“I didn’t know you had much crime here,” he said, referring to her door locks and window snares. “With all your tripwires, you would’ve done well up on the line.”

“Plenty things you don’t know about this place,” Kanani said.

“This isn’t your house, is it?”

She pulled her knees up to her chest. She shook her head.

“That’s what I thought. It’s more like your hidey-hole—”

Kanani shot up. “Wait. Hear that?”

Something flashed by, out on the road. Kanani jumped down and kicked dirt over the tossed coffee, wiped her feet on the edge of the bottom step, grabbed him and his mug, and pulled him inside.

They watched, crouching at the corners of the one front-facing window. A black sedan had passed and turned around. It rolled to a stop, blocking the entrance to the clearing, about thirty yards away. It was a ’41 Packard Clipper with four doors, sloped rear end, and bright whitewall tires that were still rare because of war shortages. Its chrome gleamed out in the sun on the road.

Lett looked to Kanani. She was nodding, counting off the number of passengers. Three.

One tall and thick man in an oversize suit stepped out, taking his time, looking around. He circled the car and gazed down the road, as if waiting for another car, perhaps, that or making sure the coast was clear for an assault. The gears of caution kicked into motion inside Lett, and his fear dissipated as his senses intensified. His eyesight sharpened, every sparkle, color, edge, and curve imprinted in his memory. The man had darker skin. Lett first thought he had gloves on but then realized that tattoos covered his hands. The man walked around the clearing. He used hand signals to speak with the two silhouettes inside the car. No tourist gestured like that. A man like this had only one reason to wear a suit jacket here, and it wasn’t to block the wind.

“Frankie?” Kanani muttered.

“You know him?”

Kanani lowered her head. She nodded at the floorboards.

“You don’t want to see him?”

She shook her head.

“Then don’t,” Lett said.

She grinned at him. The grin spread and kept going.

“I mean it,” he added.

“Get dressed,” she blurted.

He dressed in seconds flat as if a Tiger II tank were coming down the road. She pulled on an aloha shirt with the sleeves rolled up and new cuffed dungarees, grabbing rubber thong sandals and an aloha-print carpetbag as she went, the floorboards somehow making no sound.

She gestured at the back door. Lett squatted there, waited for her signal. She peered out, pulled the door open just enough for them to slip out, then pushed the door shut behind them.