Dawn Patrol (29 page)

So she’d skipped The Dawn Patrol.

Maybe it’s a good thing, she thinks. Time to move on. Catch my wave tomorrow and ride it into my new life.

She goes to get dressed. It will be busy at The Sundowner with all the surfers coming in, and Chuck could probably use the extra help.

So she decides to go in early.

High Tide thinks about going to The Sundowner, too.

He’s hungry and cold, and a cup of hot coffee and a stack of banana pancakes soaked in maple syrup sound pretty damn good.

It’s been a long night, sitting in his car, a half block south of Boone’s crib, directing his old troops like a general who’s come out of retirement to fight a war. And it felt good, in a weird way, to know that he could issue the battle cry and the boys would respond as if no time had passed. But it felt bad, too, bringing back the old days that he had left behind.

That bad feeling was nothing compared with the heartache that came with letting his cousin down. But life is full of tough choices, and he chose one family over the other.

Done.

But now he looks out at the ocean and sees that the family he chose isn’t together. He didn’t go out this morning because he was busy guarding Boone, and God knows where
he
is now. Johnny’s not out there because he’s probably well and truly pissed off at Boone and working the murder case. And Sunny’s mad—hurt and betrayed.

Only Hang Twelve is out there, sitting like a latchkey kid waiting for Mom or Dad to come home.

He’s thinking this when someone taps on his window.

Boone’s standing there.

Tide rolls down the window.

“It’s over,” Boone says.

“That’s good.”

“There’s still time for you to hit the water,” Boone says.

“You?”

Boone shakes his head, then looks up at his cottage. “Stuff to take care of.”

“Yeah, I think I’ll give it a pass this morning,” Tide says. “Get me some breakfast instead.”

“Sounds good,” Boone says. “And Tide? Thanks, huh.”

“No worries, brah.”

You’re
aiga
.

Johnny Banzai grabs a few hours of sleep, gets up, and picks a shirt, slacks, sports jacket, and tie from his closet. Then he rejects all of it in favor of a charcoal gray suit. He has to be in court today, maybe in front of a judge, and he’s found that the extra touch of formality is usually worth it.

It feels odd, going to work from the house instead of the beach, changing clothes in his bedroom instead of his car. He’s missed sessions of The Dawn Patrol before, because of work or family obligations, but this feels different.

Like the end of something.

The start of something else.

Phases and stages, I guess, Johnny thinks as he knots a bloodred knit tie and checks it in the mirror. At a certain time in your life, you think you’ll never get married; then you are. Then you think you’ll never have kids, and then suddenly you have two. And you’ve always said that you’d never leave The Dawn Patrol, but maybe now …

That stunt Boone pulled.

Not the thing with the Boonemobile—that was classic Boone, although it’s hard to see him sacrifice the old van that held so many memories for all of them. So many road trips up and down the coast. The waves, the beer, the music, the girls. Hard to see that all go up in flames, but maybe it was necessary.

No, it was the stunt with the lady lawyer, the Brit. Maybe it was the accent that pissed Johnny off, but more probably it was Boone pulling the shit that Johnny expected from the La Jolla beautiful people, the rich and influential, and not a lifelong surfing buddy.

Face it, he tells himself as he looks down at his wife, Beth, sleeping in bed. You never thought you’d see Boone go for the money, never thought
you’d see him go for that kind of woman. The whole ambitious professional thing.

Well, never say never.

Johnny kisses his wife and receives a murmured “Morning,” then stops off at each of his kids’ rooms to check in on them. His son, Brian, is sound asleep, clad in Spider-Man pajamas, stretched out in the bottom bed of the set of bunks he’d wanted so that he could have friends for sleepovers. Abbie is likewise, curled into her Wonder Woman blanket, the lightest sheen of sweat on her upper lip. And thank God, Johnny thinks, that she takes after her mother.

He looks at her lying there so peaceful and innocent, and, hopefully, so safe, and it makes him think of the little girl’s toothbrush in the room at the Crest Motel. Who was the girl? What was she doing there? Where is she now?

Johnny walks over, kisses his daughter softly on the cheek, and heads out the door.

It’s going to be a tough day. Dan Silver’s civil trial starts at nine and Tammy Roddick is scheduled to take the stand shortly afterward, and Johnny is going to be in the gallery when she does. So he’ll have to get into a judge’s chamber early to get a warrant written for both Boone and Roddick. She’ll probably be on the stand for a couple of hours or more; then Johnny intends to pick them both up and get some answers about Angela Hart’s death.

Sorry, B, he thinks.

I’m invoking the jump-in rule.

Boone stands on the pier and watches Hang Twelve sit out in the water by himself.

Kid’s not even bothering to catch any of the good waves that are coming in like a machine’s cranking them out. Just sits beyond the break and lets them roll under him like he’s catatonic or something.

Boone waves his arms and yells, “Hang!”

Hang Twelve looks over, sees Boone, and then looks away.

A few seconds later, he paddles in. Boone watches him pick up his board, walk up the beach, and head up the street.

Petra’s sitting at the kitchen table when Boone comes in. Her hands are wrapped around a mug of tea.

“Look, it’s all good,” he says. “It’s over. It’s taken care of.”

“What do you mean?” she asks.

“You’re good to go,” Boone says. “Tammy can testify about the arson, tell the cops whatever she knows about Angela’s murder. Danny’s not going to do a thing.”

“Why not?”

“Because he wants to live,” Boone says. “I can’t tell you any more.”

Can’t tell them that he made a deal that, in effect, cuts Danny off from Red Eddie. And Danny would take a fall on the lawsuit, even the murder, before he’d hurt Tammy, because she’s now under Eddie’s protection. And violating Red Eddie’s protection is a capital offense, no appeals, no last-minute calls from the governor.

“You want to go to The Sundowner?” Boone asks. “Grab some breakfast?”

“What did you trade?” Petra asks.

“Huh?”

“You obviously made a deal with Red Eddie,” Petra says. “What I’m asking is, what did you give in return?”

“Not so much,” he says. When he sees her skeptical look, he adds, “I did him a solid once. I cashed in the chip.”

“Must have been quite a chip.”

“Sort of.”

She’s touched. “You did that for me?”

“I did it for Tammy,” Boone says. “And for you.
And
me.”

“We can’t have breakfast in The Sundowner,” Petra says.

“Why not?”

“Because it would be too awkward,” Petra says. “It would be rubbing it in her face.”

“Sunny doesn’t care,” Boone says.

Men are idiots, Petra thinks. “She’s still in love with you.”

“No, she’s not,” Boone says.

Yes, she is, Petra thinks. The question is, are you still in love with her? I don’t think so, because you have too good a heart to be in love with her and kissing me. But you might still be in love with her, Boone, and not know it. Just as you might be falling in love with me and not know it.

“We don’t have to go to The Sundowner,” Boone says.

Yeah, but a lot of people do.

With the swell headed toward PB Point, maybe half the big-wave surfing world is jammed in The Sundowner, macking down, talking about what’s going to happen tomorrow.

Sunny’s in hyperdrive, pouring coffee, taking orders, and running trays to the surfers, the Jet Ski drivers, the clothing and gear execs, the photographers and filmmakers, magazine editors, and plain old hangers-on who’ve gathered for the big event—the first monster wave to hit the SoCal coast in years. Everybody’s been waiting for this for so long—for the golden age to come home.

It’s going to be big. Not just the waves but the moment.

It’s a media event; it’s going to be splashed all over the mags, the videos and DVDs, the clothing catalogs. Reps are going to get made or ruined, rivalries fought out like these waters are the plains of Troy, huge egos fighting for waves, fighting for rides, fighting for the glory, fame, endorsement contracts, sponsorships.

Someone’s going to be in the big picture.

The cover shot.

Someone is going to be the star of the movie and the rest aren’t, and the knife hasn’t been made, the steel not forged, that could cut the tension, the vibe in The Sundowner this morning.

Or the testosterone, Sunny thinks.

It’s all about the boys today.

Talking trash, acting all cool, being guys together. She’s
invisible
to them, except she’s the waitress who brings them their food.

“Getting to you?” Dave asks, sitting at the counter, not talking to anybody, reading his newspaper. The most famous surfers in the world are all around him and it’s nothing to him. Tomorrow, he might have to haul some of these guys out of the soup, out of the white water, and then they’ll have his total attention. This morning, he doesn’t give a damn.

“A little,” Sunny says.

“They’ll know who you are tomorrow,” Dave says.

“I don’t know.”

That’s an understatement. She hates to admit it, but she is intimidated. It’s the Hall of Fame in here: Laird and Kalama and the whole “Strapped” crew in from Maui; the Irons brothers with the Kauai Wolf Pack; Mick and Robby and the boys from Oz; Flea and Malloys down from Santa Cruz; and the SoCal locals—Machado and Gerhardt and Mike Parsons, who rode that monster wave out on the Cortes Bank. These are the established guys with nothing to prove and they’re all pretty cool and laid-back because of it.

But the younger ones, the up-and-comers, they’re a different breed of cat. For example:

Tim Mackie, “Breakout Surfer of 06,” holds his mug in the air like a trophy and points at it. Handsome as well, sculpted, cocky—the whole world is going his way, so why shouldn’t he expect an instant refill? It’s good being Tim Mackie.

“Pour it on his crotch,” Dave says.

“No.”

She goes over, pours him a fresh cup—no thanks, no eye contact—and then comes back to the counter to pick up her order for the table of Bill-abong execs.

“I’ll tow you in if you want,” Dave says.

She knows where he’s going with this. Most of the surfers here are tow-in guys—their Jet Ski partners will put them into the big waves, and
the surfers who simply paddle in will be at a huge disadvantage. It might be worse than that—the waves might simply be
too
big, and therefore too fast, for her to catch without a ski.

“Thanks,” she says. But she’s never done the tow-in thing, and it takes technique and training. Besides, she’s not equipped for it—her big boards are shaped for paddle-in surfing. “I think I’ll just stick to what I know.”

“Usually a good idea,” Dave says.

But he’s worried about her.

She could get shut out, by the other surfers or by the waves themselves. And, even if she catches one, she needs someone to look after her, to pull her out of the impact zone if something goes wrong.

Boone will be out there, so that will be good.

Sunny takes off with a shoulder full of western omelets, and Dave goes back to his paper. She hustles back to the sound of the bell announcing her next pickup. This is for tomorrow, she thinks, my big chance.

Either I do it or this is my life.

Humping coffee and eggs.

Tim Mackie holds up his mug again and points.

Sunny holds up her middle finger.

Tammy comes out of the bedroom into the kitchen.

Boone gives her the good news.

Her response is underwhelming.

But predictable.

“I want to talk to Teddy.”

“Once again,” Petra says, “I don’t think that’s such a good—”

“Either I talk to Teddy,” Tammy says, “or I don’t testify. You think it over, let me know what you decide.”

She walks back into the bedroom.

“Succinct,” Boone says.

They reach Teddy at his home number.

Wife must be out of town, Boone thinks.

He hands the phone to Tammy.

“Teddy?” she asks. “Are you alone?”

That’s all she asks. That’s it. After all the “I want to talk to Teddy” OCD, she asks that one question, apparently gets her answer, and punches off.

Then says, “Okay, I’ll testify.”

Downtown San Diego is surprisingly small.

You can easily walk around it in the better part of an hour, and it might be the only major city in the country where a healthy person can walk from the airport to downtown with no problem.

That walk would take you along the bay that borders downtown on the west and south, and created the city. Mexican explorers stopped in San Diego back in the 1500s for its excellent harbor and left behind the usual mixture of soldiers and missionaries that defined most of Southern California until the Anglos took it in 1843. By the 1850s, a fleet of Chinese junks fished for tuna from the harbor, but were later moved out by Anglo and Italian fishermen.

Downtown was pretty sleepy until the big real estate boom of the
1880s, when town fathers like the Hortons, Crosswhites, and Marstons built up a legitimate downtown with office buildings, stores, banks, and restaurants. The seedy Stingaree District, with its bars, gambling joints, and brothels thrived between downtown and the southern harbor, and madams like Ida Bailey and gamblers and procurers like Wyatt Earp and his wife made fortunes and gave San Diego the risqué reputation that still clings to it today down in what is now known as the Gaslamp District.

But it was the U.S. Navy that really defined downtown San Diego and still does. From virtually anywhere you stand in downtown, you can see a navy base or a ship. Take that walk from the airport and you’ll see aircraft carriers docked in the harbor, navy planes landing at their base on North Island. Sometimes you’ll see a submarine pop up from underwater right in the bay and glide into port.