The Gentlemen's Hour (16 page)

By this time the chef has the Spam fired up.

Then Eddie has to figure out how to kill the whole day without going more than seventy-five feet from his house. This usually involves numerous business meetings, his physical therapist, his masseuse, constant refreshment of Maui Wowie, sunbathing, skateboarding, thousand-dollar-a-throw call girls, and dozens of video games with Rabbit and Echo, none of which they'd better come close to winning.

His other pastime is surfing medical Web sites because he's allowed necessary visits to consult with a physician. So Eddie has developed a staggering variety of physical symptoms that would arouse the envy of the most ambitious hypochondriac. Since his arrest, Eddie has been tested for lupus, fibromyalgia, cholera, and an elusive yet persistent recurrence of “Raratonga fever,” for which he is even now seeking permission to travel to Lucerne to consult with the world's only, and therefore preeminent, specialist—a haole.

Anyway, Rabbit feels a little bad about punching Boone, and Echo . . . uhhh . . . echoes the sentiment. They drop him off back at the Deuce.

“You take care, eh, Boone?”

“Care.”

“Bumbye,” Boone says.

By and by, later.

He climbs into the Deuce and heads for The Sundowner.

On the way he calls Dan Nichols, and then Johnny Banzai.

Boone takes a shower in the office and changes out of his sweaty clothes.

The hot water helps, but just. His face is puffy from the “ground and pound,” and his neck bears a rough red splotch from the chokeout that looks like he tried to hang himself and changed his mind. His whole back hurts from the body slam and the kidney punch, and Boone begins to think that there might be better ways of earning a living.

He could be a lifeguard—Dave's offered many times to get him on—or he could become a . . .

A . . .

Okay, a lifeguard.

That's about it.

Cheerful is just about ready to leave for the day, as he has Stouffer's and Alex Trebek waiting for him. To say that Cheerful is a creature of habit is akin to opining that a sloth is a creature of leisure. His life is measured by strict routine and ritual.

Every Saturday he goes to Ralph's and buys seven Stouffer's Lean Cuisine microwave dinners, one, obviously, for each night of the week. (Saturday is Swiss Steak, Sunday is Turkey Tetrazzini, Monday spaghetti Bolognese, Tuesday chicken and rice, Wednesday . . . you get the idea.) He dines (okay, go with it) at precisely 6:00
P.M
. as he watches the local news, then
NBC Nightly News
, then
Jeopardy!
, at which he keeps his own score in his head and usually wins. In the half hour it takes for
Wheel of
Fortune
to spin, he showers, shaves, and changes into his pajamas and a robe. He's back in front of the television to watch the rerun of
7th Heaven
that Hang Twelve programmed to Tivo for him, and then he goes to bed. Saturday and Sunday were a bit of a problem, as there is no
Jeopardy!
nor reruns of
7th Heaven
, but Hang solved this dilemma by banking episodes of
Gilmore Girls
and taking a blood oath of secrecy.

At nine, Cheerful goes to bed.

He gets up at four to have a cup of tea, a slice of unbuttered rye toast, and to check the Asian markets. At eight, half his working day over, he rewards himself with another slice of toast, which fuels him for a half-mile walk. Then he goes to Boone's office, fusses with the books, and waits impatiently for Boone to show up from the Dawn Patrol. He has lunch at 11:00
A.M.
, when Hang runs across to The Sundowner and brings back half a tuna salad sandwich and a cup of tomato soup.

Every day, no variation.

Cheerful is a billionaire, and this is his blissfully miserable life.

But now he stays long enough for Boone to fill him in on his day of fun and adventure.

“Blasingame sounds like a piece of work,” Cheerful says.

“Which one?” Boone asks.

“The dad,” Cheerful grumbles.

“I'm beginning to wonder about the kid,” Boone says.

“How so?” Boone shrugs. He doesn't quite have his finger on it, but there's something sketchy about the whole story. He starts to explain when he hears Dan Nichols's voice downstairs:
“I'm looking for Boone Daniels?”

“Up here!” Boone yells down the stairs.

Dan comes up.

“Dan, Ben Carruthers,” Boone says, introducing Cheerful. “Ben, Dan Nichols.”

“Pleasure,” Dan says. “Any relation to the Ben Carruthers of Carruthers Holding?”

“That's me,” Cheerful says.

“I've always wanted to meet you,” Dan says. “You're kind of a recluse.”

Cheerful nods. “I have an appointment. Nice to meet you.”

He goes down the stairs. “I'm impressed,” Dan says. “I won't ask if he's a client.”

“A friend.”

“Then I'm even more impressed,” Dan says. “Your friend is an investment genius. His company owns about half the world, I think.”

“He's a good guy.”

Dan looks at Boone's face and neck. “You been in a fight?”

“Working out in the gym.”

“Sort of PI stuff, huh?”

Not really, Boone thinks. The few other PIs he knows do their workouts in bars, lifting shots and beers. “I have the equipment.”

“Good.”

“One last time, Dan. You sure you want to know?”

Because some things are better left unknown. Ignorance may not be bliss, but knowledge isn't always a chocolate cone with sprinkles, either. And if something's in the past, it might just be better to leave it there—not everything you bring up from the bottom of the ocean is treasure.

“I'm committed to this, Boone.”

Famous last words. Like guys who commit to the wrong line on a wave—once you're in it you might realize that you made the wrong choice, but it's too late. You're going to ride that line all the way to the wipeout.

“Just put it under the bumper,” Boone says, “onto anything metal. I can track her movements from my van.”

“A 007 kind of thing.”

“Yeah, okay,” Boone says. “How long are you out of town?”

“Two or three days. Depends.”

“I have your cell?”

“Yup.”

“I'll be in touch.”

“Thanks for this, Boone.”

Thanks for nothing, Boone thinks as Dan heads out.

And speaking of thanks for nothing . . .

Boone meets Johnny at The Sundowner.

Now, Boone has met Johnny at The Sundowner, like, a lot. You wanna run the numbers, Boone has probably met Johnny at The Sundowner more days than he
hasn't.
And he usually looks forward to it. Why not? The Sundowner is cool, Johnny is cool, it's all skippy.

Not gonna be this time.

So Boone is the opposite of stoked about it.

“You rang?” Johnny asks as he sits down at the table across from Boone. Johnny has his summer homicide detective uniform on—blue cotton blazer, blue shirt, khaki pants. He takes one look at Boone and says, “You've been in a fight.”

“A couple of them.”

“Did you win anyway?”

“Neither one.”

“Then it hurts worse, huh?”

Boone doesn't know if it hurts worse, but it definitely
hurts.
As does what he's about to tell Johnny.

“You want a beer?” Boone asks.

“Oh, yes, I want a beer,” Johnny says. The G2 on the street is that Cruz Iglesias has slipped into San Dog to escape the heat in TJ, and if that's true, it's alcohol-motivating news. It means that the Death Angels will be on the hunt, and they're not exactly SEAL-like in their target selection process. It could get sloppy ugly bloody. So Johnny would like a lot of beers. “Most definitely I want a beer, but I'm going on duty so I can't
have
a beer.”

Boone signals the waiter and orders a couple of Cokes.

Johnny says, “You wanted to see me about something?”

“Yeah. Thanks for coming.”

“Are we in the business or personal realm here?”

“Business,” Boone says, although he's worried it's going to get personal. Murky border there, as easy to cross as the one with Mexico just a few miles to the south and, just like that border, hard to cross back from.

“Shoot,” Johnny says.

“Red Eddie told me he's going to kill Corey Blasingame,” Boone says.

“Okay,” Johnny says, taking it in. “How did you come by this information? You and Eddie don't exactly hang.”

“He sent a gunpoint invitation.”

“And how could you say no?”

“How could I say no?”

Johnny nods, then gives Boone a long look. ‘So here's the big question—why does Eddie give you the word? Let me rephrase that; why does Eddie give
you
the word?”

Boone takes a deep breath and then says, “I'm working on the Blasingame defense team.”

Johnny stares at him. “Tell me you're kidding.”

Boone shrugs.

“Putting my Sherlock Holmes hat on here,” Johnny says, “let me deduce: Alan Burke is representing Corey. Burke's second chair is a certain British woman you've been dating. Hence . . . and it's elementary, my dear Watson . . . you're whipped.”

“It's not that.” It's hard to be whipped by something you haven't . . . he doesn't finish the thought. Let Johnny think what he wants. There are tougher topics to take on and you might as well get it over with and jump. So he says, “You coached the Rockpile boys to write their statements, J.”

Johnny looks at him for what seems like an hour. Then he says, “That Blasingame bitch is guilty. You know it, I know it, he knows it, Burke knows it, even that tea bag you're banging knows it.”

“Easy, now.”

“
You
go easy,” Johnny says. “You back
way
off. Unless, that is, you're going to choose a betty over your friends.”

“It isn't about her,” Boone says.

“Then what's it about?”

“The first-degree charge is jacked up.”

“You want Mary Lou's number?”

“The witness statements—”

“—say what they say,” Johnny insists. “Did I let them know how the system works? You bet I did. Did that change what happened out there that night? Not even a little.”

“Come on, J—you have Trevor Bodin putting intent in Corey's mouth.”

“He
had
intent in his mouth!” Johnny yells. “He said what he said, and he wrote it down. What are
you
saying, Boone?”

“What do you mean?”

“Are you saying that I cooked the statements? The confession?” Johnny asks. “Is that the tack that you and your new best friends are going to take? You can't try the facts so try the cop?”

“Johnny—”

“You know what that would do to my career?” Johnny asks.

Boone knows. As fast as his own descent in the force was, Johnny had been that fast in the upward direction. Johnny's rising with a rocket, there's talk of chief of detectives someday, and Banzai takes his career very seriously.

“I'm not trying to hurt you,” Boone says.

“Yeah?” Johnny says. “Well, I don't want to be collateral damage when your do-gooder, misplaced, pussy-whipped meddling goes off.”

He walks over to the bar and sits down, his back to Boone.

A shaft of sunlight pierces the room as the door opens and High Tide comes in for his End of the Workday Beer, a ritual that he practices with religious devotion. He sits down at the table with Boone and then notices Johnny sitting by himself at the bar.

“What's with Johnny B?” Tide asks.

“We had a spat.”

“Over a boy?” Tide asks, raising a fat finger to the waiter. “Tell you what, why don't you girls come over tonight, we'll make popcorn, put on a nice, goopy movie, and the two of you can have a good cry and make up. We could even make brownies.”

“I'm helping defend Corey Blasingame.”

Tide looks at him in disbelief, sees he's serious, and then says, “Maybe I'll have my beer at the bar.”

“You know where it is.”

“Late.”

“Late.”

Tide lifts his bulk out of the chair, shakes his head, walks away, and settles himself on a stool next to Johnny.

Well, Boone thinks, this has been a good day.

Well, it has been for Jones.

Nothing not to like, moving from one fine hotel to another, checking in twice a day to see if they want him to interview someone, with or without a terminal conclusion.

Jones prefers to be active. He enjoys his work, but a little leisure doesn't go down so hard, either. Apparently his employer and the powers that be are trying to work this particular problem out “amicably.” If so, Jones gets a free vacation in San Diego; if not, he does a job of work and takes a fatter envelope home with him.

In the meantime he strolls the beach boardwalk, slathers himself with sunblock, observes the lovely young ladies in their swimsuits, and imagines them grimacing in pain.

All in all, a good day.

Boone goes home.

Pulls a yellowtail steak out of the fridge, gets it ready, and tosses it on the grill.

Sunny always used to bust him for his ability to eat the same thing over and over again, day after day, but Boone never got what the problem was. His logic was simple: if something is good on Tuesday, why isn't it good on Wednesday? All that's changed is the day, not the food.

“But what about variety?” Sunny pressed.

“Overrated,” Boone answered. “We surf every day, don't we?”

“Yeah, but we change up the place sometimes.”

He steps outside, turns the fish over, and sees High Tide coming up the pier. Boone goes outside to meet him.