said, “I’m going over to her place in Chinatown now. I want to see the girls, and Anna and I are going to talk to them together about Zoë. I said I’d be over there at four, and she promised to be home, with Sarah and Emily.”
“Isn’t that convenient,” I said. “Guess you’ll be bringing her some visitors.”
DINNER DISCUSSIONS
“I just got your message, Detective,” Anna Yang said, when she opened the door to her apartment. She was wearing black sweat pants and a long sleeve t-shirt from the Honolulu Academy of Arts with a Buddhist painting on it. “I was going to call you.”
“We’ll save you the trouble,” I said. “Can we come in?”
She stepped back to let us in. The apartment was small but charming, like the house where Zoë Greenfield had been killed. The walls were a light salmon, the overstuffed sofa a bright green scattered with silk throw pillows. In the background I heard the Putumayo Kids “Hawaiian Playground” CD playing.
The two girls were playing on the striped rug on the living room floor, and when they saw Greg behind us they jumped up and ran to him. They wore matching t-shirts, though one had white shorts while the other’s was green. Both had pierced ears with tiny silver studs.
Greg and Anna hugged. “I’m so sorry about Zoë,” he said. Then he dropped to the floor and the girls climbed onto him, crying, “Daddy!” It was sweet to see, and I wondered if I’d ever get such a welcome from something without fur. It unleashed the same longing I had felt seeing the little boy with his mother the day before.
Greg gathered the pair of two-year-olds into his arms, kissing their heads, and took them into another room. Anna turned off the music and Ray and I sat down with her, declining her offer of coffee or some other beverage. “Tell us about Zoë and alcohol,” I asked.
She turned her head slightly in confusion. “Zoë didn’t drink that much.”
“The vodka in the freezer?”
“Mine. I never took it when I moved out.” She looked from Ray to me. “What’s this about?”
“There was alcohol in Zoë’s blood,” I said. “But we didn’t find any empty bottles in the trash, or even a half-full wine bottle in the fridge.”
“She drank wine sometimes,” Anna said. “But I don’t think I ever saw her drunk. She didn’t like to lose control like that.”
“Did she like sushi?” Ray asked.
“Oh, yeah. Pretty much anything Asian, you know. Sushi, sashimi, teriyaki, won ton soup, pad Thai, anything.”
“Did she drink when she was eating sushi?”
“Yeah, she liked sake. Again, I think it’s just because she was so into everything Asian.” She blushed. “I guess she had a bad case of yellow fever.”
Ray looked confused.
“Caucasians who are interested in Asian people and things,” I said. “Ask Julie about it.”
In the gay world, people have started using the acronym PAPI-- Philippine/Asian/Pacific Islander. Since I fall into that category myself, I wondered sometimes if Mike was a bit of a rice queen—did he like me because I was exotic? He took after his Italian father much more than his Korean mother. So while I looked very Eurasian, he looked more Italian than anything else, with just a slight epicanthic fold over his eyes.
Did he like me because he was fixated on his mother, maybe?
I shook it all off. It was stupid speculation; it’s not like either of us was wholly one thing or the other. I’d known haole men who only were attracted to Asians, often the slim-hipped, smooth-skinned types like Thais or Filipinos, and vice versa. The whole dynamic was uncomfortable for me, with overtones of cultural imperialism.
I pulled myself back to the case. “Did you guys have a favorite place for sushi?”
“Zoë liked to try different restaurants.” She gave us the names of five in the neighborhood where they had been, and one they had been meaning to try before they broke up. “Why would it matter where she went to dinner?”
“Isn’t that convenient,” I said. “Guess you’ll be bringing her some visitors.”
DINNER DISCUSSIONS
“I just got your message, Detective,” Anna Yang said, when she opened the door to her apartment. She was wearing black sweat pants and a long sleeve t-shirt from the Honolulu Academy of Arts with a Buddhist painting on it. “I was going to call you.”
“We’ll save you the trouble,” I said. “Can we come in?”
She stepped back to let us in. The apartment was small but charming, like the house where Zoë Greenfield had been killed. The walls were a light salmon, the overstuffed sofa a bright green scattered with silk throw pillows. In the background I heard the Putumayo Kids “Hawaiian Playground” CD playing.
The two girls were playing on the striped rug on the living room floor, and when they saw Greg behind us they jumped up and ran to him. They wore matching t-shirts, though one had white shorts while the other’s was green. Both had pierced ears with tiny silver studs.
Greg and Anna hugged. “I’m so sorry about Zoë,” he said. Then he dropped to the floor and the girls climbed onto him, crying, “Daddy!” It was sweet to see, and I wondered if I’d ever get such a welcome from something without fur. It unleashed the same longing I had felt seeing the little boy with his mother the day before.
Greg gathered the pair of two-year-olds into his arms, kissing their heads, and took them into another room. Anna turned off the music and Ray and I sat down with her, declining her offer of coffee or some other beverage. “Tell us about Zoë and alcohol,” I asked.
She turned her head slightly in confusion. “Zoë didn’t drink that much.”
“The vodka in the freezer?”
“Mine. I never took it when I moved out.” She looked from Ray to me. “What’s this about?”
“There was alcohol in Zoë’s blood,” I said. “But we didn’t find any empty bottles in the trash, or even a half-full wine bottle in the fridge.”
“She drank wine sometimes,” Anna said. “But I don’t think I ever saw her drunk. She didn’t like to lose control like that.”
“Did she like sushi?” Ray asked.
“Oh, yeah. Pretty much anything Asian, you know. Sushi, sashimi, teriyaki, won ton soup, pad Thai, anything.”
“Did she drink when she was eating sushi?”
“Yeah, she liked sake. Again, I think it’s just because she was so into everything Asian.” She blushed. “I guess she had a bad case of yellow fever.”
Ray looked confused.
“Caucasians who are interested in Asian people and things,” I said. “Ask Julie about it.”
In the gay world, people have started using the acronym PAPI-- Philippine/Asian/Pacific Islander. Since I fall into that category myself, I wondered sometimes if Mike was a bit of a rice queen—did he like me because I was exotic? He took after his Italian father much more than his Korean mother. So while I looked very Eurasian, he looked more Italian than anything else, with just a slight epicanthic fold over his eyes.
Did he like me because he was fixated on his mother, maybe?
I shook it all off. It was stupid speculation; it’s not like either of us was wholly one thing or the other. I’d known haole men who only were attracted to Asians, often the slim-hipped, smooth-skinned types like Thais or Filipinos, and vice versa. The whole dynamic was uncomfortable for me, with overtones of cultural imperialism.
I pulled myself back to the case. “Did you guys have a favorite place for sushi?”
“Zoë liked to try different restaurants.” She gave us the names of five in the neighborhood where they had been, and one they had been meaning to try before they broke up. “Why would it matter where she went to dinner?”
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