“He uses his muscle if a certain situation isn’t working. That’s sort of his specialty.”

“Ever work with him?”

“Sure. US dollars, for example. During the war, the Territory treasury stamped them with ‘Hawaii’ so they couldn’t be used by invaders, fifth columns, what have you. But ho, we laundered them through the haoles themselves—the same guys who were stamping them.”

“Sure, sure, I get you. Ever see him get rough?”

“Of course. One time, Frankie beat up a rival wanting to take over a boogie house. That rival moke, he never walked again. Never remembered his own name, neither.”

“He ever get rough with you?”

“No. And I hope he never tries.”

Selfer drank. He stared into his whisky, still swirling. “Know what I think? This must be Lansdale bringing in his own man. To watch over things . . .”

She’d told herself she wasn’t going to come begging. But an angle was an angle. She leaned closer to him, ever so slowly, her body moving almost imperceptibly as if she were about to swat a fly. She opened her face to him. “Please, Charlie. Please keep him away from me. Could you?”

“Ah, dear. Don’t worry,” Selfer said, uncrossing his legs.

She pouted.

And Selfer’s head was lowering her way.

“You have to protect me,” she said, her face hovering just under his. “You must.”

Selfer kissed her. He held her by the shoulders, gazed into her face, kissed her again, and then pulled her onto his lap with a strength that his arms did not show, and the next thing she knew she was kissing him back with all she had.

24.

Despite his smooth way, Charlie Selfer didn’t make love like a smooth guy. Kanani had expected lots of flourish, showing off even, telling her how much he cherished her like one of those men bringing flowers and showering gifts on the second date. Men like that were only in love with the thought of themselves courting a girl. Yuck. Her fear was that she’d like Selfer just as well as she’d imagined herself liking Wendell in bed, and then she would have a problem. That wasn’t the case, either. Selfer made love mechanically, but it wasn’t like those low-grade psychopaths she knew from the boogie houses. His grip on her shoulders—nice enough in itself—soon became a series of controlled maneuvers he used to carry her into the bedroom. Set her on bed. Remove clothes. Place her in position. Assume his place. Adjust accordingly. Never looking her in the eyes the whole time. These weren’t even gestures. He was on top of her and inside her, yet nothing but his male member touched her, which was something of a feat, she had to admit.