by Don Winslow
“What happened?” Boone asks.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, if you guys were so in love and everything,” Boone says. “What happened?”
He's not ready for the answer that Mick gives him.
“Teddy D-Cup.”
Teddy D-Cup is what happened.
41
Teddy D-Cup.
Aka Teddy Cole.
Dr. Theodore Cole, M.D., board-certified cosmetic surgeon.
Teddy D-Cup does boobs.
Yeah, well, he does noses and chins, too, liposuctions, face-lifts, and tummy tucks, but boobs are Teddy's profit center, hence the moniker.
Teddy is the Michelangelo of bosoms. His work is displayed at society functions, beaches, runways, movies, television shows, and, of course, strip clubs, wherever finer breasts are seen. They are status symbols, prestige items. It's gotten to the point where women actually boast that their “tits are by Teddy.”
Strippers will work for years to save up the cash to get a pair by Teddy, although the word is that good Dr. Cole does have a scholarship program for girls he considers especially… uh… promising.
Like Tammy, according to Mick.
“She wanted a bigger rack,” Mick says. “I told her she didn't need one, that she was gorgeous, but you know chicks.”
Not really, Boone thinks, but he goes along with it.
“I told her if she was going to do it, she had to go to the best,” Mick says.
“Teddy D-Cup.”
“Sure,” Mick says. “I knew all about him from the hotel. Believe me, I know Teddy's work, up close and personal. Women who go to the Milano can afford Teddy.”
“But Tammy couldn't.”
“She saved up,” Mick says. “You don't know her-she's single-minded, man. Once she sets her sights on something. I mean, it was like work, work, work. Money, money, money.”
“So?”
Mick shakes his head. “I drove her to him, bro. I literally drove her to the first consultation. She comes out, we're in the car, we're not two blocks away, and she tells me maybe we should stop seeing each other. Do you believe that? She traded me in for a new set of tits.”
“So she's seeing Teddy now.”
“She's with him all the fucking time, man.”
“How do you know that?”
“I've followed them,” Mick says. “Is that pathetic, or what? I've banged half the hot rich babes in this town, and I'm sneaking around following this fucking mercenary cunt stripper, sitting in my car like some doof- That cheap fuck takes her to this little motel up around Oceanside-do you believe that, a guy with his kind of money?”
Boone gets this sinking feeling. “Hey, Mick?”
“What?”
“You didn't do anything to her, did you?”
“No,” Mick says. “I thought about it.”
Then he asks, “Is she okay, Boone? Is she in some kind of trouble? Why are you looking for her?”
“She ever talk about Dan Silver?” Boone asks. “The fire at his warehouse?”
“She mentioned it happened.” He's alarmed now. All geeked. “Is she okay? Is she hooked up with Dan again?”
“I don't know,” Boone says, “but as your friend, I'm going to strongly suggest you get out of town for a while. Some people are looking for her who are going to be looking for you. You don't want them to find you. They're going to ask the same questions I did, but they may not believe your first answers.”
“She's in trouble,” Mick says.
“Throw some shit in a bag,” Boone says. “Put some serious distance between you and here.”
“I have to find her. I have to help her.”
“You gonna rescue her?” Boone asks. “Then she'll take you back?”
“I just want her to be okay,” Mick says. “Is that fucked up, or what?”
Actually, Boone thinks, it might be the least fucked-up thing he's heard all day. He warns Mick to get out of town again, and then he leaves to go see Dr. Theodore Cole.
42
Tweety sits in the office of TNG, looking at his swollen knee. It looks bad; it looks like it's going to keep him out of the weight room for a while.
“We better get you to the hospital,” Dan says.
Tweety looks sad. “I don't have health insurance.”
“Not a problem,” Dan says. “I got you covered. Come on.”
Dan and the bouncer lift Tweety to his feet-well, foot — carry him outside-and squeeze him into the front seat of a Ford Explorer. The bouncer gets behind the wheel. Dan gently swings Tweety's legs in, then gets in the backseat.
Tweety says, “I'm gonna kill that fucking Daniels.”
“We'll do it for you,” Dan says. He tells the bouncer to head south on the 15, down to Sharp Hospital, the nearest urgent-care facility.
“Oh, man,” Tweety says, “anybody got any Vike or Oxy or something? I need something to kill the pain.”
Dan sticks a. 22 pistol in the back of Tweety's head and pulls the trigger twice.
“Oughta do it,” he says.
You roid-shooting, wrong woman-killing, stupid son of a bitch.
43
“Did you take a nap?” Petra asks when Boone gets back to the van. “I call them ‘siestas,’” Boone says. “It sounds better.”
He fills her in on his conversation with Mick.
“So now we think that Tammy's with this Teddy person?” Petra asks.
“Or at least he knows where she is,” Boone says. Not that this is necessarily good news. If Tammy went to Teddy and asked him for help, he could have bought her a first-class ticket to Tahiti. For all they know, she's sitting on a beach with a mai tai resting on her new chest.
Laughing at everybody.
“Where's this doctor's office?” Petra asks.
“Right back in La Jolla Village,” Boone replies. Within sight of the Milano. It's been that kind of back-and-forth day. “But first, we're going to fuel up.”
She leans over and looks at the fuel gauge. “The tank is three-quarters full.”
“I meant me,” Boone says. “You, too, if you want.”
It's just a couple of blocks to Jeff's Burger. It's a matter of near-religious devotion to Boone never to enter the vicinity of Jeff's Burger without having one of his burgers. Luckily, there's a parking spot right out front. Boone pulls the van in, turns off the engine, and asks, “You want something?”
“Actually, a Caesar salad with dressing on the side would be nice.”
“You got it.”
He goes in and orders two cheeseburgers with everything. When the burgers arrive, he dissects one, puts the meat into his own burger, then scrapes the lettuce, tomato, and onions into the lid of the plastic go-plate and goes back to the van.
“What's this?” Petra asks when he hands her the plate.
“Caesar salad, dressing on the side.”
“In what country, may I ask?”
“Mine,” Boone says. “If you don't want it, the seagulls will.”
She closes the plate and tosses it over her shoulder into the back of the van. He shrugs and eats as he drives back up to La Jolla Village. The burger tastes great and makes the drive back there go quickly. As they pull into the parking lot of Teddy's building, Boone calls information and gets Teddy's number.
“You're phoning?” Petra asks.
“Hard to put one over on you, Pete.”
“Why not just march in there and demand to speak with him?”
The receptionist has the perfect cultured voice, and Boone guesses that she has the perfect chiseled face to match. As the first face you'd see when you walk into a cosmetic surgeon's office, she has to be perfect.
“May I help you?”
“I'd like to speak to Dr. Cole,” Boone says.
“Do you have an appointment for a telephone consultation?”
“No,” Boone says.
“Are you a patient? Is this an emergency?”
“I'm not a patient, but I'd reall
y like to talk to him.”
“Let me see… Dr. Cole had a cancellation in May. I could perhaps squeeze you in.”
Boone says, “I was thinking more like now.”
“Now?” she asks incredulously.
“Now,” Boone says.
“That would be impossible.”
“Tell Teddy that Tammy Roddick wants to talk to him.”
“Dr. Cole is in a consultation,” the receptionist says. “I am not going to interrupt him.”
“Yeah, you are,” Boone says. “Because if you don't, I'll call Teddy's house and see if Mrs. Dr. Cole would like to talk with Tammy. So unless you want to make the current Mrs. Cole the next ex-Mrs. Cole, with all the hassle and alimony that entails, not to mention the potentially deleterious effect on your next Christmas bonus, I suggest you get Teddy on the horn and interrupt his consultation. I'm betting he'll thank you.”
There's a long, stony silence.
She breaks first. “I'll see if he wants to be interrupted.”
“Thanks.”
She comes back on a second later with a voice edged in aggravation. “Can you hold for Dr. Cole?”
“Oh, you bet.”
A few seconds later, Teddy comes on the line. “This is Dr. Cole.”
“My name is Boone Daniels,” Boone says. “I'm a private investigator representing the law firm of Burke, Spitz and Culver. We have reason to believe that you might have information as to the whereabouts of Tammy Roddick.”
“I don't think I know a Tammy Roddick,” Teddy says smoothly and without hesitation. He's used to denying knowledge of women, not only to the gossip media but also to his wives and girlfriends.
“Think some more,” Boone says. He describes Tammy, then continues: “A guy named Mick Penner says she dumped him for you. It's credible information, Doc-everyone knows you have a thing for strippers.”
“Boone Daniels…” Teddy says. “You have a friend who's a prodigious eater.”
“Hang Twelve.”
Teddy says, “I was there that night. I lost two hundred bucks.”
“Can we quit paddling around, Doc?” Boone asks. “It's important we find Tammy Roddick. There's good reason to believe she's in serious trouble.”
Silence while Teddy thinks about this. And silence isn't the response you'd expect, Boone thinks. Usually if you tell a guy something like this, he instantly asks, “Trouble? What kind of trouble?” So maybe Teddy already knows.
“In any case,” Teddy says. “I don't have to talk to you.”
“No, you don't,” Boone says, “but you should. Look, if I figured you out, the cops are going to be about a half step behind me. And there are other parties…”
“What other parties?”
“I think you know Dan Silver.”
Another silence, then:
“Jesus Christ,” Teddy says. “Strippers are always trouble. If it's not one thing, it's another. If they don't want a free boob job, then it's a nose job. Or they're knocked up, or they want to go into therapy. Or they want to get married, or they threaten to call your wife…”
“What are you going to do?” Boone asks.
“Right?”
“No,” Boone says. “I mean, what are you going to do? Look, Teddy, of the possible choices of people you can talk to, I'm the least worst option. The cops will charge you with impeding an investigation, and you don't even want to know what Dan might do. He's sort of a cosmetic surgeon himself.”
“I see what you mean.”
“You're in the deep water,” Boone says. “I can pull you out. You and Tammy.”
More thinking.
“Can I get back to you on this?” Teddy asks.
“ Right back?”
“Five minutes.”
“Sure,” Boone says. “I'm in my office. Use this number.”
He gives Teddy his cell number.
“Five minutes,” Teddy says before he gets off the phone.
“You don't think he's actually going to ring you back?” Petra asks. “I told you we should have just marched right in there.”
She starts to open the door.
“Don't do that,” Boone says.
“Why not?”
“Because we're not looking for Teddy,” Boone says. “We're looking for Tammy.”
“Symmetrical and yet cryptic,” Petra says. “But what do you mean?”
“I mean, sit tight.”
She shuts the door, then asks, “‘Deleterious’?”
“Means having a negative or destructive effect,” Boone says.
“You've been holding out on me, ape man.”
“You don't know the half.”
Teddy D-Cup comes out of the building and strides toward his car.
44
Teddy Cole is a beautiful man.
Literally.
Teddy is a living testament to the reciprocal professional courtesy that exists among top-line plastic surgeons. Teddy's been chin-sculpted, Botoxed, nose-jobbed, skin-peeled, hair transplanted, eye-tightened, face-lifted, tummy-tucked, dental-worked, lasered, and tanned.
A walking advertisement of his own trade.
He's about five-ten, slim, his skin glowing with artificial health, the muscles under his black Calvin Klein silk shirt showing hours at the gym. His hair is blond with ash tips, his eyes blue, his teeth perfectly white.
Teddy has to be in his late fifties, but he looks like he's in his early thirties, except that his face has been lifted so tight and high that his eyes have a slightly Asian look to them. Boone's afraid that if Teddy smiles too wide, he might actually break. But no cause for concern right now, because the good doctor isn't smiling. His face is set in fierce concentration as he heads for his Mercedes.
“You're actually smarter than you look,” Petra says to Boone.
“Low bar to jump,” Boone says. He waits for Teddy to pull out of the lot, then starts the van and follows.
“Can you tail him without him seeing us?” Petra asks.
“‘Tail’ him?”
“Well, can you?”
“If I don't screw it up,” Boone says.
“Well, don't.”
“Okay. Thanks.”
It's one of your slower chases, as chases go. Lots of brake lights and waits at traffic signals as they follow Teddy up Prospect Avenue and then north on Torrey Pines Road. Teddy takes a left onto La Jolla Shores Road and they follow him through the beach community, then up the steep hill onto the campus of the University of California at San Diego, where they meander through the narrow, winding road past classroom buildings, dorms, and graduate-student apartments.
Boone drops a couple of cars back and follows Teddy up to Torrey Pines, past the Salk Institute and the whole complex of medical research buildings that define the area. Then it's through Torrey Pines State Reserve, up to the top of the hill, where there's this great, sudden view of the ocean stretching out in front of them, from Torrey Pines Beach all the way up to the bluffs at Del Mar.
Highway 101.
45
U.S. Highway 101.
The Pacific Coast Highway.
The PCH.
The Boulevard of Unbroken Dreams.
The Yellow Brick Road.
You may get your kicks on Route 66, but you get your fun on Highway 101. You may take 66 to find America, but you won't find The American Dream until you hit the PCH. Sixty-six is the route, but 101 is the destination. You travel 66, you arrive at 101. It's the end of the road, the beginning of the ride.
Back in the back-in-the, those early surfers lugged their heavy wooden boards up and down what was then a virtually empty highway. They had the joint pretty much to themselves, a small wandering band of George Freeth disciples searching for the promised wave. And they found it, breaking all up and down 101. They could just pull off the road and hit the beach, and they did, from Ocean Beach to Santa Cruz.
Then World War II came along, and America discovered the California coast. Hundreds of thousands of soldiers, sailors, an
d marines were stationed in San Diego and Los Angeles on their way to the Pacific, and when they came back, if they came back, a lot of them settled in the sun and the fun. Like, how are you going to keep them down on the farm after they've seen Laguna?
While their counterparts were reengaging with American society by creating suburbia and making a religion of conformity, these cats wanted to get away from all that.
They wanted the beach.
They wanted to surf.
This was the genesis of the “surf bum,” the image of surfing as not only a culture but as a counter culture. For the first time, surfers defined themselves in contrast to the dominant culture. Not for them the nine-to-five job, the gray flannel suit, the tract home, two kids, manicured lawn, swing set, and driveway. Surfing was freedom from all of that. Surfing was sun, sand, and water; it was beer and maybe a little grass. It was timeless time, because surfing obeys the rhythms of nature, not the corporate time clock.
It was the antithesis of mainstream America at the time, and there came into existence little surfing communities-call them “colonies” or even “communes” if you have to-up and down Highway 101.
And a lot of these surfers were beat, man; they were the West Coast beatniks, Southern California Division, who, instead of hitting the streets of San Francisco-North Beach coffeehouses and poetry readings-took their bongos to the real beach and found their dharma in a wave. These guys had seen “civilization” on the battlefields and in the bombed-out cities of Europe and Asia and didn't like it, and they came to Pacific Beach, San Onofre, Doheny, and Malibu to create their own culture. They camped on the beaches, collected cans to buy food for the cookouts, played guitars and ukuleles, drank beer and wine, screwed beach bunnies, and surfed.
The little surf towns that sat on the 101 like knots on a string grew up around them. Fast-food stands sold quick, cheap burgers and tacos to surfers with didn't have a lot of jangle in their pockets and were in a hurry to get back and catch the next set. Beachside bars served guys in huaraches and damp board trunks, and it was no shirt, no shoes, no problem in those joints. Movie theaters in those little towns on the 101 started to show the first, primitive surfing movies to packed houses, party to follow.
