a loincloth as he shoved rods of fire down his throat with a Lovelacian dexterity that would have sent a porno superstar into a paroxysm of envy-and prayed to a host of Episcopal saints that Eddie was not going to ask for any more volunteers from the audience. They surreptitiously eyed the front gate, with its promise of relative safety and sanity, but none of them wanted to earn Eddie's attention by being the first to leave.
Boone found Eddie a little later out by the saltwater wading pool (“‘Bad for the glass. Bad for the glass, ’” Johnny B. delighted in repeating) in a conversation with Dave.
“Eddie and I were just talking about The Searchers, '” Dave said. “He has it below High Noon but above Fort Apache?”
“Above them both, but nowhere near Butch Cassidy, ” Boone said.
“Ah, Butch Cassidy, ” Dave said. “Good flick.”
Dave had dressed for the party in an expensive-looking silk Hawaiian-print shirt in reds and yellows, featuring parrots and ukuleles, and a pair of white slacks over his best dress sandals. His blond hair was neatly brushed back and he was wearing his “social,” as opposed to his “business,” shades, a pair of wraparound Nixons.
“Shane,”said Eddie.
“Another one,” Dave said.
The party was definitely winding down, as was Eddie, whose constant toking had finally soothed his manic drive toward being the perfect host.
The guests-who were much more afraid of Eddie than when they'd arrived-departed in possession of stolen property, their white-knuckled hands clutching gift bags that contained, among other things, boxed sets of Izzy Kamakawiwo'ole CDs, iPods, Rolex watches, little balls of hashish wrapped in festively colored foil, gift certificates for a hot-rock massage at a local spa, Godiva chocolates, ribbed condoms, a selection of Paul Mitchell hair-care products, and ceramic bobblehead dolls of hula dancers withAHOLA (mis)printed on their stomachs.
Dave left in possession of a gift bag and two of the other guests.
Eddie thought the party a great success, and was surprised, disappointed, and even a little hurt when a forest of for sale signs went up on his block and none of the guests ever came back, not even for a cup of coffee or a breakfast blunt. In fact, the neighbors would actually cross the street while walking their dogs, for fear of bumping into Eddie and being invited inside.
Not that living in Eddie's proximity was all negative-it wasn't. The residents had Neighborhood Watch, but they didn't need Neighborhood Watch, not with the twenty or so hui guys armed like Afghan warlords constantly peering from the walls of Eddie's estate. No B and E guy in his remotely right mind would take a chance on robbing any of the houses, lest he fuck up and break into Red Eddie's. You may, may, may break in, but you ain't ever breaking out, and the only fate worse than being an invited guest is being an uninvited one, what with Eddie already having trouble finding playmates for Dahmer.
Now Eddie does a couple of 360 wheelies on his bike and throws the bike sideways, squeaking the front tire an inch from Boone's feet.
23
“Boone Dawg!”
Red Eddie's retro-Afro orange hair is jammed under a brown Volcom beanie; he has a sleeveless Rusty shirt over a pair of cargo pants that are at least three sizes too big for him. No socks, Cobian sandals, Arnette shades that have to go two bills.
And he reeks of the chronic.
“Eddie,” Boone says.
“S'up?”
“Not much.”
“That's not what I hear,” Eddie says.
“Okay, what do you hear?”
“I hear,” Eddie says, flashing Boone forty g of cosmetic dentistry, “that you're dogging some stripper who thinks she saw something she didn't see.”
“That didn't take long.”
“Time is mo-naaay.”
Well, Boone thinks, time is money if you actually make money. If you don't, time is just time.
“So, bruddah, ” Red Eddie says, “can you back out dis wave?”
Which rings some alarm bells in Boone's head. Like, why does Eddie care? Eddie goes to Dan's clubs from time to time, but they're not, like, boys. That Boone knows of anyway. So he asks, “What's it to you, Eddie?”
“I come to a bruddah with an ask,” Red Eddie says. “I have to have a reason?”
“It would help.”
“Where's your aloha? Where's da love?” Red Eddie asks with a tone of hurt disappointment. “You can be very haole sometimes, Boone.”
“I am a haole, ” Boone says.
“Okay,” Red Eddie says. “Talking story now, Dan Silver is a degenerate gambler, bruddah Boone, bad at picking basketball games. He got in deep water, I pulled him out; now he can't pay me. He owes the big dog a pile of bones he don't have, which he ain't going to have if he doesn't win his lawsuit against the insurance company. We on the same wave, coz?”
“It's beach break.” Straight, simple, easy to read.
“So,” Red Eddie says, “you would be showing me your aloha if you would sit out on the shoulder for a while. Now I'm hip that you need to rake lettuce to live, Boone brah, so whatever the haoles are paying you to do, I'll double you to don't. You know me, coz-I never come with my hand out, I don't have something in the other.”
Yeah, but what? Eddie wonders. It brings up the age-old Christmas shopping conundrum: What do you give to the man who has everything? More precisely, what do you give to the man who wants nothing? That's the problem with trying to bribe the Boone Dawg: He's unique in the fact that his needs are simple, basic, and already met. The man needs cash, but it doesn't mean enough to him to be a swaying factor. So what's the tipping point? What can you offer B-Dog that would move him off his perfectly balanced ball?
Boone looks down at the weathered wood of the boardwalk, then back to Red Eddie. “I wish you'd come to me a couple of hours ago,” he says. “Then I could have said yes.”
“What happened then and now?”
“A woman was murdered,” Boone says. “That puts it over the line.”
Red Eddie doesn't look happy.
“So much as I hate to say no to you,” Boone says. “I have to ride this one through, bro.”
Red Eddie looks out to the ocean.
“Big swell coming,” he says. “There's gonna be some real thunder crushers out there. Wave like that can suck you in and take you over the falls. Man's not careful, Boone Dawg, he could get crushed.”
“Yeah,” Boone says, “I know a little about big waves sucking people in, Eddie.”
“I know you do, brah,” Eddie says. “I know you do.”
Red Eddie does a doughnut and pedals away. Shouts over his shoulder, “E malama pono!”
Take care of yourself.
24
Johnny Banzai goes back into room 342 at the Crest Motel.
It's your basic Pacific Beach motel room away from the water. Cheap and basic. Two twin beds, a television set bolted to a counter, the remote control bolted to a bedside table beside a clock radio. A couple of sunfaded photographs of beach scenes hang on the walls in cheap frames. A glass slider opens out to the little balcony. It's open, of course, and a light breeze blows the thin curtain back inside the room.
