Eddie was a dark squat man in sunglasses, with thick slicked-back hair, a heavy gold watch, a neck tattoo, and a gold tooth showing in his lopsided smile. His T-shirt said, WET WILLIES—TUMON, GUAM. He reached to fist-bump Sharkey’s knuckles.

“No waves there,” Sharkey said, pointing to the T-shirt.

“Fact,” Eddie said. “Trey said you been around,” and seeing that Trey had slipped away and was now behind the bar, he added, “Trey not so much travel. Hey, take a load off.”

When Sharkey was seated, Eddie slipped him a soft, well-made blunt bulging with weed.

Sharkey wagged it. “Maybe they’ll bust me.”

“This the Hotel Honolulu,” Eddie said, and clicked his lighter.

After one deep inhalation Sharkey said, “Primo.”

“I get plenny. Trey tell me you doing a pickup.” Then the man lowered his gleaming head, tugged down his sunglasses, and said, “Here’s my proposition.”

Sharkey had started to smile from the tickle of buoyancy swelling within him.

“My wife birthday,” the man was saying. “I want to give her something special.”

“Right on,” Sharkey said in a strangled voice, holding his breath.

“I had in mind a surfer dude like Trey.”

“Trey is cool.”

“But Trey is religious kine.”

“‘Jesus was the first surfer, man—he walked on water.’ I’ve heard all that. Trey don’t surf on Saturdays. It’s the Sabbath. His church”—Sharkey coughed and shook his head, and in a pinched voice said, “True Jesus Mission Church of the Latter Rain.” Then he chuckled and remembered. “What special—catch some waves?”

“No. Make my wahine happy.”

Sharkey wagged his head and stammered, but no words came out of his goofy smile as Eddie’s face went in and out of focus.

“She stay upstairs.”

“I hose your wife?” Laughing and levitating, a buzz in his ears, Sharkey remembered the punch line of an old joke. He said, “Like, what’s in it for me, man?”

Eddie had not expected that; he drew back, and though his expression was unreadable behind his sunglasses, his cheeks shook, he tugged at his chin, then he licked his lips and said, “Killer buds. Where you think Trey gets his holy weed?”

“So what am I supposed to do?”

“Wait here.”

Watching Eddie leave the bar, Sharkey, floating and imprecise, marveled at the man’s efficient strut; and when Eddie returned, Sharkey clung to the arms of his chair, forcing himself upright, holding the crazy smoke in his lungs.

“You’ll need this,” Eddie said, handing him a key. “Five-o-eight. Just go on up.” He helped Sharkey out of his chair and led him to the narrow elevator, punching the number 5 button on the inside panel and withdrawing his arm as the doors closed, calling out, “Be nice.”