The arrangement Olive had made with Libby, the ex-wife, was that Sharkey would meet her at her house for a drink. Sharkey would tell her that he had killed Max Mulgrave, he would explain that Mulgrave had been cremated, and he’d ask her to sign the release so that he could organize a proper burial. Or, if she insisted, this ex-wife might want to take care of it—maybe an interment in Floristan? The ashes would remain in the mortuary in Honolulu until a decision was made. But he needed to tell her what he had done, driving drunk, ending the man’s life.

After a shower and a sandwich, and wearing an aloha shirt, he went to the porte cochere of his hotel, where a man in a white uniform with gold braids and epaulets approached him. He looked to Sharkey like the leader of a marching band.

“Taxi, sir?”

“I’m going to this address.” Sharkey showed the man the card Olive had written in block letters.

“Alta—it’s six, seven blocks. You could walk it.”

“Taxi,” Sharkey said with such bluntness that the uniformed man grabbed his whistle and blew it hard until a taxi appeared.

In the taxi he felt fragile, afraid of what was to come, his head ringing, his skin like tissue. He wanted this to be over and then after the night at the hotel to get the early flight back to Honolulu.

The house was large, two stories, Spanish style, creamy stucco, yellow cornices, windows covered by wrought-iron grilles, a wide porch, surrounded by a deep green lawn and flowerbeds, a mainland house with thick walls and a red tile roof and a varnished door of golden timber. It advertised itself as a rich person’s house. He knocked.

A swarthy man in a dark suit opened the door.

“Joe Sharkey.”

He put out his hand, but the man, who was wearing white gloves, stepped back, saying, “Mrs. Aranda is expecting you. Right this way.”

So it was the butler, and he felt fearful again, as though tricked, out of his element—easily fooled.

She was seated in an armchair, clutching something in her lap, at the far end of the living room—flowered cushions, flowers in vases, a coffee table with a bowl of blossoms floating in it. As Sharkey approached her, a man entered the room quickly and stepped in front of him.

“Cesar Aranda,” he said. “I’m Libby’s husband.”

“Please sit down,” the woman said. “I get nervous when people are standing while I’m sitting.”