Fanatuua stepped forward, moved Pit Bull back, threw a combination that did no damage. Maybe he was fighting for his family, Joe thought. Maybe he was married to one of the Samoan women who come to Hawaii to work in the Polynesian Cultural Center and study at the Mormon school in Laie. They walk slowly across the grass, books in their arms, flowers in their dark hair. He ought to make fifteen or twenty thousand from this fight. Maybe he'd give it to his father, the Chief, who was proud of him, who would know what to do with it. His hands dropped. Pit Bull drove him into the ropes with an overhand right. The camera zoomed to Fanatuua's face, sweat, a small cut. His eyes were bright. His mouth was set in a slight smile. He was not afraid. Pit Bull smashed him four times. The ref jumped in and separated them. TKO. Pit Bull ran around the ring, fists in the air, and hugged Fanatuua. Fanatuua tapped him twice on the back and walked to his corner. Maybe he was thinking that Salvatori won, might be the champ soon, but couldn't knock him out. Maybe he was thinking about home. Joe leaned back in his chair and remembered his new bag. He pictured himself packing it and realized that he was going to Hawaii. That was why he bought the bag, although he hadn't known it at the time. There were complications: the truck, what to bring, what to do when he got there. But that was where he was going. 3 As the plane banked over Diamond Head, green at that time of year, tears came to Joe's eyes. Hawaii is so beautiful, so far out to sea, that he felt lucky just to be there. When he stepped from the plane, the light perfume of plumeria and the warm breeze were like old friends. He had credit cards and a few bucks in the market, but he might have been thirty again, driving a cab, hoping for a load to the Kahala and a big tip. He rode the city bus into Waikiki, the Filson bag on his lap, and rented a room for a week on Kuhio Avenue--a concrete block room with a four foot lanai, a tiny refrigerator, and a hot plate. An hour later he was beneath the banyan tree at the Moana beach bar. Gilbert was still tending bar. "Gilbert, you haven't changed a bit." Gilbert was from Honolulu, medium sized with dark hair and dark eyes. He could have been from anywhere. His square features were professionally neutral; his smile was quick and ironic, under control. "Your eyes going," Gilbert said. Joe ordered a mai tai for old time's sake. Sunset is a three hour show in Waikiki. Joe stayed until the end--the last high smudge of crimson snuffed out in darkness, the Pacific reduced to the sound of waves collapsing along the beach. On his way back to the hotel, a woman in a mini skirt asked if he wanted a date. "Not tonight. But if I did . . . "