Free Delicious by Mark Haskell Smith

the issue den?”
    â€œWe signed the contract.”
    Sid glared at them. “I never work a nonunion show. Never. You know dat.”
    Joe and Ed didn’t have much to say to that. It was true that Sid never worked nonunion shows. It had been that way for years. If a nonunion show came to Oahu, they’d soon find that there was no way to feed their crews except making take-out runs from some nearby
okazu
or mom-and-pop puka. It was expensive, and not every crew member wanted a lunch of
musubi,
squid
laulau,
barbecue meat stick, or fried butterfish collars with rice.
    The nonunion producers would whine; they would moan. They would talk about how Steven Spielberg was asking him, Sid, for a personal favor. But Sid didn’t care, and since Steven Spielberg himself never called and asked for the favor—well, they could go fuck themselves.
    The smart producers knew that if they wanted to film on the island it was cheaper and easier to go with the flow: unionize, pay the fee, get the food, and everybody’s happy. You did whatever it took not to piss off the locals.
    Sid wasn’t the only one with a monopoly. It was one of the ways to survive, and each person in the little economicecosystem helped the other. During boom times when there was plenty of work, Sid made sure that films and TV shows coming to the island used union employees, and the union made sure they ate only from Sid’s trucks. Like the shark and the pilot fish,
mano
and
nenue,
it was a classic symbiotic relationship. Everybody worked; everybody prospered.
    Besides, people on the mainland could afford it.
    Joseph poured himself a cup of coffee and added a splash of condensed milk. The heavy white liquid swirled languidly, like pond scum, slowly turning the black coffee brown. Sid turned to Joseph.
    â€œWhat you think den?”
    Joseph sipped his coffee. “Let’s go talk to them. They might need us.”
    Sid grimaced. “I don’ wanna work wid dat fuckin’ guy.”
    Joseph shrugged. He tried to be philosophical about these things. “He’s got the job, we don’t. Better to try and make something out of it.”
    â€œBetter to burn dey trucks.”
    Joe and Ed recoiled. “We didn’t hear that.”
    Ed seconded him. “We were never here.”
    And with that the two Teamsters set down their coffees and moved quickly out of the warehouse.
    Joseph turned and looked at Sid. “You’re not going to burn their trucks.”
    Sid looked at Joseph. “Wot you learn fo’ in college den?”
    â€œI’m just saying we go talk to the guy.”
    â€œJack Lucey’s a fuckin’ scumbag. Dis is what he do. He moves inna territory and shoves da little guy out.”
    â€œWe’re not little. We’re well established.”
    â€œHe killed dat guy in Vegas.”
    â€œThat’s just a rumor. You don’t know for sure. Let’s talk to the producer. Maybe we can work something out.”
    Sid grumbled; he didn’t like what was happening. Not at all. “Okay. We talk. Den we burn dey trucks.”
    ...
    The smell of failed deodorant filled the gym. Wilson, his body glistening with sweat, his veins roaring with blood, his lungs heaving, his muscles pumped up and expanded like a king cobra ready to strike, lay back on the bench press and rested. He listened to the rhythmic clank of metal on metal as the other men continued to lift.
    Wilson was upset. He’d been hoping that a good workout would calm him down, but it had only made him tired and angry. He didn’t understand it. How come his dad made him leave when Joe and Ed showed up? What was so top secret that he couldn’t hear? If there was a problem, he could fix it. That’s what he did when he wasn’t keeping the coffee hot on set or slicing bagels for the stand-ins.
    In the nightclubs and discothèques he was the expert, the fixer. He made sure it was safe for the rich and