Modigliani on a Cigarette Boat

Dude, I totally need a coffee. And a woman shaped like this...

Sunrise on Oahu, and the light of the grey day whispered between the blinds. Morning here is a sound I’ve heard a thousand times, that whisper that tells you the day has begun without you. It sneers at the corners of your eyes, sneers that somewhere in the Hawaiian morning, no matter the weather, something is very, very wrong with your Ferrari.

"Bastards," I mumbled, dragging a sleepy hand across my mustache. There were no stewardesses in the room, no Polynesian tour guides drowsing like honey under several strategically-placed pillows, and if that wasn't disorienting enough, Mr Fujikori was standing on my end table, beaming down on me with the highest watt smile a 65-lb man can muster.

"Mother of a Retarded Christ!" I shouted, but Fujikori was already shaking my hand, and before I could drag my unbelievably limber body from my 900 count sheets, he vanished, leaving nothing but a puff of green tea scented smoke, and a page torn from an address book.

819 Kahala Beach Road.

The tuning fork in my head shook like a new-hatched bird. 819 Kahala Beach Road.

I slipped into a polo (the wonderful white Burberry one with the fuschia cuffs and the embroidery on the button placket...but that is neither here nor there), a pair of short shorts that shouted 'Macho!' rather than 'Rent me by the hour!', grabbed my .45, and disappeared into the AM mists.