Gusts caught the hair of young women and whipped ebony parabolas three
feet over their heads. The women turned their heads like wild mustangs,
laughing--counterpoint to their Asian composure and perfect make-up.
This is it, Oliver thought. I could die right here. I'll never see
anything more beautiful.
He ate dinner in a Thai restaurant. His waitress was another knockout.
Across the room, someone who looked like Gomer Pyle was eating and
joking. It _was_ Gomer Pyle--Jim Nabors. Wilt. Gomer. Gorgeous women.
Oliver began to feel that this was the way things should be, that it
was his due. He was Oliver. He had family on Alewa Heights, he was sure
of it. Tomorrow would tell.
At nine the next morning, Oliver called the Nakano's number.
"Hello?" A quiet male voice. Island.
"Hello, this is Oliver Prescott. Are you Ken?"
"Yes."
"I'm trying to find Muni."
"Michiko told me you helped with the moss-rock."
"Not much. Those guys were pretty big . . ."
"They my football coaches, phys-ed teachers," Ken said.
"Aha."
"Do you have business with my brother?"
"Not business, exactly. My mother knew him a long time ago. Did he ever
mention Dior Del'Unzio?"
"Mmmm .
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