“He’s still here. Lying low. I’m only gonna have him tip you off. He won’t know why. Then he’s gone for good.”

“So he won’t know from Adam—okay, okay,” Selfer said, sliding the Colt into his front pocket. “It’s the funniest thing. I can’t find my holster in all this mess.”

You’re not gonna need that, Kanani thought. Only the ammo.

39.

Kanani undressed and dried herself off again, powdered her face and put on makeup. She found her bright red lipstick and applied it to her chapped lips with care, taking as much time as she needed, making the cleanest line she’d ever painted. She pinned up her hair on one side and set a pink-orange hibiscus behind her ear. She wore the sort of wraparound floral dress that made a haole woman look sweet and cute and a Hawaiian tita a whore in the eyes of a mainland sailor. She pulled on a rubber raincoat and galoshes and carried her bright red Mary Jane shoes in the same hand as her shiny black purse that concealed the baby revolver, just in case.

Frankie had his own bungalow, Jock had told her, not far from Lansdale’s before he left. Frankie wasn’t in, but a gang of the new guards, all of them demons with leering oily faces, were there having a little party, with dice and dirty magazines and Johnnie Walker hosting. They were the wrecking crew and the cleanup detail all in one. She insisted on waiting there for Frankie to come back, so they started to wind things down. A couple mokes she knew from Honolulu were the first to go, setting the example.

Waiting for Frankie gave her time to dry the last damp ends of her hair and put herself in order. She didn’t need rouge. The adrenalin had flushed her cheeks good. She poured a Scotch neat in a short glass and settled on the sofa with her legs crossed just so. She didn’t clean the place up—she’d let Frankie see how his pals disrespected him. The last moke to shuffle out didn’t even close the door behind him.

The rain rattled the roof like a chain across railing. It found the doorway and drenched the threshold.