She knew what to do. It had always been her only angle. That afternoon, she cased the Main House from her bungalow with the opera glass. They had no visitors, all quiet. Colonel Selfer’s car was there, that was it. When it was pushing evening, the setting sun just a glowing cinder, she strode over to the front door of the Main House. The little local old lady opened, Yoshiko. Yoshiko gave her the stink eye and told her that she “gotta wait cause she get no appointment.” She led Kanani to a living room and down into a sunken area she called a “conversation pit,” obviously not her word for it, and again Kanani couldn’t help being reminded of an imu for a kālua pig roast. She sat alone down there, in a rattan chair. On shelves in the living room she saw more little treasure objects and figurines with plenty of golden glimmer to them, buddhas and temples and bowls. The bar had Philippine rum and more bottles of that basi rotgut.

Five minutes passed. Still no one came. She plopped her feet on the coffee table. It had been a week since she and Charlie Selfer had returned from their jaunt down to the coast. They could have reached first, second, third base, and wherever else it led. But she’d played it cool. The home run would come. Let him come to her, let him think it was his doing.