Dawn Patrol (6 page)

“Sorry, yes,” Petra says. “I’d like a small oatmeal, raw brown sugar on the side, dry wheat toast, and a decaffeinated tea, please.”

“Decaffeinated
tea
?” Boone asks.

“Is that a problem?” she asks him.

“No problem,” Sunny says, giving her a golden smile. She already
hates
this woman.

Sunny fires Boone a look.

“Uh, Sunny,” says Boone, “this is Petra. Petra, Sunny.”

“Pleasure to meet you,” Petra says.

“You, too. What brings you to PB?” Sunny asks.

“I’m attempting to engage Mr. Daniels’s services,” Petra says, thinking, As if it’s any of your business what brings me to Pacific Beach.

“That’s not always easy to do,” Sunny says, glancing at Boone.

“As I am discovering,” says Petra.

“Well, discover away,” Sunny says. “I’ll get your drinks.”

The bitch wants to sleep with him, Sunny thinks as she walks to the kitchen to place the order, if she hasn’t already. A “small oatmeal, raw brown sugar on the side,” as if the skinny Brit needs to watch her waistline. But why does it bother me? Sunny wonders.

Back at the booth, Petra asks Boone if there’s a toilet in the place.

“Go down the bar, take a left.”

Boone watches Dave the Love God eyeing her as she walks past him.

“No,” Boone says.

“What?” Dave asks with a guilty smile.

“Just no.”

Dave smiles, shrugs, turns around, and goes back to reading the tide report in the
San Diego Union-Tribune
. It looks good, very good, for the big swell.

Boone opens the Tammy Roddick file.

“After I’ve finished eating,” he says when Petra gets back, “I’m going over to Tammy’s place.”

“I was just there,” Petra says. “She wasn’t.”

“But her car might be, and that would tell us—”

“There is no vehicle registered in her name,” Petra says. “I checked.”

“Look,” Boone says, “if you know better how to find your witness, why don’t you just go do it, save yourself the money and me the grief?”

“You’re easily offended,” Petra says.

“I’m not offended.”

“I didn’t imagine that you’d be so sensitive.”

“I’m not sensitive,” Boone replies.

“He’s speaking the truth,” Sunny says as she sets the food on the table.

“Could you make this to go?” Boone asks her.

Except when he gets out to the street, a tow truck just about has its hook into the Boonemobile.

The Boonemobile is Boone’s van, an ’89 Dodge that the sun, wind, and salt air have turned to an indiscriminate, motley splatter of colors and lack thereof.

Despite its modest appearance, the Boonemobile is a San Diego icon that Boone has used to carry him to a few thousand epic surfing sessions. Ambitious young chargers have been known to cruise the Pacific Coast Highway, scanning the beach parking lots for the Boonemobile to learn what break its owner is hitting that day. And there is no doubt among the greater San Diego beach community that the van, when it goes to its inevitable and well-deserved rest, will find a home in the surf museum up in Carlsbad.

Boone doesn’t care about any of that; he just loves his van. He has lived in it on long road trips and when he didn’t have the scratch to rent an apartment. What Fury was to Joey, what Silver was to the Lone Ranger, that’s what the Boonemobile is to Boone.

And now a tow truck operator is trying to sink his hook into it.

“Yo, whoa!” Boone yells. “What’s up?”

“You missed two payments,” Tow Truck Guy says, bending down to fix the hook under the van’s front bumper. He wears a red ball cap with a
SAN DIEGO WRECK AND TOWING
logo, a dirty, grease-stained orange jumpsuit, and brown steel-toed work boots.

“I haven’t missed any payments,” Boone says, placing himself between the hook and the van. “Okay, one.”

“Two, dude.”

“I’m good for it,” Boone says.

Tow Truck Guy shrugs, like, Not so far you ain’t good for it. Boone looks like he’s going to cry as Tow Truck Guy starts to tighten the chain. You put the hook on the Boonemobile, he thinks, it might not be able to take the strain.

“Stop!”

Petra’s voice freezes Tow Truck Guy in his tracks. Then again, Petra’s voice could freeze a polar bear in its tracks.

“If,” she pronounces, “you damage this rare vintage automobile by as much as a scratch, I’ll keep you in litigation until you are no longer capable of recalling exactly why your personal and professional life is in such a shambles.”

“ ‘Rare vintage automobile’?” Tow Truck Guy laughs. “It’s a piece of shit.”

“In which case, it is a rare vintage piece of shit,” Petra says, “and unless you are in possession of the appropriate seizure orders, I shall have you arrested for grand theft auto.”

“The papers are in my truck.”

“Kindly go fetch them?”

Tow Truck Guy kindly goes and fetches them. He hands them to Petra and stands there nervously while she peruses them.

“They seem to be in order,” she says. She pulls her checkbook out of her purse and asks, “How much is owed?”

Tow Truck Guy shakes his head. “No checks.
He
writes checks.”

“Mine don’t bounce,” Petra says.

“Says you.”

She gives him the full benefit of the withering glare to which Boone has become so quickly accustomed. “Don’t get cheeky with me,” she says. “Simply enlighten me as to the required amount and we shall all be on our separate ways.”

Tow Truck Guy is tough. “My boss told me, ‘Don’t take a check.’ ”

Petra sighs. “Credit card?”

“His?”
This strikes Tow Truck Guy as pretty funny.

“Mine.”

“I’ll have to call it in.”

She hands him her cell phone. Five minutes later, Tow Truck Guy has driven off and the cold sweat of terror has evaporated from Boone’s face.

“I must say, I’m shocked,” Petra says.

“That I’m behind in the payments?”

“That you have
payments
.”

“Thanks for what you did,” Boone says.

“It’s coming out of your fee.”

“I’ll write you a receipt,” Boone says as he settles himself into the comforting familiarity of the well-worn driver’s seat, the upholstery of which is held together by strips of duct tape. “So you think this is a rare vintage automobile?”

“It’s a piece of shit,” Petra says. “Now may we
please
go and collect Ms. Roddick?”

That would be good, Boone thinks.

“Collecting” Tammy Roddick would be really good.

Epic macking good.

Two minutes later, Boone’s still trying to get the engine to turn over while he balances a Styrofoam go-plate on his lap and tries to eat eggs
machaca
with a plastic fork.

He turns the ignition key again. The engine moans, then grudgingly starts, like a guy with a hangover getting up for work.

Petra sweeps some Rubio’s and In-N-Out wrappers off the seat, takes a handkerchief from her purse, wipes the cushion, then delicately sits down as she considers how this might fit into her dry-cleaning schedule.

“Stakeouts,” Boone says.

Petra looks behind her. “This is a hovel on wheels.”

“Hovel” is a little harsh, Boone thinks. He prefers “randomly ordered.”

The van contains North Shore board trunks, a couple of sweatshirts, a dozen or so empty go-cups from various fast-food establishments, a pair of Duck Feet fins, a mask and a snorkel, an assortment of sandals and flipflops, several plaid wool shirts, a blanket, a lobster pot, a stick of deodorant, several tubes of sunblock, a six-pack of empty beer bottles, a sleeping bag, a tire iron, a sledgehammer, a crowbar, an aluminum baseball bat,
a bunch of CDs—Common Sense, Switchfoot, and the Ka’au Crater Boys—numerous empty coffee cups, several containers of board wax, and a torn paperback copy of
Crime and Punishment
.

“Doubtless you thought it was an S and M novel,” Petra says.

“I read it in college.”

“You went to college?”

“Almost a whole semester.”

Which is a lie.

Boone got his B.S. in criminology from San Diego State, but he lets her think what she wants. He doesn’t inform her that when he goes home (which doesn’t contain a television set) pleasantly tired from a day of surfing, his idea of bliss is to sit with a cup of coffee and read to the accompaniment of the sound of the surf.

But it’s the sort of thing you keep to yourself. You don’t trot this out for The Dawn Patrol or anyone else in the greater Southern California surfing community who would consider any overt displays of intellectuality to be a serious social faux pas, not that any of them would admit to knowing the term
faux pas
, or anything else in French, for that matter. It’s all right to know that stuff; you just aren’t supposed to talk about it. In fact, having someone find a skanky porn book in the back of your van would be less embarrassing than a volume of Dostoyevsky. Johnny Banzai or Dave the Love God would give him endless shit about it, even though Boone knows that Johnny is at least as well read as he is, and that Dave has an almost encyclopedic and very sophisticated knowledge of early Western films.

But, Boone thinks, let the Brit chick indulge in stereotypes.

Speaking of which—

“Is this actually your vehicle,” Petra asks, “or the primary residence for an entire family of hygienically challenged amphibians?”

“Leave the Boonemobile alone,” Boone says. “You may be old, rusty, and need Bondo yourself someday.”

Although he doubts it.

“You
named
your car?” Petra asks.

“Well, Johnny Banzai did,” Boone says, feeling about as adolescent as he sounds.

“Your development isn’t just arrested,” Petra says. “It’s been arrested, tried, and summarily executed.”

“Get out of here.”

“No, I’m serious.”

“So am I,” Boone says. “Get out.”

She digs in. “I’m coming with you.”

“No, you’re not,” Boone says.

“Why not?”

He doesn’t have a good answer for this. She is the client, after all, and it’s not like finding some wayward stripper is exactly dangerous. The best he can come up with is, “Look, just get out, okay?”

“You can’t make me,” Petra says.

Boone has the feeling that she’s uttered these words many times, and that she’s usually been right. He glares at her.

“I have pepper spray in my bag,” she says.

“You don’t need pepper spray, Pete,” says Boone. “Some dude attacks you? Just talk at him for a minute and he’ll take him
self
out.”

“Perhaps we should take
my
car,” Petra says.

“Let me ask you something, Pete,” says Boone. “Do you have a boyfriend?”

“I don’t see how that is—”

“Just answer the question,” Boone says.

“I’m seeing someone, yes.”

“Is he, like,
miserable
?”

Petra’s a little surprised that this remark actually hurts her feelings. Boone sees the little flinch in her eyes and the slight flush of color on her cheeks, and he’s as surprised as she is that she’s capable of hurt.

He feels a little bad about it.

“I’ll try one more time,” he says; “then we’ll take your car.”

He cranks the key again and this time the engine starts. It’s not happy—it coughs, gags, and sputters—but it starts.

“You should have your mechanic check the gaskets,” Petra says as Boone pulls out onto Garnet Avenue.

“Petra?”

“Yes?”

“
Please
shut up.”

“Where are we going?” Petra asks.

“The Triple A cab office.”

“Why?”

“Because Roddick now dances at TNG, and that’s the cab service the TNG girls always use,” Boone replies.

“How do you know?”

Boone says, “It’s the sort of specialized local knowledge you’re paying the big bucks for.”

He doesn’t bother to explain to her that most bars—strip clubs included—have arrangements with certain cab companies. When tourists ask a Triple A driver to take them to a strip club, he’ll take them to TNG. In exchange, whenever the bartender or bouncer at TNG has to call a cab for a customer who might otherwise be charged with DUI, he returns the courtesy. So if Tammy Roddick called a taxi to pick her up at her place, she probably called Triple A.

“How do you know she didn’t have a friend pick her up?” Petra asks. “Or that she didn’t just walk?”

“I don’t,” Boone replies. “It just gives me a place to start.”

Even though he doesn’t think that Roddick took a cab anywhere. What he thinks is that Silver, or some of his muscle, or all of the above came and took her on a long trip to somewhere.

And that they’ll never find Tammy Roddick.

But he has to try.

When you get on a wave, you ride the wave.

All the way to the end, if it lets you.

He drives through Pacific Beach.

Pacific Beach.

PB.

The old beach town sits just a few miles northwest of downtown San Diego, just across Mission Bay from the airport. The marshlands that used to separate it from the city were drained, and now the old swamp is the site of SeaWorld, where thousands of people come to see Shamu.

On the coastline itself, running south to north, you have the great playground stretch of Ocean Beach, Mission Beach, and Pacific Beach—OB, MB, and PB to locals, people too busy to speak in entire words, or to readers of windshield decals. Ocean Beach is cut off from the other two by the Mission Bay Channel, but Mission Beach runs seamlessly into Pacific Beach, the only division being the arbitrary border of Pacific Beach Drive at the head of Mission Bay.

Pacific Beach started as a college town.

Back in 1887, the real estate speculators who had bought the barren stretch of dirt, then a long carriage ride from the city, were trying to figure out how to attract people and came up with the idea of higher education, so they built the San Diego College of Letters. This was during the great boom of the late 1880s, when the railroads were offering six-dollar fares from Nebraska, Minnesota, and Wisconsin and midwesterners flocked to San Diego to play real estate hot potato.

Things did boom in Pacific Beach for the first couple of years. The railroad stretched from downtown, so the city dwellers could come out to the beach to play, and new pilgrims lived in tents on the beach while their gingerbread cottages were being built on lots, some of which doubled in value between morning and noon. A weekly newspaper came into being, largely funded by real estate ads. The American Driving Park was built alongside the beach, where The Sundowner and Boone’s office now sit, and Wyatt Earp, on the run from an Arizona murder indictment, came out to race his horses.