The Gentlemen's Hour (34 page)

It's Chinatown, Pete. It's Chinatown.

“So what do you want to do?” Petra asks.

“We'll turn it over to Alan in the morning,” Boone says. “In the meantime, let me lay a little pipe.”

“Really, Boone, these metaphors.”

If you take the info to one source, he explains, it might get buried. Take it to two or three, you improve your chances.

“But to whom do you take it?” she asks.

Depends in whom you trust.

Nicole finally calls him back.

“Where the fuck,” Bill asks, “have you been?”

“Out,” she says. “Listen, I wasn't even going to call you . . . I . . .”

She starts crying, for Chrissakes.

“Nicole,” Bill says, “why don't you come over and we'll talk about this? We can work it out. You can have anything you want, I swear. Come on, we've meant a lot to each other. Do this for me, come over.”

There's a long hesitation, and then she says, “Okay. I'm on my way.”

Ten minutes later his bell rings and he opens the door.

It isn't Nicole.

“Hello,” Jones says.

“I shouldn't be meeting you,” Johnny says, “outside the house.”

Yeah, but he does. He meets Boone beneath the pylons under Crystal
Pier. Meets him because old habits die hard and old friendships are hard to let go, even when the old friend planted a blade somewhere around your lumbar vertebrae.

“I appreciate it,” Boone says.

“You burned me, Boone.”

“I did your homework for you,” Boone answers. “If you'd done it first—”

“Fuck you,” Johnny says. “That kid is guilty as sin and now he's boo-hooing you and you're all buying his act. So why am I here?”

“That break on the Schering case—”

“Did Dan Nichols pay for it?”

“It had nothing to do with Nichols,” Boone says. He tells Johnny about Nicole, Bill Blasingame, and Paradise Homes.

When he's done, Johnny says, “So you're telling me that Phil Schering banging Donna Nichols is just a coincidence.”

“There's no coincidence,” Boone says. “Donna Nichols was having an affair with a guy who was involved in a real-estate scandal gone bad. The guy got killed, probably by Blasingame. Billy Boy has at least as much motive, Johnny. Bring him in and make him give you an alibi for that night.”

“I know my job, Boone,” Johnny says. “How do I know this story isn't total bullshit, seeing as how you've gone all gullible these days? Let me get this right—Junior isn't a murderer, but Senior is? I love it.”

“I have the records.”

“Rewind?”

“I have the records,” Boone says. “Nicole gave them to me.”

“And you didn't bring them along because . . .”

This occasions one of those awkward silences. Which Johnny breaks by saying, “Because you trust me, sort of.”

“It's not you, JB.”

“Noooo,”
Johnny says, “it's the
baaaad
department, right? Boone Daniels was the one shining light of purity and he had to leave, lest he be
corrupted by the rest of us. Fuck you, Boone. You think you're the only honest man in the world?”

Boone names three names he saw in Nicole's papers.

“You take those names in to your lieutenant,” he says, “what happens?”

“Then why come to me at all?” Johnny asks.

“Because you're taking the wrong angle on the Schering murder.”

“Just like the Kuhio case.”

Boone shrugs.

“You're unfreaking believable lately,” Johnny says. “Everyone's wrong but you. We have the wrong guy for Kuhio. We have the wrong guy for Schering . . . . Hey, Boone, there couldn't be a little self-interest involved here, could there? I mean, you get Dan Nichols off the hook, you wiggle free, too, don't you? You don't have to try to sleep at night knowing that you fingered a guy to get murdered.”

Boone's fingers curl into fists.

Johnny sees it.

“God, would I like to, Boone,” he says. “But my career is already fucked enough without a fight with a civilian in my jacket. But back off before I realize I don't give a fuck.”

Boone unclenches his hands and steps back.

“Smart, B.”

“You'll pick up Blasingame?”

“I'll think about it.”

They both know he'll do more than think about it, because they both know that Boone has maneuvered him into doing more than thinking about it. Johnny Banzai is a good cop, and now that he knows he has another suspect, he can't act as if he doesn't.

“Be careful on this one, Johnny,” Boone says.

“Ride your own wave,” Johnny says. “I'll ride mine.”

Boone watches him walk away.

“Is she coming?” Jones asks.

Bill Blasingame, his wrists and ankles duct-taped to a dining-room chair, shakes his head. “I don't know. I guess not.”

Jones smiles. “Oh, dear,” he says, “my employer is not going to like that.”

Donna Nichols looks especially radiant as she moves through the crowd, working the room, making small talk. The crowd is lively and happy, munching on expensive finger food, sipping champagne, laughing, and chatty. The lantern light makes her shine particularly golden.

Balboa Park is beautiful.

On this soft summer evening, yielding to the nighttime cool, with the glow of lanterns lighting the courtyard of the Prado—bathing the old stone and grillwork in an amber light, and sparkling on the water in the fountain—the effect is magical.

The people are beautiful, too.

San Diego's beautiful people—the women in plunging white dresses and the men in white jackets and ties. Beautiful tans, beautiful smiles, beautiful hair. A beautiful event, this fund-raiser for the museum, and Boone feels out of place in the summer wedding and funeral suit he'd climbed into to come over here.

He stands in the shadow of an archway, at the perimeter of the gathering, and scans the crowd to find Dan. He admires the Nicholses for not
hiding in their house but confronting the Schering scandal head-on, and proceeding with an evening like this. He knows there must be sidelong glances, behind-the-back whispers and jokes, but the Nicholses seem unaffected. Finally he makes eye contact. Dan excuses himself and walks over to Boone. “Hey, what's up?”

“Can we go out and talk?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Dan says.

He follows Boone outside onto the Prado. A few strollers are out, and a couple of San Diego police watch the entrance to the courtyard, to keep the public away from the glittering party inside.

“You didn't kill Phil Schering,” Boone says.

Dan's smile is totally charming. “I guess I already knew that, Boone. But I'd sure like to know why you know it now.”

Over his shoulder, Boone sees Donna come out from the courtyard. She walks up and puts her hand on Dan's shoulder. “What is it?”

She looks alarmed.

Dan smiles and says, “Boone's about to explain, darling, why he doesn't think I killed your lover. We speak openly about these things, Boone. Our counselor said that was a healthy thing.”

Boone tells them about Bill Blasingame, Paradise Homes, and Nicole's documents that prove it.

“Thank God,” Donna says when he finishes. She wraps her arms around her husband and puts her face into his neck. When she raises her head, her cheeks are wet with tears. She looks across at Boone and says, “Thank you. Thank you, Boone.”

“Is this over now?” Dan asks.

Boone shakes his head. “No, there's a ways to go, but I doubt they'll even charge you now, and if they do, with your alibi and the other potential suspect—”

“We owe you, Boone,” Dan says. “More than we can say.”

Donna nods.

“I did it as much for myself,” Boone says.

“I don't know what Alan's paying you,” Dan says, “but there'll be a big bonus, I can tell you that.”

Boone shakes his head. “Not necessary. Or wanted.”

“Okay,” Dan says. “Tell you what. I think it's time that Nichols had a chief of security, and I think that's you. Mid-six-figure yearly salary, benefits, profit-sharing, stock down the road if you choose.”

“That's generous, Dan,” Boone says. “I'll think about it, I really will. I'm also thinking about law school, though.”

“Law school?” Dan asks. “I could see that.”

“I don't know if I can.”

“We're going to be okay, Boone,” Dan says. He holds Donna a little tighter. “We've talked a lot, we've been really open. We're committed to each other, and we're going to be okay.”

“I'm glad,” Boone says.

Dan turns to Donna, “Well, honey, we'd better go back in before everyone thinks we're involved in another murder.”

Donna kisses him on the cheek, extends her hand to Boone, and says, “Thank you. Truly.”

“You're welcome.”

Dan says, “Well, see you at the Gentlemen's Hour?”

“Sure.”

That's where he surfs now.

With the gentlemen.

Cruz Iglesias gets on the phone.

Not a lot of people have Red Eddie's backdoor number, but Iglesias is one of the privileged few.

Eddie answers on the third ring. “W'asup?”

“Eddie,” Iglesias says, “I have a favor to ask of you.”

Gentleman to gentleman.

They hit him as soon as he steps through the door.

One pistol shoved into his face, then the other slammed into the back of his head.

Boone drops to his knees, not out but wobbly. Even with the world tilting he can see that the gangbangers have wrecked his place, gone through it like a hurricane. But he's too out of it anyway to stop them from wrapping the duct tape around his mouth, then over his eyes. They jerk his arms behind him, wrap more tape around his wrists, and push him to the floor.

He kicks out, but there are at least three of them, and they hold his legs and tape his ankles together, then pick him up and carry him into his bedroom. He feels the air of the open window as they lift him, then push him out.

Into the water.

Into the dark sea.

Shut it down.

What Johnny's lieutenant told him.

His shift commander listened patiently to Johnny's rendition of Boone's Paradise Homes story, nodded vigorously at the salient points, whistled appreciatively when Johnny mentioned some of the names allegedly involved, then told him . . .

Shut it down.

Actually, shut it the
fuck
down.

“You came in here,” Lieutenant Romero said, “and we talked about baseball. The Pads have no middle relief, I'm glad we agree on that. You left.”

“But—”

“But fucking nothing, Kodani,” Romero said. “You push on that, you know what pushes back? Weight comes from
above
, my ambitious friend, and do you know who's between you and the above? That would be me. Shut it the fuck down.”

“Burke will pursue it,” Johnny argued, “even if we don't. One way or the other.”

“Don't be so sure about that,” the lieutenant said. “Far as I'm concerned, this is one multimillionaire against another. Let them rip each other to shreds and we'll pick up the pieces. But you don't, repeat for emphasis, you do
not
go anywhere near Bill Blasingame. People are going to think you have some kind of hard-on for that family, John.”

So now Johnny is on his way to roust Bill Blasingame.

He finds him at home.

With dirt in his mouth.

“We found the bitch.”

Jones sighs. The young gangsters his client provided—what is their collective moniker? the Crazy Boys—are efficient and suitably coldblooded, but must they always be so vulgar? And vague.

“
Which
bitch?” he asks into the phone, “given that we are looking for not one, but two, women.”

“
The British bitch
, no se,
Petra.
”

“Pick her up,” Jones says. “Bring her to me.”

A woman, he thinks.

And a man.

Conceivably a couple?

The possibilities are tantalizing.

Boone feels the water embrace him.

Not scary, not scary at all.

He doesn't struggle but lets himself sink until he feels the bottom, then uses it to push off. Then he “seals” it, flaps his bound legs back and forth, propelling himself up until he breaks the surface and gets a breath of air.

He kicks gently to keep himself from sinking and listens.

The shore break is behind him.

If anyone could make it to shore blind, with his arms and legs tied, it's Boone freaking Daniels.

Except . . .

There's a boat right there where he comes up.

He hears the water hit the hull.

Then he feels a hand grab him by the hair, hold him, and push him back under. But not before he hears the guy say, “Let's see how long you can hold your breath.”

A long time, as it turns out.

A long time, over and over again, as the hand holds Boone down until his lungs are about to explode, then lifts him above the water while Boone gets as much air as he can through his nose, then pushes him down again.

They do several cycles of this before the guy asks, “Where are they?”

Doesn't wait for an answer before shoving him down again.

When he pulls Boone back up, he asks again, “Where are the records that she gave to you?”

He leans down and rips the tape off Boone's mouth. “Tell me, and we can stop all this.”

As soon as I do tell, Boone thinks, I'm a dead man, so he shakes his head and opens his mouth to swallow a lungful of air before the guy pushes him down again. Boone struggles and thrashes to shake himself loose of the grip but can't do it, and then stops, knowing that he's burning up precious air. So he stays still and tries to relax, knowing that they'll pull him up before he actually drowns.