“He’s fine,” Sharkey said. “Aren’t you, buddy?”

But Hunter had sagged sideways. He had not heard; he was dozing again.

“That happens,” Honey said.

Hunter emitted bubbly snores, but when they drew into the porte cochere of the Kahala he roused himself and said, “They’re going to be driving me nuts,” and looked again like a fretful child. Then in a plaintive tone he called to Sharkey, “Joe!”

Sharkey gave his keys to the bellman and guided Hunter to the reception desk, Hunter sleepily eyeing the clerk, a woman with a flower behind her ear and a welcoming smile.

“Name?”

“Thompson,” Honey said.

Hugging Sharkey, Hunter said, “Put me down as Mr. Joe.”

“You’re moving us to a suite,” Honey said, conferring with the clerk while Sharkey sat with Hunter on a sofa in the lobby, Hunter breathing hard, saying nothing.

When Honey had the key and Sharkey got to his feet, preparing to leave, Hunter said, “Come on up, check it out. Drink. Smoke. Hang out.” And his voice trailed off as they walked to the elevator, Hunter clutching Honey now and limping. “After all that, I want a doobie the size of an Airbus.”

They entered the suite—a large sitting room, bedrooms to the left and right. Winona whistled softly, murmuring, “I never seen anyting like this kine,” but Hunter had begun to complain, not in distinct words but in a succession of grunts.

“It’s a total bugfuck, this room,” he finally said, shuffling toward the sofa. “Gotta move this thing. Give me a hand, Joe.”

“Move it where?”

“There.” He sounded petulant. “I need it nearer the TV.”

“Maybe move the TV?”

“No—fuck, no. Then it would block the window. It would fuck up the view.” He shoved at the sofa and barked at Honey, “Minibar!”

When they had moved the sofa, Hunter sat heavily and kicked his shoes off and slumped sideways. Honey brought him a drink, putting it to his lips in a mothering way and saying to Sharkey and Winona, “Help yourselves.”

“Those flowers,” Hunter said of a bouquet in a vase on a side table. “They’re too tall. What are they?”

“Bird of paradise,” Winona said. “Heliconia.”

“They’re going to tip over—move them.” He put his drink down, took a twist of paper from his shirt pocket, and tapped some powder onto the back of his hand. He lifted it to his face and snorted it, and gasped, and tapped his nose, and said in a new voice, “Best ROA—route of administration,” then, “Give him the book.”

“Curse of Lono,” Sharkey said, taking the book from Honey. “Cool.”

“Captain Cook. Mayhem. Wild nights. Roast pig. Fishing. That’s Hawaii.”

Sharkey said, “Surf. ‘Fucken haole.’ ‘Get off my wave.’ Hammajang houses. Starry nights. And long mellow days.”

“Insanity,” Hunter said.

“It’s all good,” Winona said.

“Who asked you?” Hunter said, pushing his sweaty face at her.