The Dawn Patrol

by Don Winslow

  “Why should I?” she asked.

  “Because he’s a nice old man and you fucked him over.”

  “He got his money’s worth,” she said. Then she looked at him with an expression of lust she no doubt learned from porn videos and asked, “You want proof?”

  “Look,” Boone replied, “you’re hotter than hell, and I’m sure you’re the whole barrel of monkeys in bed, but, one, I like your husband; two, I’d cut my junk off with a jagged, shit-encrusted tin can lid before I’d ever stick it anywhere near you; and three, I’ll not only take your home movies and photo album into court, but I’ll put them on the Net, and then we’ll see what that does for your television career.”

  She took the walk-away deal.

  And made it big on TV playing the second lead, the sassy best friend, on a sitcom that’s been draining viewer IQs for years.

  “What do I owe you?” Cheerful asked him afterward.

  “Just my hourly.”

  “But that’s a few hundred,” Cheerful said. “You saved me millions. You should take a percentage. I’m offering.”

  “Just my hourly,” Boone said. “That was the deal.”

  Cheerful decided that Boone Daniels was a man of honor but a crap businessman, and therefore he made it his hobby to try to get Boone on some sort of sound financial footing, which is something like trying to balance a three-legged elephant on a greased golf ball, but Cheerful persists anyway.

  You had money, sure, he tells himself now, but nothing else. You’d do your books, count your money, and sit around your condo eating microwave meals, watching television, cussing out the Padres’ middle relief, and thinking about how miserable you were.

  Ben Carruthers—multimillionaire, real estate genius, total personal failure. No wife, no kids, no grandkids, no friends.

  Boone opened up the windows, let some air and sunshine in.

  The Dawn Patrol brought youth into your life. Hell, it brought life into your life. Much as you grouse about them—watching these kids, getting to be a part of their lives, sticking your beak into Boone’s cases, playing the curmudgeon—they make it worth getting up in the morning.

  Boone, Dave, Johnny, High Tide, Sunny, even Hang Twelve—they’re precious to you, admit it. You can’t imagine life without them.

  Without Boone.

  The kid Hang Twelve sits staring at the phone, willing it to ring.

  Cheerful thinks he needs to say something to the kid. “He’s okay.”

  “I know.”

  But he doesn’t.

  Neither of them do.

  “You hungry?” he asks Hang.

  “No.”

  “You have to eat,” Cheerful says. He takes a twenty from his wallet, hands it to Hang. “Go over to The Sundowner, get us a couple of burgers, bring them back.”

  “I don’t really feel like it,” Hang says.

  “Did I ask you what you felt like?” Cheerful says. “Go on, now. Do what I tell you.”

  Hang takes the money and leaves.

  Cheerful goes to the Yellow Pages, gets the number of Silver Dan’s, and calls it. “Let me speak to Dan Silver,” he says. “Tell him Ben Carruthers is on the line.”

  He waits impatiently for Silver to get to the phone.

  73

  Dan takes his time getting to the phone.

  He’s a little uneasy about what Ben Carruthers might have to say to him. The real estate mogul is asshole buddies with Boone Daniels.

  Or the late Boone Daniels, if the word on the street is right.

  Dan had sent one of his guys over to The Sundowner to keep his eyes and ears open, to find out if anyone had seen or heard from Daniels after he did his Houdini on the beach. Daniels is a major fucking pain in the ass, and now he has Tammy Roddick. Except, the word came in that Daniels drove his piece of shit vehicle off the cliff and went out in flames.

  So Dan has constructed a hopeful scenario: He hit Daniels with one of his shots. The dumb fuck made it up to his van somehow, but, weak with loss of blood, put the car in drive instead of reverse and went airborne.

  Crash and burn.

  The even more optimistic version is that Tammy Roddick and her big fucking mouth went over the cliff with him and the fire guys are going to scrape out two crispy critters instead of one. And then there’s the mouthy British broad, the one that would rather fuck a pig. Well, maybe her stuck-up twat is melted to the seat springs, too.

  Now this old man is calling. What’s up with that?

  He picks up the phone.

  “Dan Silver?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You know who I am,” Carruthers says. “I’m going to give you my accountant’s number; he’ll tell you exactly how much I’m worth. I’ll pay off your debt to Red Eddie. Cash, interest, I’ll put it to bed.”

  “Why would you do that?”

  “So you call the dogs off Boone Daniels,” Carruthers says.

  The fuck? Dan asks himself. Is Daniels alive? He decides to check it out. “I heard he had an accident.”

  “I heard that, too,” Carruthers says. “That’s the other reason I want you to know how much I’m worth. It’s in the eight figures somewhere, and, Dan Silver, if Boone is dead, I’ll spend every cent of it to have you tracked down and killed.”

  Dial tone.

  74

  Cheerful had bought the Crystal Pier back in the day when it was pretty run-down. He renovated it and flipped it, with the proviso that he retain the last cottage on the north side of the pier.

  He gave the cottage to Boone.

  Boone didn’t want to take it.

  “It’s too much, Cheerful,” he said. “Way too much.”

  “You saved me millions from that gold-digging little bitch,” Cheerful responded. “Take the cottage. Then you’ll always have a place to live.”

  Boone didn’t take the cottage, not ownership anyway. What he took was a long-term lease at a lower-than-market rent.

  So Boone became a permanent resident of the Crystal Pier Hotel. He lives literally over the ocean. He can, and does, hang a fishing pole outside his bedroom window, right into the water. The cottage itself is made up of a small living room with a kitchenette, a bedroom off to one side, and a bathroom off to the other.

  Now High Tide drives up to the gate at the base of the pier, kills his headlights, and punches in the code he knows by heart. The gate slides open and High Tide drives the van down the pier all the way to the end, and into a little parking spot, now vacated by the late Boonemobile, next to Boone’s cottage.

  Boone has been lying down in the back. He gets up, quickly slips over the side, and walks around to the driver’s door as the women slide out the passenger side.

  “Thanks, bro.”

  Tide shakes his head and touches his fist to Boone’s.

  “Dawn Patrol.”

  Tide turns the truck around and drives off the pier. Turns left and parks the truck just behind the new lifeguard station that Dave rules like a feudal warlord. He sits and juggles the phone in his hand, thinking about what he needs to do.

  Then he does it.

  “Boone wasn’t in the van,” he says into the phone. “He’s at his place.”

  Then Josiah Pamavatuu—former gang banger, football star, surfing stud—lays his head on the steering wheel and sobs.

  75

  Boone lowers all the window shades and turns on one lamp by the side of the sofa. Then he goes into his bedroom, opens the drawer of his nightstand, and takes out the .38 that he’s saving to shoot Russ Rasmussen.

  “You guys need to take hot showers,” he says. Then he runs water into a kettle and puts it on the stovetop. “I’ll make something hot to drink.”

  Petra is surprised that the place is so neat and clean.

  Everything stored in its place—the efficiency of small spaces. A surprisingly good collection of pots and pans hangs from a rack above a small but good-quality butcher’s block, on which two expensive Global knives are set on magnetized strips.
/>   The man likes to cook, Petra thinks.

  Who would know?

  Unsurprisingly, the white walls of the living room are decorated with framed photos of waves, which give Petra an involuntary shudder after what they’ve just been through. She can’t know it, but the pictures are of local breaks—Black’s, Shores, D Street, Bird Rock, and Shrink’s.

  “I’ll get you guys something to change into,” Boone says, walking into his bedroom.

  Tammy jumps when a big wave goes off like a cannon, sounding like it’s crashed right on the cottage.

  “Are you all right?” Petra asks.

  “I want to talk to Teddy.”

  “I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” Petra says.

  Boone emerges from the bedroom carrying a stack of sweatshirts, sweatpants, and socks. “They’ll be big for you,” he says, “but they’ll keep you warm anyway.”

  “Warm is good,” Tammy says. She takes a blue hooded La Jolla Surf Systems sweatshirt and a pair of black sweatpants and goes into the bathroom. Boone and Petra hear the shower running.

  “God, that sounds good,” Petra says.

  “Yeah, it does.”

  “I still have salt water running from my nose,” she says. “I must look a fright.”

  “You look nice,” Boone says, meaning it. “Listen … you did good out there. In the water. I mean, you were great. You didn’t panic.”

  “Thanks,” she says.

  Boone says, “Would you like some tea?”

  “That would be lovely.”

  “I have herbal or Earl Grey.”

  “Earl Grey is perfect.”

  “Just plain, right?” Boone asks. “No milk or sugar.”

  “Actually, lots of both, please,” she says. “Perhaps it’s the near-death experience, but I feel greedy.”

  “Nothing like almost dying to let you know how good life is,” Boone says.

  Yeah. How good life is, with her full lips and warm neck and sea gray eyes there for the reaching out and her looking in his eyes, her mouth already tasting his, and then the pot whistles like an alarm and their lips don’t touch.

  “Life imitating bad art,” she says.

  “Yeah.” Boone pours the water into a mug and hands it to her.

  “Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “How about you?” she asks.

  “I’ll make some coffee.”

  Tammy comes out of the bedroom.

  It’s the first time Boone has really seen her.

  She’s tall. Not Sunny tall, but tall, with long, lean legs. Her face has clean, strong, natural lines and her eyes, although they look smaller without makeup, are still catlike. But it’s a different breed of cat—wild, feral, but somehow calm. She’s a striking woman, and it’s easy to see why Mick Penner and Teddy fell hard for her. She sits down on the small couch in the middle of the living room and puts her feet up on the coffee table.

  Boone says, “Have something hot to drink first. Warm you up inside.”

  “Go change,” Petra says. “I can take care of her.”

  “She can take care of herself,” Tammy says, getting up. She goes into the kitchen, chooses the herbal tea, and makes a cup. “Go get some dry clothes on, Tarzan. I’ll make the coffee.”

  Boone goes into his room to change.

  “I need to talk with Teddy,” Tammy says.

  Petra’s gobsmacked. Certainly Tammy realizes that Teddy revealed her hiding place to Dan Silver—in fact, served her up on a plate to save himself. She says, “I’m sure Dr. Cole is fine.”

  After all, he did what Dan wanted.

  “I want to talk with him.”

  “Let’s check with Boone about that,” Petra says.

  “You’re going to do him,” Tammy says to Petra.

  “I beg your pardon.”

  “If I wasn’t here? You’d jump him in the shower.”

  “We have a professional relationship.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “He’s a barbarian.”

  “Whatever.”

  Whatever, Petra thinks. But is it possible? Am I really feeling something for Daniels? Is it some sort of animal attraction, or perhaps just a residue of the gratitude I’m feeling for him for not letting me die on the beach? Of course, he put me on the beach in the first place. The incompetent boob.

  But he was pretty damn competent when the bullets were flying, wasn’t he? He was pretty damn competent in the freezing water in the dark, wasn’t he?

  Boone comes back into the room.

  “I’ll think I’ll have that shower,” she says.

  “Yeah, get warm,” Boone says.

  She takes some clothes from the stack and goes into the bathroom.

  76

  First words out of Tammy’s mouth?

  “I want to talk to Teddy.”

  “Your boyfriend is a pedophile,” Boone says. He tells her about what he saw at the motel up near the strawberry fields. Her face doesn’t register any of the possible reactions—shock, anger, indignation, disgust, betrayal …

  “I want to talk to Teddy,” she says. “I need to talk to Teddy.”

  Boone sighs and runs it down for her. First, they don’t know where Teddy is. Second, Teddy already gave her up once; if she calls him now, he’ll give her up again. Third, at least for a little while, Dan and the rest of the world have good reason to believe that she’s dead, and if she talks to Teddy, they’ll have good reason to believe she’s alive and try to do something about it.

  She’s real impressed by the argument. “Where’s my phone?”

  “Soaked in cold salt water,” Boone says. “I don’t think you’re going to get a lot of bars.”

  “Let me use yours.”

  “I was in the water beside you.”

  “You don’t have a phone in your house?” she asks.

  “No.”

  “What if people want to get hold of you?”

  “That’s why I don’t have a phone in my house,” Boone says. He doesn’t tell her about the three other cellies he has in a kitchen drawer. He’s blown away. The woman hasn’t said one word or asked one question about her friend Angela, who took her rap for her. All she cares about is a slick boob butcher who likes to do little migrant girls. A guy who gave her up in a heartbeat to save his own worthless ass.

  Nice.

  “Do you think he’s all right?” she asks.

  “Couldn’t care less.”

  “I want to see him.”

  “You’re not going anywhere.”

  “You can’t keep me here against my will,” she says.

  He’s had it. “That’s true. Go out there, Tammy. Go find Dr. Short Eyes, see what happens. But don’t expect me to come to your funeral.”

  “Fuck you,” Tammy says. “I’m a payday to you, that’s all. You need me alive so you can pick up your check. It doesn’t give you the right to moral judgments, cowboy.”

  “You’re right.”

  “And I don’t need you to tell me that,” Tammy says. “I know what you think of me. I’m a stripper—a dumb piece of meat. Either I have a drug problem or I’m fucked up because my daddy didn’t pay me enough attention, or else I’m just too lazy to get a real job. I’m a skank. But it doesn’t stop you from coming in with your dollar bills, does it?”

  True, Boone thinks. And it doesn’t stop me wanting to keep you alive. Or is it that I just need to deliver you to the courtroom?

  “Stay away from the windows,” Boone says. “Keep your head down. In fact, you might be better off in the bedroom.”

  “You think you’re the first guy to tell me that?” she asks, eyes hard as emeralds.

  “I’ll make you a deal,” Boone says. “I don’t judge you and you don’t judge you.”

  “Easier said than done.”

  “Yeah.”

  She sneers. “What would you know about it, surfer dude?”

  “You don’t have a monopoly on regrets, Tammy.”

  Boone can feel th
e ocean swell, literally under his feet. The waves push against the pilings, wash through, and then pull on their way out. The big swell is coming, and when it goes out again, it will take with it the life he knew. He can feel it, and it scares the hell out of him. He wants to hold on, but he knows there’s no holding on against the sea.

  When a tsunami comes in, it hits with incredibly destructive force, crushing lives and homes. But it’s almost worse when it recedes, dragging lives out into the endless sea that is the irredeemable past.

  77

  Petra gets out of the shower, then wanders into Boone’s bedroom, telling herself she’s going to catch a quick nap, but really to snoop.

  No, not snoop, she thinks.

  Simply to find out a little more about the man.

  Like the rest of the place, the bedroom is neat and clean. Nothing remarkable about it, save for the fishing pole sticking out of the window, except …

  Books.

  Used paperbacks on a bedside table and in a small bookcase in the corner. Some stacked by the bed. And not just the sports books or crime novels that she might have expected if she thought that he actually read, but genuine literature—Dostoyevsky, Turgenev, Gorky. Over in the corner is a stack of—Can it be? she thinks—Trollope. Our oceangoing nature boy is a crypto–Phineas Finn?

  She thinks of all the little jibes she’s given him all day about being an uneducated philistine, then thinks about the books that are stacked on her bedside table—trashy romance novels and bodice rippers that she doesn’t have to read anyway. And he’s been having me on all day, his private little joke.

  Bastard.

  She keeps snooping.

  There’s a small desk in the corner, with a computer and terminal on it. Guiltily, she slides the desk drawer open and sees photographs of a little girl.

  A darling, almost a stereotype of your classic California girl—blond hair, big blue eyes, a spray of freckles across her cheeks. She’s looking directly into the camera without a trace of self-consciousness. A happy little girl.

  Petra picks up the photo and sees the little nameplate at the edge of the frame.