“I saw you surf today—awesome,” the man said. “I’m Avery. Come on in.” Then he looked warily into the next room at the pack of surfers crowding the tables, intentionally tripping each other, and snatching food. “If there’s breakage or pilferage, I’ll lose my deposit.”

Sharkey gave him a smile lacking in reassurance, hoping there would be breakage or pilferage, delighted at the prospect of surfers walking across the white shag carpet on their dirty feet, teasing the other guests, monopolizing the sushi bar on the lawn, stuffing themselves and getting drunk on expensive wine or passing blunts and giggling. They were the poor gypsies from Hale‘iwa, admitted for one frantic night to a party on the far side of the island.

“Avery, the rich haoles here used to chase me off the beach when I was a kid,” Sharkey said, swigging a beer and laughing. “The local kids chased me too.”

Wandering past the buffet, he found Hunter hugging a bottle of Chivas Regal against his chest. “Son of a bitch,” Hunter said, lifting it awkwardly with his forearms, then tipping it, leaning back, and drinking. He snatched at the bottle, holding it by its neck, and wiped his mouth with his free hand. “You’re back, man.” He mumbled and growled, working his lips. “You’re needed here to keep the peace. All these rabid ferrets. Nice.”

Hunter smiled at the wild boys, ragged and dirty but bursting with health, seeming to approve of their antics and vitality, as though acknowledging another breed of outlaw. “Weevils!” Hunter said. “Vermin!” and he yelped, seeing them giggling over the food, slopping sauce on their shirts, plucking with their fingers—hunger in their reaching hands.

“You drip gravy on my foot, lolo!” one shouted, kicking the other boy.

They were scarred and tattooed, and they kept together like a hunting pack.

“That the owner?” Hunter asked.

“Renter,” Sharkey said. “He’s one of the sponsors of the Pipe Masters.”

“Going heavy on the bronzer. Looks like a fucking walnut.”

“These guys pay the bills.”

“Money’s cheap,” Hunter said. “Freedom’s expensive.”

His thickened voice gave his assertions a tone of authority, running words together and grunting when he was done, the grunt like a mark of punctuation.

“That’s far out,” he said, turning to some musclemen in grass skirts twirling thick torches and lapping at the flames, holding them like big fiery lollipops.

With Hunter distracted by the fire-eaters, Sharkey roamed through the house, searching for a bathroom, opening doors as he strolled down the inner corridors. In each air-conditioned bedroom a wide-screen TV set was on, but muted, and he was put in mind of these TV screens as fireplaces, flickering with color, giving a sense of life to the room, the comfort and reassurance of a hearth.