The bar was in a corner of the house, replacing what had likely been a prosperous man’s den. It opened out to the broad rear porch via big folding louvered doors. A sign read, OFF LIMITS. The bar seemed only to serve those staying at the billet, mostly men wearing anything from khaki to civvies to aloha shirts. Lett assumed that all of them had something to do with The Preserve, because none wore insignia or had to show a pass or give a name. He shuffled into the compact main room. It was dead at this hour, no tables occupied. The warbles of a ukulele tune flowed from a radio behind the bar. Japanese war prizes such as rising sun flags and officer swords hung on the walls, and glossy little Asian idols stood next to the bottles of whisky and rye and more of that Filipino rum. The decor was exotic to Lett but not surprising, since the liberated Philippine Islands and defeated Japan were the big ports of call across the vast Pacific. This half of the earth was now ruled by General Douglas MacArthur from his HQ in Tokyo—Supreme Commander for the Allied Powers in the Pacific. Every newspaper Lett saw here had MacArthur on the front page daily. That alone was another universe compared to Allied-occupied Europe.

He made straight for that open porch facing the sea, what they called a lanai here, and plopped down on a low bamboo stool with a little matching table, off on his own, facing those scraggly trees on either side and a couple palms for show, and that jagged black lava rock that lay everywhere, not surprising since the Big Island provided the bedrock for its two massive volcanoes. At first Lett was surprised to discover that there was no beach. The water washed right up onto that black rock that had been there so long a whole species of small black crabs had developed to match. He liked to peer out and spot them but couldn’t find any today. It was this no-good weather. The midday heat had dispersed, replaced by dense layers of more dark clouds pushing in from the sea.

The barman waddled out, a tubby Polynesian fellow. Lett ordered a double rye on the rocks and waited.

A crash made him start. It was the ocean. Crashing waves were more than enough to trigger one of his episodes, though it could be anything, anyone. His ghosts roamed everywhere. They infiltrated all, twisting time like an old rope, the stray filaments falling away.