He was two inches, or three, taller than my six feet, and muscular. He advanced straight at me, shoulders squared, head forward. His gaze fixed upon me from beneath the visor of a chauffeur's cap. I stood beside the carousel in the baggage claim area of Honolulu International. I waited for my suitcase to appear. I had the story, after a fashion, from the client. But as generally happens in such cases, the story would turn out to be different than the one told.
"Ms. O'Sullivan?" the man in the chauffeur's cap said.
"Yes, I'm T.J. O'Sullivan," I said. As I spoke to him, my suitcase came along, and I grabbed it from the rotating carousel.
"Come with me," the man said, "Mr. Shaw wishes to see you at once."
"Yeah, nah, mate," I said. "I want to check into my hotel first. I'm meant to meet Mr. Shaw at Duke's Waikiki at five."
"Things have changed," the man said. He pushed aside the front of the navy windbreaker he was wearing. I could see the butt of the large frame semi-automatic tucked into his waistband. "I must insist. Mr. Shaw isn't a patient man. He wants you at the house right away."
"All right," I said, "you can be quite persuasive."
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