This talk, the back-and-forth, had attracted the attention of the people seated in the lobby waiting area. Olive was aware that they were making a scene, that Sharkey was being ineffectual and that Wencil was in the way, paddling his hands as though swimming toward her.

“I say, this guy was one hero to me,” Wencil said.

“He can’t give you any money,” Olive said.

“I never ask for no money. You think I like one beggar?” Then he jumped aside and spoke indignantly to the room. “You think I want to cockaroach you money? That not me. That not how I roll. You want beef? Bring it on, sister.”

Olive steered Sharkey away from the chattering man and toward Stickney, who was waiting at the office door. Sharkey wore a half-smile—of vagueness, of inattention. He seemed to register Wencil’s agitation but not the reason for it, the man clinging and making demands, then yelling at the bewildered people in the lobby. He paddled toward Olive again.

“What’s wrong with him?” Wencil said.

“Nothing’s wrong with him.”

“Tell him I nevah want his money.”

“I’ll tell him,” Olive said, Sharkey shuffling beside her as though sleepwalking.

“My whole ohana, all my surfing buddies, I tell them I coming to see da Shark,” Wencil said. “I even wear my Shark T-shirt.”

“That’s good.”

“No, it not good, because now this shirt is humbug, and now I tell my ohana that Sharkey wen’ pau!”

“Sharkey’s not pau,” Olive said.

And somehow the repeated word stung Sharkey—he seemed to come awake, and turned, lifting his arms, batting Olive aside, making room so that he could face Wencil.

“I killed a man—he’s in the storage room here,” Sharkey said, indicating the stairwell by jerking his head to the door that Stickney held open. “I could kill you too.”

5

Unclaimed Remains

Stickney pawed the papers with his big outspread fingers, like a visible process of thought—dim comprehension, stumbling from line to line with his splayed hands, resembling a beginner at a piano, planting them hard on the keys, producing sour notes. He sat with Sharkey and Olive in the conference room at the medical examiner’s office, at a table strewn with files and manila folders, apologizing distractedly as he sorted the papers, saying, “Wencil-boy—he mean well.”

“Is he okay?” Olive asked.

“Sometimes he so futless.”

When he had the stack in order, Stickney squared it upright with his clutching hands, tapping the bottom edge level on the table. He looked up and said, “You kill this buggah?”—holding out the thickness of papers that stood for the dead man.

Sharkey’s eyes, heavy-lidded and dulled by his outburst, seemed to peer beyond the papers, beyond Stickney, beyond the wall, and the glaze that shone through the slits beneath his lashes seemed to indicate that he was lost in thought, not recognizing anything but looking inward.