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of deal. Did they break open the minibar and drink the pintsized bottles of Something-Crest-Rock chardonnay? Did they eat the barbecued almonds? A couple of candy bars? How did the straight business world celebrate? Did the women lie on their backs with their legs spread while missionary-minded salesmen closed the deal?
    Thinking about it hurt his head.
    Francis shifted and felt the fluid in his brain slop from one side to the other, painfully trickling through his pons like ice-cold turpentine, making him feel slightly nauseous. He fought the impulse to puke, laying his head back down on the soft pillows. That was when he felt the warmth of the body in bed with him. And then he remembered.
    Oh, yeah. The lifeguard.
    Suddenly, Francis was feeling a little better. He propped himself up on an elbow and admired the young man as he snoozed. Francis couldn’t remember specific details about the tan young man, like his name, but he did remember something about his being an ex-competitive surfer. Francis thought his name might be Dick, but he wasn’t sure. It didn’t matter. Who needs a name when you’ve got a chest like that, hairless and rippling with muscles, rock-hard biceps, and buns so tight you could bounce a quarter off them?
    Francis grinned to himself, a big canary-gobbler of a smile, and wished he had a digital camera so he could take a picture and e-mail it to Chad. Francis thought about howhe’d art-direct the photo so the pineapple tattooed on the humongous bicep was clearly visible. That, coupled with the broad shoulders and shaved head, would be enough to send Chad into a spasm of jealous rage.
    He wrote the e-mail in his mind.
Dear Chad: Look what I just fucked. Sorry you couldn’t be here to watch! Aloha!
    Francis realized he had to take a piss so, trying not to wake Dick, he crawled gingerly out from under the covers and tiptoed toward the bathroom. Feeling a sharp pain in his foot as he stood up, he looked down at the floor and saw a coconut-shell bra and a plastic grass skirt strewn on the carpet. Around them were the shattered remains of what looked to have been a cheap ukulele. Francis sat down on the bed and picked the ukulele splinter out of his foot. He stretched his neck from side to side and tried to remember. Had he been wearing a hula outfit? How did the ukulele get smashed, had he fallen on it?
    Careful where he stepped, he went into the bathroom, flicked on the light—which was much too bright—and studied himself in the mirror. He didn’t remember partying that much—a half a Quaalude, a couple of mai tais, and a bottle of wine with dinner—but man, he looked like he’d been run over by a truck. Francis was suddenly struck by a horrible thought. Maybe he was too old to be doing this. That would suck, wouldn’t it?
    He fished a couple of Advils out of his Dopp kit and washed them down with some Evian provided by the hotel. He wasn’t too old. He was just out of shape. He hadn’t been carousing in years. And when was the last time he’d been fucked like that? Possibly never. When was the last time he dressed up like a hula girl and had a lifeguard save him?Definitely never. No, he wasn’t too old. He just had to get back in the swing of things.
    He was sitting on the toilet when the phone rang. It was his assistant, that Asian girl, reminding him, in an insufferably chipper voice, that they had brunch with the union reps in a half hour.

Six
    Waimanalo Beach was empty. It was too far from the big hotels on Waikiki for tourists to bother with and most of the locals were already at work, so Joseph had the place to himself as he jogged on the hard wet sand near the edge of the water. He liked the way the cool sand felt on his bare feet, enjoyed the occasional slap and curl of sea foam around his ankles. He looked out at the water, clear and blue and mottled green and dark and sparkling, all at the same time. He was surprised there were no