Teddy D-Cup.
Aka Teddy Cole.
Dr. Theodore Cole, M.D., board-certified cosmetic surgeon.
Teddy D-Cup does boobs.
Yeah, well, he does noses and chins, too, liposuctions, face-lifts, and tummy tucks, but boobs are Teddy's profit center, hence the moniker.
Teddy is the Michelangelo of bosoms. His work is displayed at society functions, beaches, runways, movies, television shows, and, of course, strip clubs, wherever finer breasts are seen. They are status symbols, prestige items. It's gotten to the point where women actually boast that their “tits are by Teddy.”
Strippers will work for years to save up the cash to get a pair by Teddy, although the word is that good Dr. Cole does have a scholarship program for girls he considers especially… uh… promising.
Like Tammy, according to Mick.
“She wanted a bigger rack,” Mick says. “I told her she didn't need one, that she was gorgeous, but you know chicks.”
Not really, Boone thinks, but he goes along with it.
“I told her if she was going to do it, she had to go to the best,” Mick says.
“Teddy D-Cup.”
“Sure,” Mick says. “I knew all about him from the hotel. Believe me, I know Teddy's work, up close and personal. Women who go to the Milano can afford Teddy.”
“But Tammy couldn't.”
“She saved up,” Mick says. “You don't know her-she's single-minded, man. Once she sets her sights on something. I mean, it was like work, work, work. Money, money, money.”
“So?”
Mick shakes his head. “I drove her to him, bro. I literally drove her to the first consultation. She comes out, we're in the car, we're not two blocks away, and she tells me maybe we should stop seeing each other. Do you believe that? She traded me in for a new set of tits.”
“So she's seeing Teddy now.”
“She's with him all the fucking time, man.”
“How do you know that?”
“I've followed them,” Mick says. “Is that pathetic, or what? I've banged half the hot rich babes in this town, and I'm sneaking around following this fucking mercenary cunt stripper, sitting in my car like some doof- That cheap fuck takes her to this little motel up around Oceanside-do you believe that, a guy with his kind of money?”
Boone gets this sinking feeling. “Hey, Mick?”
“What?”
“You didn't do anything to her, did you?”
“No,” Mick says. “I thought about it.”
Then he asks, “Is she okay, Boone? Is she in some kind of trouble? Why are you looking for her?”
“She ever talk about Dan Silver?” Boone asks. “The fire at his warehouse?”
“She mentioned it happened.” He's alarmed now. All geeked. “Is she okay? Is she hooked up with Dan again?”
“I don't know,” Boone says, “but as your friend, I'm going to strongly suggest you get out of town for a while. Some people are looking for her who are going to be looking for you. You don't want them to find you. They're going to ask the same questions I did, but they may not believe your first answers.”
“She's in trouble,” Mick says.
“Throw some shit in a bag,” Boone says. “Put some serious distance between you and here.”
“I have to find her. I have to help her.”
“You gonna rescue her?” Boone asks. “Then she'll take you back?”
“I just want her to be okay,” Mick says. “Is that fucked up, or what?”
Actually, Boone thinks, it might be the least fucked-up thing he's heard all day. He warns Mick to get out of town again, and then he leaves to go see Dr. Theodore Cole.
42
Tweety sits in the office of TNG, looking at his swollen knee. It looks bad; it looks like it's going to keep him out of the weight room for a while.
“We better get you to the hospital,” Dan says.
Tweety looks sad. “I don't have health insurance.”
“Not a problem,” Dan says. “I got you covered. Come on.”
Dan and the bouncer lift Tweety to his feet-well, foot — carry him outside-and squeeze him into the front seat of a Ford Explorer. The bouncer gets behind the wheel. Dan gently swings Tweety's legs in, then gets in the backseat.
Tweety says, “I'm gonna kill that fucking Daniels.”
“We'll do it for you,” Dan says. He tells the bouncer to head south on the 15, down to Sharp Hospital, the nearest urgent-care facility.
“Oh, man,” Tweety says, “anybody got any Vike or Oxy or something? I need something to kill the pain.”
Dan sticks a. 22 pistol in the back of Tweety's head and pulls the trigger twice.
“Oughta do it,” he says.
You roid-shooting, wrong woman-killing, stupid son of a bitch.
43
“Did you take a nap?” Petra asks when Boone gets back to the van. “I call them ‘siestas,’” Boone says. “It sounds better.”
He fills her in on his conversation with Mick.
“So now we think that Tammy's with this Teddy person?” Petra asks.
“Or at least he knows where she is,” Boone says. Not that this is necessarily good news. If Tammy went to Teddy and asked him for help, he could have bought her a first-class ticket to Tahiti. For all they know, she's sitting on a beach with a mai tai resting on her new chest.
Laughing at everybody.
“Where's this doctor's office?” Petra asks.
“Right back in La Jolla Village,” Boone replies. Within sight of the Milano. It's been that kind of back-and-forth day. “But first, we're going to fuel up.”
She leans over and looks at the fuel gauge. “The tank is three-quarters full.”
“I meant me,” Boone says. “You, too, if you want.”
It's just a couple of blocks to Jeff's Burger. It's a matter of near-religious devotion to Boone never to enter the vicinity of Jeff's Burger without having one of his burgers. Luckily, there's a parking spot right out front. Boone pulls the van in, turns off the engine, and asks, “You want something?”
“Actually, a Caesar salad with dressing on the side would be nice.”
“You got it.”
He goes in and orders two cheeseburgers with everything. When the burgers arrive, he dissects one, puts the meat into his own burger, then scrapes the lettuce, tomato, and onions into the lid of the plastic go-plate and goes back to the van.
“What's this?” Petra asks when he hands her the plate.
“Caesar salad, dressing on the side.”
