“Hunter Thompson loved that.”

“You knew him?” Olive said eagerly.

Sharkey jerked his thumb as a yes and said, “He was such a drunk, such a stoner. Always stayed in a luxury suite, either in Waikiki or at the Kahala, half-eaten meals all over the place, bottles of brandy and his stash of pakalolo nearby. Coke in his shirt pocket in a twist of paper, usually the same shirt. He didn’t know squat about surfing, yet he had an instinct for risk. He loved seeing big strong men compete, especially in sunshine—marathoners, football players, surfers. And he was dazzled by the availability of drugs here, though he misunderstood the culture. He made it into mumbo-jumbo and cannibalism. Hawaiians battling each other and cursing. His idea of sport.”

The trill of tickled strings of a ukulele drifted past them from inside the bar, and in the nearer distance the wavelets shimmied in the pale moonlight, mimicking its rhythm, or so it seemed to Sharkey, his heavy head saturated with smoke.

Olive said, “The Lono book.”

“Hunter used to tell me that he envied me,” he said. “His alias was a kind of compliment. Whenever he checked into a hotel, no matter where in the world, he gave his name as Mr. Joe. He made a point of telling me that. He was a great guy, a kind of tragic figure—timid, for all his partying. He liked hanging out with me. Imagine—and he wrote about ten books. I ­haven’t even read five books. He told me once, ‘Surfing a big wave is like writing a book and just as intellectually demanding. Joe, I’m a surfer!’ I didn’t know whether to agree or not. But I did say to him, ‘It’s all in the head.’ He shot himself because he thought he was falling apart physically. Because the world had gone rotten.”

He was nodding again, remembering, and he had kicked off his sandal and begun to massage his foot. “Wrecking the planet. The things I’ve seen. Damming rivers. Dynamiting fish. Oil spills. How much do you really care?”

“When I’m at the beach,” Olive said, “and I see a plastic bag or some bits and bobs of rubbish, I always pick them up. The small things we do can save us.”

“Have another drink.”

“That’s my limit. That’s your limit.” She wagged her finger. “Brain damage.”

“I’m not drunk,” he said, clutching his foot.

Seeing he was agitated, she took his hand and said, “You’re the luckiest man in the world. You’ve been everywhere. You’ve made money doing what you love. You still get a shit-ton of wonga from residuals on endorsements. You have your mother’s trust fund and a massive house. And you have me. Why on earth are you rabbiting on about death and destruction?”

“Too many people,” he said. “People are the problem.”

“What’s wrong with your foot?”

“Nothing.”