“No money,” he said, and became more watchful, fearing she’d use the racket on him, or yank at his shirt with her dirty hands.

“Give five dollars.”

He wanted her out of the car; his heart was beating fast. She seemed to swell in her seat. He prepared himself for her lunging at him, chopping at him with the racket, and he raised his right elbow to ward off any attempt she might make.

“And now I’m going to drop you off,” he said, approaching the community center, glad that no one was in front of it to witness what might be a tantrum.

“No,” she said, and used her tennis racket to point down the road.

“Please get out of my car.” He took a deep breath. “I’m being righteous—pono—you get it, lady?”

“No.”

“Get out!”

“Five dollars,” she said.

“No.”

“Give money.”

Sharkey reached across and lifted the latch and pushed the door open, and still his elbow was raised to fend off any objection she might make.

“Fucken howlie.”

She batted at his arm with the tennis racket, but so feebly he snatched it from her and threw it past her into the gutter, facing her, daring her. He waited for her to use her hands on him, but she reached for her bag, tugged at one handle, and opened it—and he could that it was crammed with filthy rags and greasy scraps of paper, a tangled mimicry of possessions. She gripped the bag and hoisted it, hitching herself forward on the seat and sliding out of the car. Before Sharkey could pull the door shut she bowed as though in respect to thank him and spat at him casually, without force, leaving a gob of slime on the doorframe and a gleam of spittle on her chin.

“Go home, bugga, back to mainland,” she muttered. “You weevil fucken howlie.”

“You’re zorched, lady!”

Sharkey was breathing hard as he drove away, telling himself that it could have been worse, that she could have physically attacked him while he was driving and caused an accident. And when his head cleared he laughed, thinking how before he’d seen her clearly the only feature of her that had caught his eye was her tennis racket. And he laughed at “weevil” too.

That might have been a portent—she was witchlike enough—and was that party another, where he had met that arrogant boy? The boy who had no idea who Sharkey was, had stood up straight, the better to be seen among the surfers and hangers-on. He was so sure of himself, so confident of his ability to take any wave, the others saying, “He da weenah!” although the room was full of bowlegged and leathery old surfers who’d been riding waves long before that boy had been born.