"Wendell Sasaki."
"Nice place you have here," Joe said. A well-dressed couple entered, and Wendell excused himself. Joe drifted along a wall of Mo's photographs. There were several of old sugar mill buildings and one taken of the sky through the branches of a koa tree. There was a large one of the city at night, lights running high up the ridges. His favorite showed two young women walking toward the camera on Kalakaua Avenue. The light was gray, pre-dawn. One had her arm around the other's shoulders. They were bent forward laughing. Their bodies and clothes were used and tired, but their faces were innocent, flooded with relief; the night was over.
Most of the subjects were conventional; it was the detail and the light on them that was interesting. They were all black and white but one—a close-up of bamboo stalks and leaves. "What do you think?" Mo asked from behind him.
"I like it." Joe turned partially. "How come it's the only one in color?"
"I have problems with color," Mo said. "It's always off. But in this case, there are really only two colors, bamboo and that tender green. They're both off in the same way, so the relationship works. And the color is so much of the story . . . " Wendell Sasaki called her over to confer with the well-dressed couple.
Joe stood in front of the picture of the young hookers, if that's what they were. Looking at them seemed more helpful than talking to anyone. Mo worked the crowd. After a time, Joe thanked the owner, waved at Mo, and left. All artists love light, he thought, walking up Ward Avenue. Mo was no exception.
The next day, he called. "Mo? Nice show."
"Thanks."
"You have won the Joe Burke award—excellence in photography."
"Why, never did I dream," she said in a Southern drawl.