Olive turned inland on a wide road rising on a long slope to a bluff of two-story houses. They were faced in stucco, pink and pale yellow, some with pillars and porches, all with lanais projecting toward the ocean.

“The one with the big breadfruit tree in front,” Frawley said, as Sharkey ducked to get a better view through the windshield.

Olive said, “Max lived here?”

“No,” Frawley said. “I did. That was my house. That was my ‘ulu tree. I lost it all when I had some issues. Nice place, huh?”

“Smashing,” Olive said.

“When you see me at my tent at the beach, I know what you’re thinking—the guy’s a bum. This was my house once, but it wasn’t me. That tent isn’t me. I’m still me. So you want to see all the places Max lived in, but it’s a goose chase. Those places aren’t him—those houses and shacks. He’s still himself, no matter what.”

Olive began to speak, but Frawley raised his hand.

“Take us back to Pokai Beach,” he said, and as she drove away he kept talking. “Most of us are alone in life. But if you’re real lucky, you got one person you can talk to without staying afraid they’ll judge you. You can say anything to this person. He’s true to you—I don’t say ‘like a brother,’ because a brother can let you down. My brother was a buggah. This person, this true friend, is someone like your own self. It’s not love I’m talking about—love is insane. No, it’s trust.” He used his whole face to utter the word, making it sizzle, as truss. “Max is that guy for me. I wish I knew where he stay. I miss him. There’s so much I want to tell him that I can’t tell no one else.”

Fonoti said, “Hey, you don’t know trouble till you lose your best friend.”

By then they were back at the parking lot, Frawley sighing and snatching at his face, his voice having gone croaky and sorrowful from his talk.

Sharkey put out his hand. He said, “Joe.”

But Frawley’s hands stayed in his lap, obscured by the protrusion of his belly. He said, “I know who you are. Big Joe. North Shore guy, da Shark. Fonoti so stoked to see you because you went to school together.”

Fonoti said, “Plus hung out.” He sniffed, remembering. “Wilfred Kalama. Nalani. Vai. That little psycho haole, forget his name.”

“But I’m not stoked,” Frawley said, not listening. “I seen you surfing—you’re nothing special. Lots of guys like you—long board, monster wave—some of them more better.”