by Paul Theroux
On one of those days, after working at the hospital, Olive returned home to find Sharkey on the lanai among the potted plants—ferny feathery pakalolo—his legs drawn up beneath him, more like royal ease than a yoga posture. He was staring at the sea beyond the treetops. His empty gaze, his motionless head, his slack body, reminded her of how his life had contracted and narrowed, his vitality drained away—the image no longer of a surfer but of a drowning victim, propped upright. The pity of it was not that his life had stalled and become smaller but that he was indifferent to it—the melancholy fact that he didn’t seem to notice it. This became normal now, the sitting, the blank expression, his silences, a kind of dying that had set in the night he had killed the cyclist, and this an effect of it, the thud to his memory acting on him like an anesthetic. On this night Olive pondered his slack egotistical posture—not like a man watching a sunset but rather like a big stupid boy distracted by cartoons—and thought, I can’t leave you like this.
“I’m back,” she said brightly, to get his attention.
He didn’t respond, but when she repeated it, he said, “Where have you been?”
“The hospital. I did Keola’s shift.”
“That’s cool.” Spoken without emphasis through barely parted lips, it was no more than a two-syllable grunt. Now she saw a joint in his fingers.
“Should you be doing that? I thought you were cutting down on the pakalolo.”
That had been the agreement—that he would try to stay sharp, regain his health, and resume surfing to build his confidence after his near drowning at Waimea.
“This is only number six.”
“That’s what I mean.”
“Six is cutting down.”
And with that he reached and stroked the feathery leaves of the pakalolo in the pots. It was the caress he might have used on the fur of a beloved animal. She forgave him his selfishness—he seldom touched her that way these days.
“Did anyone call?”
“I think so.”
“You think so?”
“I didn’t pick it up.”
She was beside him, hovering. He saw that she was stern.
“I was busy.”
But she knew it was his stunned condition—he was slow and uncertain, and maybe it was his fear, a result of the visit to the homeless camp, the sense that those ragged desperate people who’d mocked his fear of the dog might find him and demand—what? Money, explanations, attention. “Busy” was the one thing he was not. She told herself he was in shock and resisted blaming him for not seeming to care.
She picked up the phone and heard the pips that indicated a message had been left. Dialing the access number, she got the robotic voice: You have two new messages.
The first was from her, one she’d left the previous day, saying she’d be home soon. He hadn’t heard it, he hadn’t noticed she was late; she erased it.
Yah, Joe, the second message began. This Stickney Medina at the medical examiner office, referencing da kine, that guy you was inquiring about. Just to let you know we got some hits.
* * *
They had phoned ahead—Olive had made the call, and Stickney was excited, not about the news he had to share but that Sharkey would be paying another visit. He asked Olive, “Joe—he’s coming too, yah?” And when Olive said yes, he’d be there with her, Stickney said, “Thing of it is, my cousin Wencil, he wants to meet him. He so stoked.”
The two men were waiting in the lobby, Stickney gesturing in green scrubs, Wencil in a torn T-shirt and board shorts, at attention on bare feet, a small stocky man, about thirty, unmistakably a surfer—the wide shoulders, the thick neck, bruised water-soaked hands and pinkish fingers, the slim bandy legs, tribal tattoos on his stomach and the nape of his neck, tattooed names on his arms, with dates—his children. And he had a surfer’s way of standing, feet planted flat, leaning back and canted slightly to the side, as though balancing on a board.
“Joe Sharkey,” Stickney said, with the gusto of a boast. “My cousin Wencil Makani.”
Sharkey said, “Aloha.”
“And his wahine,” Stickney said.
But Wencil did not take his admiring eyes off Sharkey, and he smiled as his gaze traveled from tattoo to tattoo, from his gray-flecked sunburned hair and his freckled forearms to his tattooed ankles and knobby toes. There was about both men a look of having been soaked and scrubbed and dried out thousands of times, the abrasive effect of seawater on skin, a roughened and eroded texture, a raggedness around the fingernails, a chronic redness in the eyes, bruised toes and broken toenails, a saturated and salt-rubbed body made leathery by the sun, one water creature sizing up another from the barren solidity of land.
“Insane,” Wencil said, and stuck his hand out to initiate a complex surfer’s handshake, hooked fingers and fist bumps, and a final, ritual thumb tug.
Olive watched. Wencil had not even glanced at her.
“I seen you at the Eddie when I was a kid,” Wencil said. “Then later—when? Ten-something years back.”
“I didn’t win,” Sharkey said.
“We gotta go.” Stickney consulted his folder, more to impress the others with its seriousness than to gather information. “We got some paperwork.”
“I hate paperwork,” Sharkey said. “I hate the word.”
“Try wait,” Wencil said to Stickney, with a flash of anger. And to Sharkey, “No, you didn’t win—not the biggest wave. But you catched a more better ride. Was a triple head-high monster and you throw yourself at the lip, you in synch on the floater, the lip bang.” He raised his arms, turning his hands. “Come down the face, make a cut back to rebound. Then find the barrel as the whole thing’s closing out on the beach. Was insane.”
“Mahalo, brah. It was a Thursday.”
“I get it—just another day. But was a gift to me,” Wencil said. “Mahalo atua.”
“I can see you’re a waterman.”
“Not like you. Nevah like Joe Sharkey.” Wencil dropped his arms, pushed his face forward in helpless admiration, breathing hard. “When you go out—you surf today morning?”
“No.”
“Was killer,” Wencil said. “Plus was killer yesterday. You catch some waves yesterday?”
“I can’t remember,” Sharkey said.
“He’s taking a break from the water,” Olive said.
“How you knowing, sister?”
“I’m his friend,” Olive said, but gently, because Wencil seemed excitable—he had barked at Stickney and was badgering Sharkey, twitching on his bare feet.
“I got one Sharkey T-shirt—you face and DA SHARK,” Wencil said. “I always want one pair Sharkey shades.”
“He doesn’t do those endorsements anymore,” Olive said.
“Waugh!” Wencil twisted, looking fierce, his teeth clamped together, and drew his arm back as though to prepare to throw a punch. “I talking to the Shark!”
“Wen-boy,” Stickney said, “we got to go to the office.”
“Bodda you?” Wencil took Sharkey’s arm. He said, “You was like a god to me when I was a keiki,” and he nudged Sharkey to the side, bumping his shoulder, and when they were out of earshot of the others he said, “Gimme a coupla bucks, okay. Man, you like one hero to me.”
Seeing Wencil whispering to Sharkey, Olive glanced at Stickney, who shrugged and rolled his eyes, then walked over to them.
Before he could speak, Wencil said, “Who dis fricken wahine?”
Sharkey said, “We have to go,” but mildly, chucking Wencil on the shoulder with a friendly fist.
This talk, the back-and-forth, had attracted the attention of the people seated in the lobby waiting area. Olive was aware that they were making a scene, that Sharkey was being ineffectual and that Wencil was in the way, paddling his hands as though swimming toward her.
“I say, this guy was one hero to me,” Wencil said.
“He can’t give you any money,” Olive said.
“I never ask for no money. You think I like one beggar?
” Then he jumped aside and spoke indignantly to the room. “You think I want to cockaroach you money? That not me. That not how I roll. You want beef? Bring it on, sister.”
Olive steered Sharkey away from the chattering man and toward Stickney, who was waiting at the office door. Sharkey wore a half-smile—of vagueness, of inattention. He seemed to register Wencil’s agitation but not the reason for it, the man clinging and making demands, then yelling at the bewildered people in the lobby. He paddled toward Olive again.
“What’s wrong with him?” Wencil said.
“Nothing’s wrong with him.”
“Tell him I nevah want his money.”
“I’ll tell him,” Olive said, Sharkey shuffling beside her as though sleepwalking.
“My whole ohana, all my surfing buddies, I tell them I coming to see da Shark,” Wencil said. “I even wear my Shark T-shirt.”
“That’s good.”
“No, it not good, because now this shirt is humbug, and now I tell my ohana that Sharkey wen’ pau!”
“Sharkey’s not pau,” Olive said.
And somehow the repeated word stung Sharkey—he seemed to come awake, and turned, lifting his arms, batting Olive aside, making room so that he could face Wencil.
“I killed a man—he’s in the storage room here,” Sharkey said, indicating the stairwell by jerking his head to the door that Stickney held open. “I could kill you too.”
5
Unclaimed Remains
Stickney pawed the papers with his big outspread fingers, like a visible process of thought—dim comprehension, stumbling from line to line with his splayed hands, resembling a beginner at a piano, planting them hard on the keys, producing sour notes. He sat with Sharkey and Olive in the conference room at the medical examiner’s office, at a table strewn with files and manila folders, apologizing distractedly as he sorted the papers, saying, “Wencil-boy—he mean well.”
“Is he okay?” Olive asked.
“Sometimes he so futless.”
When he had the stack in order, Stickney squared it upright with his clutching hands, tapping the bottom edge level on the table. He looked up and said, “You kill this buggah?”—holding out the thickness of papers that stood for the dead man.
Sharkey’s eyes, heavy-lidded and dulled by his outburst, seemed to peer beyond the papers, beyond Stickney, beyond the wall, and the glaze that shone through the slits beneath his lashes seemed to indicate that he was lost in thought, not recognizing anything but looking inward.
“It was an accident,” Olive said. She’d been surprised by his sudden admission—I killed him . . . I could kill you too—and the effect it had on Sharkey. It had scared her; it had hardened his features, it had made him seem dangerous, especially in the fierce way he’d turned on Wencil.
“We get all kine accidents in here,” Stickney said. “Plenny bike-related. Plenny unattended death. But I thought you was ohana to the buggah.”
Sharkey considered this, nodding a little. “If I was ohana, would I be asking you his name?”
“He was riding down the wrong side of the road, in the rain, on that bad patch at Waimea,” Olive said.
“And he was probably stoned,” Stickney said. “The toxicology tests came back. He tested positive for lots of stuff. Alcohol. Pakalolo.”
“I would have tested positive for that,” Sharkey said. “At the time. If they’d run tests.”
“And crank—more worse. Traces of batu. This guy was full of illegal drugs.” He was nodding, repeating the word djrugs.
“Can we see the test report?” Olive asked.
“Got it somewhere here.” Stickney sorted through the papers again with his fat skidding fingers.
“Never mind,” Olive said. “What we need to know is if you got a name.”
“Got two, tree names,” Stickney said. “But we got some solid hits too. Mainly from his prints. We ran his prints and got stuff from all over.”
“Such as?” Olive said, and saw that Sharkey was glaring across the table at Stickney as though demanding an answer.
“Far-out stuff. We get some from the mainland, a place called”—he scrabbled at the paper with blunt finger pads—“Santa Clara.”
“Near Santa Cruz,” Sharkey said.
“You probably surfed Mavericks—Half Moon Bay. Awesome waves, yah?”
Sharkey said, “What was he doing there?”
“Say here was speeding.”
“He got a speeding ticket?”
“Yah. This long time ago. A moving violation ticket. Doing a hundred forty-two in a forty-five-mile-limit zone. They booked him, printed him.”
“What was his name?”
Stickney snorted and said, “The buggah name was not the thing that jumped out at me.”
“What jumped out?”
“One forty-two,” Stickney said. “What kine car does one forty-two?”
“A fast car,” Olive said.
“A spendy car,” Stickney said. “So I read the whole report. Turns out he was driving a Ferrari. All the specs are here.”
“He stole it.”
“Was new kine. Registration in his name,” Stickney said. “One of his names.”
Olive leaned to look at the police report, and Stickney put his fingers on the paper and spun it so that she could read it.
“Max Mulgrave,” she said.
“But we also have this,” Stickney said. “From the gun registry database—all gun owners in California get fingerprinted. Got a different name. Maybe he come up with a new name because he was turned down for a drug conviction. We get that sometimes.”
He showed the California Department of Justice Firearm Ownership Report, and the name, Robert Ray Low.
“What else have you got?”
“Plenny. Got hits from the VA. He was in the DOD file. That’s not Low, that’s Mulgrave.”
“What about date of birth, place of birth? Father’s name?”
“Got,” Stickney said. “All that.” He pushed the papers aside. “Too much to process. Look like he born somewhere on mainland.” He tapped a line with his fingertip. “Kansas.”
“Arkansas,” Olive said. “Even I know that.”
“Look the same to me.”
“Different state,” Olive said, lifting the document. “Floristan.”
“Got waves there?”
“No waves,” Olive said.
“And this,” Stickney said. He opened a folder and removed another document—photocopied, they could tell from the way the signature was printed, and the signature was Mulgrave.
“Looks like a property deed,” Olive said. “He owns a house?”
“Used to own a house—this is a transfer of ownership. Look at the purchase price.”
“Three million and change.”
“Ten years ago, in San Fran. What you suppose it worth now?” Stickney said, seeming to gloat.
“He was homeless,” Sharkey said.
“Not then,” Stickney said, and flicked the document. “He riding high then.”
“So what happened?”
“Something heavy. And there’s more.”
“Can we have copies?”
“Some of it classified, like military records and police stuff. Or get limited info, for family only. But the rest—okay.” He stood, as though for the dramatic effect of showing his big body. “Some amazing stuff here—like stuff I never see before. But there’s something more amazing.”
He leaned and planted his hands on the papers, breathing hard, seeming to believe that he was creating suspense out of his clumsy delay.
“Please go on,” Olive said.
But instead of replying, Stickney carried the sheaf of loose documents to the photocopier and began to feed papers into it.
“All these numbers, all these names, all these hits,” Stickney said, teasing a document into the slot. “We send out bulletins and emails to the next of kin, even letters.” He bent over and sniffed at a copy sliding from the chute into the tray. “And w
hat do we get back?” He was still feeding papers into the slot. “Nothing,” he said. “Nothing.”
“No one to claim the body?”
“Nobody reply!” He turned and widened his eyes. “We cremate him. We send him over to the morgue. Now it up to them to find out next of kin. And they have the rest of the paperwork. The protocol stuff, not the personal.”
“Aren’t you still looking?” Olive asked.
“Out of our hands now. We ID’d him. We got prints. We got identifying marks and scars. The tattoo.”
“I have a photo of it.”
“Good, ’cause we burned the body.”
“I thought you kept it downstairs.”
“Got to make room for more human remains. We kept some DNA in the file. Dental records and that. That’s the policy. Once we ID someone, the case sent to the morgue, where they store the ashes.”
“How long do they store them?”
“Until they’re claimed. So far it’s classified as ‘unclaimed remains.’” He had finished feeding the last of the paper, yet the photocopier continued to chatter, shooting out and sorting the copies into the tray. “So far it looks like no one wants him.”
“We want him,” Olive said.
* * *
Just before Red Hill, on their way back to the North Shore, they passed the morgue, which was visible from the freeway—a windowless building beyond a stand of flowering trees, and the sign that Stickney had mentioned, AFFORDABLE CASKETS.
“We could stop.”
