Going into Honolulu meant a change of climate, of landscape, from the North Shore shacks to the suburban streets and high-rises, the crush of people and cars. It was hotter here, leeward, under the mountains, without a breeze, a different place, and reminded him of his school days, hurrying down the back streets of Makiki in the afternoon sun to the safety of Magic Island to surf.

The dining room of Hee Hing’s was visible in the big rectangle of window under its red sign, on the second floor of a newish square-jawed building, a staircase at the side. Sharkey climbed two flights and went through the foyer where people were waiting for tables.

“Wong party,” he said when a spiky-haired Chinese man in a red shirt stepped forward to block him.

“Got plenny Wong. Which Wong?”

“No idea, man.”

The man impatiently waved him into the loud room, where thirty or more large round tables were ringed with diners and piled high with platters of food. Sharkey stepped into a density of heat and noise, the clatter of plates, the screech of talk, and, added to the din, three television sets set on high shelves against the walls. Simultaneous snow scenes were being televised—a brilliant whiteness of steep slopes, skiers carving their way downhill, speeding through sunshine, throwing up snow as they turned. But the sound was inaudible in the racket of the restaurant.

Making his way through the tables, among the odor of frying fat and soy sauce and scorched meat, Sharkey began to perspire in the stifling room, his shirt sticking to his body. All the tables were occupied, and he smiled to see that all the diners were Chinese, reaching with chopsticks at the platters and chewing and yelling. He looked for another haole and saw an old mustached man at a corner table, who signaled to him with a shaka, as though to a friend.

Searching the room, he saw May at a far table, gesturing—she had obviously seen him first. He hardly recognized her in her dress, ankle-length and silken and crimson. As at her job at Sunset Grille, she was more alluring, sexier, in this dress than in her skimpy bikini. Her hair was combed and styled, molded to her head like a black cap, a creamy plumeria blossom fixed at her ear. She waved him near, but when Sharkey got to the table she avoided touching him and stepped toward an old man and hugged him.

“Dad, this is my friend Joe I was telling you about.”

The old man was about to put something into his mouth. He glanced upward and winced a little at Sharkey, then nodded, peeled the thing he held in his hand, and nibbled at it. It was a severed chicken foot. He went on nibbling as May stepped away from him and pulled out a chair for Sharkey.

“Chicken feet—cool,” Sharkey said.