What You Do Not Know You Want Page 0,1

to mention. That one month ago my business partner, Zachary Tanaka, was approached by one of the writer's ex-lovers, now an alcoholic dentist in Tokyo with debts up to his cancerous throat, for quick cash and no grief from the Mishima estate in return for this knife plus certificate of authenticity sealed by Mishima himself-verified by ourselves-I omitted to mention. That one week ago Zachary Tanaka had flown to Honolulu, phoned me in Yerbas Buenas to confirm he had receipt of the knife, then jumped to his death from the roof of Hotel Aloha here in Waikiki, I omitted to mention. That the dagger had not been found and that an ultranationalist emperor worshiper in Kyoto had upped his offer to Y25 million-what, five years of police pay?-I damn well omitted to mention. "Ivory-handled ornamental bread knife, huh?" snorted the cop. "Is that for slicing ornamental bread?"

Wei studied her admirable reflection in two mirrors held in exact positions. "If you look at your face from different places," the girl explained, "you are reminded that we are not a Me, but an It who lives in a Me." I showed her your photograph, the one I took of you by your glider. "Never seen him." Wei shook her head. "Is he famous'" He is-was, I prompted-a Japanese-American named Zachary Tanaka who had stayed here two weeks ago. "So? Waikiki is Japan's national playground. Even we have hundreds stay here, every year, all shapes, all sizes," said Wei. Yeah, I said, but how many throw themselves from your roof? Wei did an oh face. "Uncle handled all of that. I slept through it, believe it or not. I sleep like a baby in this place. Ask Uncle about him." Disappointing. Werewolf was a last resort. Hotel owners are hustlers, and if "Uncle" scented how valuable this artifact might be, and if it was in his possession, well, it may as well be guarded by lasers. So I just asked Wei what happened to Zachary Tanaka's belongings. "The cops took everything," stated Wei. "It was just clothes and pilot magazines, I heard."

An hour in the creamy Hawaiian surf was an inviting prospect after a day of precinct offices. Were you on the bus to Koko Head, Vulture' Did you see that bullish ocean kicking up three-meter waves? Grace would say you were watching me lick up those spectacular rollers. For thirty pure minutes I achieved a state of grace with the sea. Everything I tried came off, but then, scanning the beach for admirers, I neglected a fundamental rule: Never rest idle with your back to the ocean. A godalmighty breaker crashed down on me, forcing me way under, where a churning riptide pulled me deeper. Stay calm, and normally the air in your lungs tells you which way is up, right, Not off Koko Head. No up, down, sound-save a dim roaringand an inner voice lamenting, Drowning, you're drowning, and my lungs collapsing and ABBA, amazingly, singing Supertrouper lights are gonna blind ya to scenes flashing by. Not scenes of my life but of clays after my death. Of my missing body, eaten by skipjack tuna. Of Wei or Werewolf reporting my absence to a nose-picking cop. Of Nightingale, assuming I'd bottled out of the wedding. I tell you of my dip with death, Vulture, to illustrate my conviction that ninetynine deaths in one hundred-accidents, disease, old age, you name it-are banal. There. My Big Thought. Only suicides can truly say, Yes, here is my reason for dying. crafted by my hand according to my logic.

A second breaker tumbled my puny ass farther up the sucking beach. Jesus Half-dead Christ, a gallon of Pacific or more I barfed up, then crawled to the high-water mark and lay prostrate and eyed the murderous surf. Funny, none of the other copper-skinned surfers had even noticed I'd almost died. A geriatric jogger passed at slower-than-walking speed, grinning at me without teeth or sanity. Finally I heaved myself over to my gear, then waited for the bus back to Waikiki. Another fundamental rule: Don't be caught on American soil without a car. My second reason for telling you all this is to explain the eat-now-for-tomorrow-we-die frame of mind of this week. If my cruelty to others is casual, I only follow the world's lead. And look, I'm paying for it now, aren't I? Oh, it's a fucking butcher's shop down here.

Nightingale called me from L.A., where she's spent the week modeling for a chain of cosmetic