you in there?”

  The red neon from the Wing Wah window played against his face. “For real?” he asked.

  “Let’s get you a cup of coffee.” I turned to Haoa. “Thanks, brah. I can take it from here.”

  “I don’t even want to know,” Haoa said, and he walked off toward his truck.

  I motioned to Ray to join us, and we all walked around the corner to the same Kope Bean where we’d met Akoni earlier in the day. While Ray ordered three more of the macadamia lattes and my brother sat in an overstuffed chair looking sick, I called Akoni and filled him in.

  “We’ll keep an eye on Dex,” he said. “Let me know what your brother has to say.”

  “You put me in a bad situation,” Lui said, when we’d sat down. “The game had just started, and I had to fold.”

  “You put yourself in the bad situation, brah. Start from the beginning. How long have you been playing?”

  “Off and on? Since college.”

  It was my turn to be incredulous. “For real?” I asked, echoing him.

  He shrugged.

  “How long at this game?”

  He pursed his lips. “Maybe six, nine months. A buddy of mine introduced me.”

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  “Some buddy. In addition to gambling being illegal, which a solid, upstanding citizen like you ought to know, we’re thinking there’s something corrupt about this game, that it’s connected to a couple of murders.”

  “It was just a little innocent gambling, like betting on ball games. Where’s the harm in that?”

  “Are you stupid, brah?” I asked. “Where’s the harm? The harm is in violating the law. You want to get pulled in on a sting one day? See your face in the Star-Advertiser? Maybe even one of the camera guys from your station films you doing the perp walk?

  How long you think you can keep your fancy job, your big house, your Mercedes, after they arrest you?”

  He opened his mouth to argue and then shut it. It looked like he was finally realizing the trouble he was in.

  It was nearly ten, and I’d been on the go since six when I woke up and walked the dog. I was running out of patience, even for a guy who changed my diapers a time or two. “You know a moke named Dexter Trale?” I asked Lui, trying to soften my voice a little. Moke was an island term for a two-bit hood, which was a pretty good description of Dex.

  “We don’t use names. Everybody has a Chinese nickname.”

  “Skinny haole. Tattooed like crazy.”

  “Yeah. That’s Lan Long. Blue dragon. Like his tattoo.”

  “I have to ask. What’s yours?”

  “Yuan.”

  I racked my brain for the little Chinese I knew. “Money?”

  “It either means dollar, or first,” he said.

  Of course. Lui was the first of us boys and the one who cared most about money. “How much cash changes hands in a typical game?” I asked, thinking of Stuey’s assertion that Dexter Trale was packing up bundles of cash in the warehouse at night.

  “I don’t pay that much attention,” Lui said, but I knew he was lying.

  136 Neil S. Plakcy

  I kept looking at him.

  “Maybe twenty grand a night,” he said, looking down at his lap.

  Ray whistled. “From seven players?”

  “High stakes,” Lui said.

  I didn’t even ask if his wife Liliha knew what he was doing—

  because of course, she didn’t. “Who walks off with the money at the end of the night?”

  “Depends on who wins.”

  Again, I looked at him.

  “I win sometimes, all right? This guy we call Tung runs the game. He always walks away with some cash.”

  “Not Dexter—I mean Blue Dragon?”

  He shook his head. “Lan Long’s the worst player. I think he works for Tung somehow, that’s how he gets in the game. And plus, he�
��s so bad, he draws money out from the rest of us.”

  “How often do you play?” I asked.

  “Once a week. That’s all, I swear. I just lose a couple of grand here and there.”

  “Still, if Tung walks away with ten or fifteen grand for a night, it’s hardly worth a big money laundering operation,” I said, frowning.

  Lui looked back toward the restaurant. His profile was tense.

  “It’s not the only game.” He looked back at me. “Tung runs a couple of games. Fan tan, 13 card, a couple of other pai gow games with lower stakes. And he’s got a room full of video poker machines in an old warehouse off River Street.”

  I pulled out a pad and pen. “Details, brah.”

  “I never played any of the other games,” Lui said. “But Tung mentions them now and then. And he said any time we want to play video poker, we just let him know.”

  “What do you know about this guy Tung?” I asked. “Chinese?”

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  He shook his head. “Japanese. Scary. He was changing his shirt one day and his whole body looks like it’s covered in tattoos.

  Like a yakuza, you know?”

  The yakuza were Japan’s version of the Mafia, a criminal network that had its fingers in all kinds of bad stuff, there and in the US.

  “Could be he just likes tattoos,” Ray said.

  “You see rings on his arms?” I asked Lui.

  He nodded. “Bunch of them.”

  “Yakuza tattoo a ring around the arm for each crime they commit,” I said. “Yeah, it could be he’s just an ordinary Japanese guy who happens to like tattoos. Or he could be a yakuza.

  Considering he’s running illegal gambling, I’m tending to think he’s a criminal.”

  Lui either didn’t have more details than that, or he wasn’t saying. He kept drumming his fingers on the arm of the chair and licking his lips. I realized he was scared, and that was something I’d never seen in my big brother, the one who had always seemed to have everything under control.

  “Time for you to head home, brah. Don’t even think about going back to that game. Not unless you want your brothers dragging you out of there on your ass.”