Spider Bones

Lô’s directions sent us to the third floor. We rode an elevator packed tight with the usual assortment of clerks, detectives, and uniformed cops checking in or out, carrying sealed evidence bags, or sneaking off to wherever it is they cloister to smoke.

The homicide squad was a large open room filled with desks shoved into clusters of twos, threes, and fours. Lô and his partner occupied a solo pair at the back.

Like Lô, Hung was a surprise. Tall and muscular, she had bone white skin and glossy black hair chopped off at the ears. Her chestnut eyes contained colored flecks that sparked like chips of glass from the sea. Only a subtly humped nose kept the woman from being a stu

Lô made introductions. Hung’s first name was Leila.

We all shook hands. Lô dragged over chairs and we sat.

Hung went straight to the point. I liked that, too.

“Back in the eighties the Sons of Samoa was mostly a social group. Later it became a full-fledged gang in Hawaii. SOS died down for a while, then revived around nineteen ninety-eight as a prison gang called USO Family or USO, United Samoan Organization. It’s complicated, but uso can mean brother in Samoan.”

“If you’re male, referring to a male sibling,” I said. “It can also mean sister, if you’re female referring to a female sibling.”

Hung looked at me. Behind us, a phone rang. Someone answered.

“She’s an anthropologist,” Ryan said.

“Sure she is.” Hung continued. “At one time USO was only Samoan, but intel says the group is now mixed race and has approximately two hundred members in Hawaii.”

“USO is pretty much restricted to our correctional facilities,” Lô added.

“Kealoha and Faalogo were SOS,” Ryan said.

“Right. SOS spread from Hawaii to California, Utah, and Washington State. On the mainland SOS are usually Crips.”

Though I didn’t interrupt, I must have looked confused.

“The Crips aren’t one gang, but an identity which other gangs adopt. Crip gangs in other cities can actually fashion themselves by regional cultural indicators that have nothing to do with Los Angeles.”

“I didn’t know that,” I said, trying to make up for my earlier smarty-pants offering.

Hung consulted a notepad.

“According to L.A. County Probation Department statistics, in nineteen seventy-two there were about eight Crip gangs. By nineteen seventy-eight that number had risen to forty-five. By eighty-two there were 109, and by the late nineties, according to Streetgangs.com, there were 199 individual Crip gangs active in L.A. County.”

“Jesus,” I said.

“Crip growth seems to have stabilized in Los Angeles, even declined in certain areas undergoing demographic change. But copycat Crip gangs are springing up in other parts of California, the U.S., and abroad.”

“Tabarnac.” Ryan shook his head.

Hung looked at me, this time in question.

“It means ‘Oh, my,’ ” I said.

“Stateside, SOS are known as bad actors,” Lô said. “Intimidation, extortion, drug rip-offs, even murder.”

I heard a door open, voices behind us.

Hung took in the room with a quick sweep. Then the sea-glass eyes returned to us.

“What we’re seeing is mainland Samoans making a move for Hawaiian distribution.”

“Of?” Ryan asked.

“Mostly coke and weed. Some meth.”

“Who’s the local majordomo?”

“A guy named Gilbert T’eo.”

“Street name L’il Bud,” Lô added.

Hung’s desk phone rang. She picked up, turned a shoulder to speak to the caller.

“Where’s T’eo’s home base?” Ryan asked Lô.

“Right now, Halawa. That’s a medium security prison here on Oahu.”

“Atoa and Pukui work for T’eo?” I asked.

Lô waggled a hand. “Close enough.”

Hung cradled the receiver. “The system’s up. Shall we see what Mr. Atoa has to say?”

The interview room was what I expected, a gloomy little box devoid of whimsy or warmth. The walls were noxious green, the tile scuffed and scratched by generations of nervous feet.

A gray metal desk occupied the center of the small space. One straight-back wooden chair faced two others across the battered desktop. A wall-mounted phone and camera were the room’s only other embellishments.

Ryan and I observed via a video screen and speaker down the hall. The image was grainy black-and-white, the sound ti

Pinky Atoa looked like a tall, ski

Obviously, Hung and Lô had done casting before our arrival. Lô played bad cop, Hung played good.

Hung introduced herself, her partner. Atoa kept his gaze on his hands.

“This interview will be recorded for your protection as well as ours.”

Hung next spoke for the benefit of the record, stating the date, time, and place, and identifying herself, her partner, and the interviewee. Throughout, Atoa alternated between chewing a thumbnail and drumming the desktop.

“You nervous about something, Pinky?” Lô asked.

“I want my dog.”

“That pit’s one nasty piece of work.”

“It was self-defense.”

“The Chihuahua weighed three pounds.”

“The thing came at him.”

“Must have been terrifying.”

“Shit.” Exaggerated head wag. “Don’t you guys ever give up?”

“Your neighbor filed a complaint.”

“The whore needs to get laid.”

“We just want the facts, Mr. Atoa.” Hung, the voice of reason.

For several minutes Hung asked questions about the dog attack. Atoa seemed to relax slightly.

“So, what? I gotta pay a fine? No biggie. I got cash.”

“It’s not that easy. Things look bad for Gata.”

“What the hell’s that mean?”

Both detectives gazed at him sadly.

“Get the fuck outta here.”

The bony fingers recommenced dancing.

“Honolulu has laws to protect citizens against dangerous pets,” Lô said.

“That little shit dog’s been dead a month. Why’s the bitch coming at me now?”

“Perhaps she’s been moving through the stages of grief.”

Another head wag. “That’s good. You’re fu

“I try.”

“So, what? The cunt wants a new pup?”

Lô shrugged.

“What the fuck?” Atoa spread his hands. Smiled. “I’ll buy her a puppy.”

“Doesn’t really solve the problem with Gata, now, does it?” Lô.

“Meaning?”

“Start picking out an urn.”

Atoa exploded from the table. His chair hit the floor with a crack.

Lô shot to his feet.

“No way you’re killing my dog, you bastard.” Atoa’s hands were bunched into fists.

Hung spoke in a tone meant to be soothing. “Let’s all calm down. Mr. Atoa, would you like something to drink?”

Atoa’s eyes went shrewd. “What? So you can take my DNA? I’m not stupid.”

“Why would we want your DNA, Pinky?” Lô’s voice was deadly.

“Fuck you.”

“Please, Mr. Atoa.” Hung circled the table and righted the chair. “Sit.”

Atoa held a moment, then, “This is so fucked.”

Atoa dropped into the seat and thrust out both legs. The red sneakers started winging from side to side.

Lô and Hung exchanged a look above Atoa’s head.

“Here we go,” I said to Ryan.

Hung spoke as she returned to her seat.

“Perhaps something can be worked out concerning Gata.”

Lô shot his partner a look.

Hung gestured “hold on” with one hand.

Lô crossed his arms in a

“Quid pro quo. That means you help us, we help you.”

“I know what it means,” Atoa snapped.

“Good. You can help Gata. Who knows? Maybe yourself.”

“I’m listening.” Atoa was working the thumbnail, avoiding eye contact.

Another look passed between Lô and Hung.

“George Faalogo.” Lô paused. “Frankie Kealoha.”

No reaction.

“You know those guys, Pinky?”