“Hang hooked me up.”
“Cool,” Nick says. “This new version of this tracker? You can set it for one-, five-, or ten-second blings, it has a motion alarm and a detachable motion alert. And it keeps a record of every place the vehicle goes. One eighty-one and sixty-three cents, please.”
Boone pays cash, takes the receipt, and gets out of there before he has to listen to a conversation about how the Venusians are systematically injecting truth serum into your Quaker Instant Oatmeal packages.
He’s back in the parking lot when two guys come up to him and one of them sticks a gun in his ribs.
43
“Hello, Rabbit,” Boone says.
“Howzit, Boone?” Rabbit says. “Red Eddie, he wants to see you.”
“Wants to see you,” Echo says.
The origin of Echo’s name is pretty obvious. So is Rabbit’s, actually, but no one likes to talk about it. Rabbit and Echo are sort of the Mutt and Jeff, the Abbott and Costello, the Cheney and Bush, of Red Eddie’s squadron of thugs. Rabbit is tall and thin, Echo is short and thick. Both the Hawaiian gangsters wear flower-print shirts over baggy shorts and sandals. The shirts run about three bills each and come from a store in Lahaina. Red Eddie pays his muscle well.
“I don’t want to see him,” Boone says.
He knows it’s useless to refuse, but he just feels he has to give them a little aggro anyway. Besides, his ribs already hurt from when Mike Boyd tried to enfossilize them into the canvas.
“We have our instructions,” Rabbit says.
“Our instructions.”
“That’s really annoying, Echo.”
“Get in the ride,” Rabbit says.
“In the—”
“Shut up.” But Boone goes with them and gets into the black Escalade. Rabbit gets behind the wheel and turns the ignition. Fijian surf reggae music comes blasting out of the speakers.
“You think you have enough bass?!” Boone yells.
“Not enough?!” Rabbit yells back. “I didn’t think so!”
“Didn’t think so!”
The Escalade goes throbbing down the street.
All the way to La Jolla.
44
Red Eddie stands on his skateboard, perched at the lip of the twenty-foot-high half pipe he had built in his backyard.
One of the many reasons his stuffy La Jolla neighbors love having Eddie in the hood.
Red Eddie is shirtless over black hui board trunks, the black being a symbol of extreme localism back in the islands. If you’re a haole and you pull up to a break full of guys with black trunks on, pull out. What Eddie isn’t wearing is a helmet, or elbow or knee pads, because he thinks they make him look stupid.
Now he points to the bracelet attached to his right ankle.
“You see this?” he says as Rabbit and Echo usher Boone into the backyard. “This is your bad.”
Boone isn’t exactly eaten up with guilt. For one thing, if you had to be under house arrest, Red Eddie’s is a pretty nice crib to do it in. His little nest is seven thousand square feet overlooking Bird Rock Beach, with a horizon pool, Jacuzzi, skateboard half pipe, four bedrooms, a living room with a 260-degree view of the Pacific, a state-of-the-art kitchen where Eddie’s personal chef does new and progressive things with Spam, and a home theater with its enormous flat-screen-plasma, Bose sound system and every piece of video-game techno known to postmodern man.
Second, Eddie should be in an eight-by-seven hole in a FedMax facility on some cold, rainy stretch of northern coast instead of his sunny mansion in La Jolla, because the Harvard-educated, Hawaiian-Japanese-Chinese-Portuguese-Anglo-Californian pakololo magnate was importing underage Mexican girls along with his usual marijuana shipments, and Boone is more than happy to accept responsibility for busting him.
Therefore, third, Red Eddie is damn lucky to be under house arrest as his lawyers drag out the criminal proceedings against him while persuading the judge that Red Eddie, who owns houses in Kauai, Honolulu, the Big Island, Puerto Vallarta, Costa Rica, and Lucerne, is no flight risk because of his ties to the community. “Ties to the community”—no shit, Boone thinks. Eddie’s ties to the community are stored in numbered accounts all over Switzerland and the Cook Islands.
“Do you know, Boonedoggle,” Eddie says, “that I can’t go more than seventy-five feet from my house except to go to the doctor? And did you further know, Bonnie-boone, that I have developed a chronic condition that requires frequent medical attention?”
“You’re a perpetual dickwad?” Boone asks.
Which indicates massive testosterone levels on his part.
Red Eddie just smiles at the insult, but his Doberman, Dahmer, likewise perched on the edge of the half pipe, looks down at Boone and growls.
“You’re starting to look alike,” Boone says. “He has a collar, too.”
They do kind of look alike—short hair; thin, wiry bodies; long, sharp noses. Except that Eddie’s hair is orange while Dahmer’s is jet black, and Eddie’s body is festooned with tattoos whereas Dahmer has retained the natural look. The other big difference is internal—as a dog, albeit a vicious dog, Dahmer possesses a genetically encoded set of moral restraints.
Eddie launches himself off the platform, flies down the pipe, gets air, does a 180, lands on the opposite platform, and asks, “You know what your problem is, Ba-Boone?”
“Why do I have a feeling that you’re going to tell me?”
“You’re lolo,” Eddie says. “Stupid. You’re a bus laugh, you really crack me up. Number the first—you had a chance to end my game and you passed on it. Stupid. Number the second—you thought I was guilty of child prostitution when I didn’t know those sick taco fucks were sticking little girls in between my bales of healthful herbal products. Stupider, and, may I add, personally hurtful. Number the third—you actually had the temerity to try to put me into prison for this misapprehension. Stupidest. And just when I think you have achieved the summit of stupidityness, you surpass yourself.”
He has a point, Boone thinks. I probably should have let him drown when I had the chance, and I was dumb enough to think that the justice system was going to exact justice. And even though Dave could and would testify that Red Eddie had hired him to bring shipments of weed in from the ocean, there was no physical evidence. And no evidence directly tying Eddie to the children, either. The sad fact is that Eddie will probably soon take off his ankle bracelet and walk. So how could I top that?
Eddie tells him.
“Boone, Boone, Boone,” he says, “I keep an eye on my friends and a bigger eye on my enemies, and seeing as how you are simultaneously both, why’d you think you could intrude your stupidosity into my business and it wouldn’t reach my ear?”
The light comes on.
Boone says. “Corey Blasingame.”
“Killed one of the ohana,” Eddie says. “Lolo as you are, do you think for one moment I would let that slide? No can be.”
“I didn’t think about it at all.”
“Exactly.”
Check. A haole killed a native Hawaiian—not only a native Hawaiian, but a genuine kamaaina, a man of standing, a hero. Of course Eddie would consider himself honorbound to avenge that, even if no one asked him to, or even wanted him to. It would have nothing to do with a simplistic sense of justice, or even his feeling for Kelly, it would be about Eddie’s prestige.
Like any socio, Eddie is all about Eddie.
“Hey, Eddie,” Boone says, “let’s do a quick tally—how many Hawaiians Corey has killed versus how many Hawaiians you’ve killed.”
Eddie looks at his boys and says, “Hurt him a little.”
Before Boone can move, Rabbit slides in and jams a heavy fist into Boone’s kidney. It hurts, a lot more than a little, and Boone finds himself on his knees.
Which was more or less the idea.
Eddie looks down with some satisfaction, launches himself, does another aerial maneuver, and lands again.
“Don’t you talk to me that way,
” he says. “Especially when I’m making you a favor. I’m only trying to save you a little sweat, bruddah, keep you from spinning in little Boonedoggedness circles for absolutely nuttin’.”
Eddie thinks he owes Boone because Boone pulled Eddie’s little son out of the ocean once. Now he leans over and sticks his pointed nose right at Boone. “Whatevuhs you do or don’t, whatevuhs Alan Burke do or don’t, no boddah, garans—little Corey B be dead. Anyone gets in my line, including you, Boone, there’ll be koko. Blood. Mo bettuh you paddle off, bruddah.”
“You’re right, Eddie,” Boone answers. “I should have let you drown.”
You at least deal dope and you probably dealt children, you take what you want by force, and your wealth is built on other people’s pain.
“I talk to the shark,” Eddie says, “and only the shark can tell me when it’s my time. And he hasn’t told me.”
“I’ll have a word with him.”
Eddie laughs. “You do that, Boone-brah. Now get up and get out. My physical therapist is coming over. Five-five, an insta-woodie rack, and a Dyson mouth. Speaking of which, it must be a dry spell for you now that Sunny has flown, or are you tapping that little Brittita?”
He sees the dark look come across Boone’s face. “Boddah you? You give me stink eye, you got bus nose like I smell, da kine? You wanna go, bruddah, let’s go. Local-style, skin on skin.”
“If you didn’t have the dog and your boys—”
“But I do. Sucks for you.”
He slides down the tube.
Sucks for me, Boone thinks as he gets to his feet and feels the resultant ache in his back where his kidney is protesting its ill treatment.
Eddie sucks for the whole world.
45
Rabbit and Echo drive Boone back to the Spy Store to pick up the Deuce.
Eddie will kill you but he won’t inconvenience you, because it would violate his sense of aloha.
“I owe you a shot,” Boone tells Rabbit.
“I shame, bruddah.”
“I shame.”
“Nothing personal.”
“Personal.”
“As awri,” Boone says. That’s all right.
“Ass why hard,” Rabbit says.
“Ass why—”
“Shut up.”
Rabbit and Echo are actually kind of fond of Boone, who’s always treated them pretty nicely, not to mention the fact that Eddie is protective of Boone, even though he now officially hates his haole guts.
“Never trust a haole” has become Eddie’s new mantra.
He’ll actually sit cross-legged on his half-pipe platform first thing every morning—which for him is about eleven o’clock—and chant, “Om mane padme hung, never trust a haole,” one hundred times or until he gets sick of doing it, which is usually about six reps. Then he smokes a big bowl of pakololo to enhance his aloha, which it massively does.
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.
46
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.