“Books,” Sharkey said. “Not much.”

“Go online,” Frawley said. “Big surfer, try surf the ’Net.”

“And we’ll find out about Max Mulgrave?”

“Not the Hawaii stuff—he was low-profile here. But you’ll find out what he created, the company he sold.” The man concentrated on his cigarette, puffing it, tapping ash. “But listen up. If you want to know what he did here you won’t find it on Google. You have to ask people in Wai‘anae.” He turned aside. “Fonoti—true or not true?”

“True, brah.”

“What about his wife?” Olive said.

“You ask all the unimportant questions.”

“What are the important ones?”

“About his kokua,” Frawley said. “You know kokua?”

Fonoti said, “It da kine, like help.”

“Alex?” Frawley said.

And the other fat man, who had been silent all this time, nodded a little and wheezed and heaved himself out of his chair. He stood unsteadily and said, “Not so, Fonoti. It mean more than help. It mean give everything, make sacrifice—you do something and want no more nothing in return. It mean unselfish, really caring for people, never ask for nothing.”

The man was passionate, almost preaching as he’d risen from his creaking beach chair, gesturing while Sharkey and Olive backed away. He was still talking.

“Some people Max kokua never know his name. But the people who matter, big people, they know him.”

“Alex, he know,” Frawley said as the man tottered and sat down again. “This is why I’m kind of surprised. You asking about him. Funny you don’t know all about him, asking these questions.”

“Like I said, we’re just making inquiries.”

“Computers to the high school,” Fonoti said. “Max geev ’um. Money to the community health center. Max geev ’um.”

“He give me these,” Frawley said, tapping the lenses of his aviator sunglasses. “These real high-end.”

“And plus,” Alex said, as the others joined in.

The competing voices, hectoring, growing shrill, praising Max Mulgrave, some of them strangely scolding, seemed to berate Olive for not knowing about all the good that Max had done. They went on listing his accomplishments, and the worst of it was that they did not seem to know the man was dead. He was still alive, spreading joy, uplifting the poor, easing pain. Each assertion of praise Sharkey took as an accusation, something physical in it, like a slap, turning him sideways, pushing him away.

He found himself shuffling down the dune of salt-bitten grass and cast-off beer cans. To rest his eyes he looked ahead to the shoreline, where the wash of waves lapping the sand caught the last of the sun, the fire on the sea, a flash on each small wave like the memory of light.