Running Hot

energy from his own aura. The pulses resonated with Ray’s in a counterpoint pattern. The green-yellow tendrils of energy weakened visibly.
    Ray blinked a few times and frowned in confusion. Luther tweaked his aura a little more. With a sigh, Ray lost interest in Aloha Shirt. Suddenly exhausted, he sank back down into his chair.
    “Why don’t you finish your beer?” Luther said to him. “I’ll take care of this.”
    “Yeah, sure.” Ray looked at the bottle on the table. “My beer.”
    Grateful for direction in the midst of the overwhelming ennui, he picked up the bottle and took a long swallow.
    Deprived of his prey, Flower Shirt reacted with spiraling rage. His face scrunched up into a snarl. He leaned to one side and peered around Luther.
    “Hey, I’m talking to you, Surfer Asshole,” he yelled at Ray.
    “No,” Luther said, using the same low voice he had employed with Ray. “You’re talking to me. We’re discussing the fact that you would like to leave now.”
    Flower Shirt’s aura was a lot more stable than Ray’s. That was the good news. The bad news was that the colors were those of frustration and fury.
    The politically correct view of bullies was that they suffered from low self-esteem and tried to compensate by making other people their victims. As far as Luther was concerned, that was pure bull. Guys like Flower Shirt felt superior to others and lacked all traces of empathy. Bullies bullied not out of some unconscious desire to try to compensate for their low self-esteem. They did it because they could and because they enjoyed it.
    The only way to stop a bully was to scare him. The species had a strong sense of self-preservation.
    There was nothing tricky or mysterious about the wavelengths of energy in Flower Shirt’s pattern. The hot rush of the man’s unchecked lust for verbal abuse spiked and pulsed very clearly. Luther generated the suppressing patterns. The compelling urge to hurt and dominate Ray died instantly beneath the heavy, crushing weight of exhaustion but Flower Shirt was already on his feet, turning his attention to Luther.
    “Get out of my way, bartender, unless you want a fist in your face.”
    He grabbed Luther’s arm, intending to shove him aside. That was a mistake. Physical contact intensified the force of the energy that Luther was using.
    Flower Shirt swayed a little and nearly lost his balance. He grabbed the edge of the table to keep himself upright.
    “What?” he got out. “I think I’m sick or something.”
    “Don’t worry about the bill,” Luther said. He took hold of Flower Shirt’s arm and steered him toward the door. “The drinks are on the house.”
    “Huh?” Flower Shirt shook his head, unable to focus. “Wh-what’s goin’ on?”
    “You’re leaving now.”
    “Oh.” Flower Shirt’s brow creased. “Okay. I guess. Kinda tired all of a sudden.”
    He made no attempt to resist. A hush fell over the crowd. The other diners watched in silence as Luther guided Flower Shirt outside into the night.
    When the door closed behind them the noise level inside the Dark Rainbow went back to normal.
    “What’s going on?” Flower Shirt rubbed his eyes. “Where are we going?”
    “You’re going back to your hotel.”
    “Yeah?” There was no defiance in the word, just dazed confusion.
    Luther guided Flower Shirt through the small courtyard, steering him around the sickly-looking potted palms that Wayne had set out in a misbegotten effort to add a little authentic island atmosphere.
    It was going on ten o’clock. The proprietor of the gun club on the second floor had taken in the sign that promised tourists a Safe Shooting Environment, Real Guns, Factory Ammo and Excellent Customer Service. For reasons Luther had never fully comprehended, businesses that allowed visitors to the island the opportunity to shoot in indoor ranges thrived in Waikiki.
    The Red Skull Tattoo and Body Piercing Parlor and Zen Comics were also closed for the night but the rusty window air conditioners of the adult video arcade were grinding away as usual. It was the only way to know if the place was open. No light ever showed through the grimy, blacked-out windows of the arcade. The customers slipped in and out like so many wraiths, preferring the cover of darkness.
    Luther prodded his zombie-like companion beneath the antique wooden surfboard that marked the entrance to the courtyard and walked him along the narrow lane to Kuhio Avenue. At this hour there was plenty of