And what the frag, since I had my momentum up, I phoned the LTG number bug-boy had given me on that strip of pocket 'puter thermal printer paper. A voice mail box—predictable, of course. I left a message, requesting—well, maybe demanding —a meeting later that afternoon, down at the east end of Waikiki Beach, in front of a statue of some slag with a surfboard I'd spotted on my first day in the islands.