Tammy Roddick. So if Tammy's lying low in Angela's place, Boone thinks, I'd better get over there first. And I sure as hell don't need Pete coming with me, endlessly busting balls, getting in the way. Better she busts Cheerful's balls. He likes being miserable-they're perfect together.
But when he gets to the Boonemobile, Petra's sitting in the passenger seat like a dog that knows it's going for a ride.
“I've been meaning to get that lock fixed,” Boone says as he gets behind the wheel.
“So,” Petra asks, “where are we going?”
31
Boone heads south through Mission Beach.
“Why do they call this Mission Beach?” she asks. “Is there a mission here?”
“Sure,” Boone says. He knows what the mission is, too. Lie on the beach all day, pound beer, and get laid.
“Where is it?” Petra asks.
“Where's what?”
“The mission,” Petra says. “I'd like to see it.”
Oh, that kind of mission.
“They tore it down,” Boone tells her, lying. “To build that. ”
He points seaside-to Belmont Amusement Park, where the old wooden roller coaster looms over the landscape like a funky man-made wave. It's been there a long time and is one of the last of the old-style wooden coasters. There used to be a lot of them, all up and down the coast. Seemed like the first thing people did when they settled a beach town was to build a wooden roller coaster.
Of course, that was before the Hawaiians taught us to surf, Boone thinks. Speaking of missionaries… We sent people over there with Bibles, and they sent guys back with boards.
The Hawaiians sure got the shitty end of that stick.
Anyway, thank you, mahalo.
Boone heads to Ocean Beach.
Ocean Beach is not a place that time actually forgot. It's more like time got up to about 1975 and said fuck it.
OB, as the Obeachians call it, has old hippie shops where you can buy crystals and that shit, bars that still do black-light effects, and used-record stores that sell actual records, including ones by a staggering variety of obscure reggae bands. The only thing that ever roused the Obeachians from their usual “Peace, dude,” torpor was when Starbucks wanted to move into the neighborhood.
Then there was civil insurrection, or the Obeachian version of it anyway.
“The Frisbees will be flying tomorrow,” Johnny Banzai had correctly predicted, and, indeed, there was a mass Frisbee demonstration, a marathon Hacky Sack show of force, and a sit-in along Newport Avenue, which didn't really work because a bunch of people sitting on the sidewalk doing nothing looked pretty much like any other day. So corporate culture, in the personification of Starbucks, won out, but it's really there for tourists because the Obeachians won't go near the place. Neither will Boone.
“I respect all local taboos,” he says.
And you have to love a community that named one of its major streets after Voltaire, and that Voltaire Street leads to a beach set aside for dogs. Dog Beach occupies a prime piece of real estate that curls around from the floodway onto the open ocean, and you can see some of the best quadrupedal Frisbee athletes in the world there. Of course, they can't throw the disk, but they can sure as hell run and catch it, doing sometimes spectacular leaps and spins to bring it down. You also have surfing dogs at Dog Beach. Some of them ride in tandem in front of their masters, but others actually ride on their own, their masters setting them on the board just in front of the white water.
All of which inspired a conversation the day The Dawn Patrol went down to check out the Frisbee demonstration, got bored, and walked over to watch dogs surf.
“Have you ever pulled a dog out of the water?” Boone asked Dave.
“No. Dogs are generally smarter than people.”
“Plus, they have better traction,” Johnny observed. “Lower center of gravity and four feet on the board instead of two.”
“Paws,” Sunny said.
“Huh?”
“Not feet,” Sunny said. “Paws.”
“Right.”
“But they can't paddle,” Hang Twelve said, maybe a little jealous because prior to this conversation he held the “most toes on a board” honors.
“Dogs can't paddle?” High Tide asked.
“No,” Hang said.
“You ever heard of the ‘dog paddle’?” Tide said.
“That thing little kids do in swimming pools?” Hang asked.
“Yeah.”
“Yeah, I've heard of it.”
“Where did they get the name?” Tide asked.
Hang thought about this for a few seconds, then said, “But dogs can't paddle boards; that's what I meant. Dogs weren't meant to surf.”
“That thing that runs from the board to your ankle,” Tide said. “What's it called?”
“The leash,” Hang replied.
“End of story,” said Tide.
They eventually resolved that if dogs could paddle boards, they'd be the world champion surfers every year, because dogs never fall. They jump off at the end of the ride, shake the water out of their fur, and wait to go back out again.
“Kind of like you,” Dave said to Tide. “You jump off, shake your fur, and go back out again.”
Because Tide is one hairy guy.
“They've been looking for Bigfoot all over those remote forests,” Johnny chimed in. “They should have just come out to PB and looked into the water.”
“Surfing Sasquatch,” Sunny said. “Film at eleven.”
Anyway, they hung out for a while, watched dogs surf and chase Frisbees, then went back to Newport Street, to find that the protestors had gotten bored sitting around there and had gone to find another place to sit around and maybe get some coffee.
You gotta love Ocean Beach.
Now Boone turns inland onto Brighton Avenue, pulls up in front of Angela Hart's four-story apartment building, and tells Petra to “I know,” she says. “‘Wait in the van.’”
“You're an officer of the court,” Boone says, digging around the back of the van for his burglary tools. “Do you really want to witness breaking and entering? Stay here, be a lookout.”
He finds the thin metal jimmy.
“What should I do if I see something?” Petra asks.
“Warn me.” He gets out of the van.
“How?”
“Honk?”
“How many-”
“Just freaking honk, okay?”
He goes into the building and walks up to the third floor, ready to slip the lock, but someone already has. Boone listens for a few seconds but doesn't hear anyone moving around. Unless, he thinks, whoever's in there
