For the moment, though, he'd come through in spades. I needed a doss—he'd gotten me a doss, a squat in a trashed-out rooming house on the fringe of downtown Ewa. I needed wheels—he'd gotten me wheels, a fifteen-year-old 250cc Suzuki Custom motorbike. I needed cold iron—he'd gotten me cold iron, a Colt Manhunter that he swore up and down wasn't registered and wasn't in anyone's ballistic database. And I needed sleep. I was on my own for that one.