“For the specific purpose every haole comes to Hawaii—to chill, to smoke pakalolo, to catch waves.”

The word “waves” woke Sharkey. “He was a surfer?”

“Maybe better than you,” Frawley said. “You know the Big Board Classic—Buffalo Keaulana’s competition? Max competed two, tree times.”

“So did I,” Sharkey said.

Lighting a cigarette, Frawley eyed Sharkey sideways, blowing smoke, the smoke swelling, seeming to represent the widening cloud of his doubt. “Max got major points.”

“I got points,” Sharkey said. “Did he win?”

“Didn’t have to win. Surfing for him was all the time fun. He was pono.”

Olive said, “How do you know so much about his business?”

The man next to Frawley, who had not spoken, poked him and laughed, and Frawley said, “I see what you’re thinking. Big fat babooze, living on the beach, dirty clothes, dog life.” He wagged his finger at her like a wiper blade and said, “I was senior accountant with the biggest firm in Honolulu, office on Bishop Street. I serviced clients from all over, high-end clients—Max was one. I had a nice house like Max, nice car, wife and kids. I was kicking ass. I’m not the buggah you see. Hey, I was Frawley DeFreeze, CPA. I had a life.”

“So what happened?”

“Internal audit. Forensic audit. Big shibai. Some downtime in O Triple C. Insolvency.”

Olive said, “Cooked the books?”

Scowling, Frawley pinched the dirty bill of his cap with one hand and lifted it. He scratched the scurf on his bald patch with his other hand, grubbing his scalp with his bitten nails, grunting, as though audibly reflecting. Then he smacked his lips.

He said, “Defalcation.”

“I’m not sure what that means.”

He settled his cap again. “Made some bad choices.”

“What about Max?”

“Made some more worse choices—went all hamajang with no receivables and no liquidity,” Frawley said. “But before that he did some great things—righteous things. Touched people’s lives. Ask anyone.”

“Tell me about his company, this amazing invention of his,” Olive said.

“You’re interested in his company that he sold”—Frawley puffed his cigarette in defiance—“and you don’t care nothing about the people he helped?”

“I’m just curious about where all the money came from,” Olive said in a subdued voice, to calm the man.

“Guess you’re not computer savvy—the whole fricken world knows about Max Integer. Kids at the high school here use the Max Patch—updated one. You got a computer, brah?”

Sharkey said, “Yeah. I don’t use it much. Just for Surfline or Windguru, to get swells and wave heights.”

“There’s books about his debugging. Real hybolic stuff. You read books?”

This challenge from a fat man wearing a LOCAL MOTION cap and a chewed shirt, sitting over his swollen belly in a twisted and slumping beach chair next to a stained and torn tent on a littered dune in Wai‘anae.