The Gentlemen's Hour Read online

  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 fron
t 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 . . .

  47

  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.

  48

  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.