Mahu Vice by Neil Plakcy

again by how much Mike resembled his father. Mike had a slight epicanthic fold to his eyes, and a mustache, but the shape of the face, the cheekbones, the curve of his lips—they were all the same.
    “What can I do for you?” Dr. Riccardi asked, escorting me to a run-down office that was clearly shared by a bunch of different doctors, since there was nothing personal there—just a collection of posters and pamphlets about STDs. “I hope you know I can’t reveal any information about patients without a warrant.”
    “I’m not here on an official basis,” I said. “My name is Kimo Kanapa’aka, and I’m a detective with the Honolulu police department.”
    “I know who you are, detective,” Dr. Riccardi said, turning to face me. “You’re the man who broke my son’s heart.”
    Every now and then, in the homicide business, you run across someone who says something so totally unexpected that you don’t know how to respond. Sometimes it’s a confession, from someone who wasn’t even a suspect. Sometimes it’s the revelation of a life behind the façade we all present to the world.
    Dr. Riccardi’s statement was one of those. I’d been so concerned about not outing Mike to his father that I’d never considered his father might already know.
    “I may not have been the greatest father, detective, but I know my son. I’m sure Michael has had a few choice words to say about me, and my expectations of him, but I love him, no matter what.” He motioned me to a hard chair across from the desk, and he sat down behind it in a worn armchair.
    “Michael’s mother and I always wondered why he never brought any young women home to meet us,” he said. “Was he embarrassed of us? Living in New York, we knew he was uncomfortable that his mother was Korean, and maybe that was why he didn’t bring friends home, but we thought that moving to Hawai’i had helped him get over that.”
    He steepled his fingers and stared at me. It wasn’t a comfortable stare at all. I’m accustomed to being the interrogator and I didn’t like the role reversal. From the glare in Dr. Riccardi’s eyes it was clear he didn’t like me, and I didn’t know how I was going to tell him about the vodka in the water bottle without seeming like a tattletale as well as a heartbreaker.
    “About a year ago, Mike stopped joining us for dinner, and he didn’t do anything except go to work and then lock himself up in his side of the house. One day, I got fed up.”
    I could see from Dr. Riccardi’s eyes that it wasn’t a happy memory. But he worked in an STD clinic; he was accustomed to tough conversations.
    “I found him passed out on the sofa, an empty six-pack of beer next to him. I woke him, and had some harsh words for him.” He sighed. “Not one of my finest moments as a father, I know. I demanded to know what was wrong with him. I said that I’d put up with a lot—his poor academic performance, which was far below what I knew he was capable of. His choice of a dangerous career. His Peter Pan complex—trying to remain a boy forever.”
    “That must have been difficult for both of you,” I said.
    “I suppose I should thank you for prompting the conversation, but I’m afraid I can’t.” Man, if looks could have killed, I’d have been dead in my chair. “He told me about you then.” A hint of a smile crossed his lips. “I still think of him as my little boy, you know. I want to fight his battles for him, though I know I can’t. When he told me how much you had hurt him, I wanted to hurt you in return.”
    “Mike hurt me plenty on his own,” I said.
    “But you were the one who broke up with him,” Riccardi said. “Because he wouldn’t become the kind of poster child you’ve made yourself for gay rights.”
    “I haven’t made myself a poster child. I accepted the responsibility that comes with who I am and what I do. But that isn’t why Mike and I broke up.”
    He waved his hand. “This is all old news, isn’t it,