His given name was Walter, but on the street everyone called him Lono. That’s because if there was some news or a rumor, Lono would know it. If he told you that someone was poaching your whores or gunning for your little corner of the drug world, or that the police were gearing up to drop some damage your way, it was usually true.
His network of girls reported back to him almost hourly, bits of gossip picked up here or there, people seen in certain places at certain times. Little things. Information that a normal person would discard as useless or irrelevant. But to Lono they were all tiny pieces of a large and multilayered jigsaw puzzle. He was able to take all the tidbits of information and hearsay and piece together an extremely accurate picture of what was going down on the mean streets of Honolulu.
This ability—some would say gift—was very useful. It kept Lono and his girls out of trouble with the competition and out of jail, one step ahead of what was about to go down. He was like the warning towers for incoming tsunamis that dot the North Shore. He gave you just enough time to reach high ground before the wave hit.
But Lono was selective. He traded information, using it to keep his business running smoothly. He didn’t help everyone, just special people. For example, the Japanese Yakuza and White Ghost Triad from Hong Kong held him in high esteem and, in fact, owed him many favors. In exchange for his information, they allowed his girls to work in many of the fancier hotels that were off limits to other pimps, and they never bothered to sweat him for a percentage of his earnings.
But it wasn’t just the organized crime syndicates that Lono traded information with; there was a methamphetamine importer from Seoul who treated Lono like a brother, a highflying money launderer who traded stock tips and investment advice for Lono’s information, a couple of counterfeit artists who specialized in 10,000 yen notes, a certain high-ranking government official, and a retired hitman from New Jersey. They all prospered through their connection with Lono. It was, as Martha Stewart likes to say, a good thing.
So Lono knew it was only a matter of time before he found out who the boyishly thin Japanese-American woman was, where she was staying, and what she was up to. He had put the word out. Lono could tell from looking at her that she wasn’t a doper, a local, or a tourist. That meant she was either newly arrived or here on business.
He knew she wasn’t in the game; that much was obvious by the way she carried herself. She was much too open, not cagey or circumspect like a working girl would be. Her reactions and comments had seemed completely honest and unguarded.
Lono found himself replaying their conversation in his mind over and over again. He didn’t know why he was suddenly obsessed with her. He could have any woman he wanted. Beautiful women were the currency he dealt, and it was common for pimps to dip into the till from time to time—if not for their personal pleasure, at least for quality control, making sure the product that was delivered to the consumer was the finest available. But Lono had never been tempted by any of his girls, even the exotics like Alice, the six-foot-four beauty from Tanzania, or Wachara, the hermaphrodite from Bali. He should’ve done both of them just to satisfy his curiosity. But the fact was that, unlike his customers, Lono wasn’t looking to get off. To tell the truth, he wasn’t sure what he was looking for. But he thought he’d seen a glimmer of it in that woman lost and wandering through the prowl district.
Lono had to see her again. But he didn’t stress about it. He’d find her. It was only a matter of time.