Maria loved Waikiki Beach. It matched her dream of what America should be. Outrageously dressed people from all over the world, of every age, physical description, and social class, walked elbow to elbow along the parklike sidewalks, played games on small stretches of grass, or lay motionless on towels along the beach as if they were fish sticks, baking in an oven. The hot, swirling air reeked wonderfully of tropical flowers and suntan oil. The turquoise ocean was pristine and majestic. Its far horizon reinforced the romantic isolation of this island paradise, and its near waves were dotted with the timeless image of young surfers waiting for the perfect wave. Elegant hotel complexes filled with shops and restaurants sprawled along the beach, sending cool wafts of perfumed air toward the water, mixed with tinkles of laughter from happy tourists sitting at the outdoor bars.

Oh, Hawaii, oh, America, Maria’s dark, dancing eyes proclaimed happily each time she spent an afternoon on Waikiki. Play station for the universe. A land of boundless beauty, glorious excess, conspicuous waste, unapologetic fatness, shameless exhibitionism, and delicious anonymity.

They had parked her green Mercedes in a lot just off Ala Moana Park. Now Maria and Condley walked side by side on the walkway behind the Hilton Hawaiian Village, heading slowly along Hotel Row toward the distant beauty of Diamond Head. Green was Maria’s favorite color. She was wearing her finest chartreuse thong bikini, which not only displayed her supple, muscular legs and ample curves but also was a showcase for the bright gold and green butterfly that was tattooed on her left buttock. Her long black hair was pulled tight and twisted into a knot on top of her head. Maria knew she looked regal with her killer bikini, her two-hundred-dollar Serengeti sunglasses, and her million-dollar body. She glowed with pride as she strode past the glassy stares and listened to the secret whimpers of idle, dreaming men who looked up from their beach towels or halted their volleyball games to watch her pass.

“Brandon,” she almost whispered, her face happy and playfully distracted. “Do you think they think we’re married?”

“Well, I guess we were,” mumbled Condley, who himself cared little for strolling in the hot sun among thousands of broiling, coconut-oiled strangers. “For a few minutes, anyway.”