“Beach-bongo telegraph,” High Tide says. “Word's all along the coast you're here.”
“We gotta get off this beach,” Boone says. He hefts the smaller woman into a fireman's carry.
Petra starts to say, “I can-”
“I know you can.”
He carries her anyway. Tide easily sweeps up the redheaded woman and holds her close to his chest as they climb the steps back up to the parking lot. When they get there, Tide grabs two blankets and some towels from the back of his truck as Boone starts to undress Petra.
“What are you doing?” she murmurs.
“Have to get you out of these,” Boone says. “Hypothermia. Give me a hand, hamo?”
Boone, his fingers trembling with cold, strips Petra down to her underwear, wraps her tightly in the blanket, then vigorously rubs her hair dry while Tide does the same with Tammy.
“How about you?” Tide asks.
“I'm okay,” Boone says.
They get the women into the cab of Tide's truck, then Tide starts the engine and cranks the heater on full blast. Boone goes to the back of his van, strips down, towels off, and changes into a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt.
Tide climbs into the van.
“S'up, brah?”
“It's complicated, Tide,” Boone says. “Can you give me a hand? I need to buy some time.”
“What you got in mind?”
When Boone tells him, High Tide objects. “It's the Boonemobile, man.”
But Boone puts the van in neutral, and he and Tide push it to the edge of the bluff, then take a running start and shove it through the thin wooden guardrail.
“Good-bye,” Boone says.
The van launches off the edge, stays upright for a second, then somersaults down onto the beach. A second later, a muffled explosion goes off; then a small tower of flame rises up through the fog.
Hell of a bonfire on the beach tonight.
A Viking funeral for the Boonemobile.
69
The devil doesn't give you easy choices.
If he did, he wouldn't be the devil, just some gyppo piker wannabe masquerading as the real deal.
The real devil doesn't ask you to choose between good and evil. For most people, that's too easy. Most people, even when faced with temptations beyond their previous imaginings, will choose to do good.
So the real devil asks you to choose between bad and worse. Let a family member die of a horrible addiction, or betray a friend. That's why he's the devil, man. And when he's really on his game, he doesn't make you choose between heaven and hell; he gives you a choice between hell and hell.
Josiah Pamavatuu is a good man, no doubt about it. Now he drives his truck with two wet and shivering women at his side and his best friend in the back, a man who is like family to him.
But like ain't is.
Is is is.
70
Johnny Banzai finds a shaken Teddy D-Cup drinking an “organic martini” in the Lotus Cottage.
“Where's Tammy Roddick?” Johnny asks him.
Teddy points his thumb in the general direction of the beach.
From whence comes an explosion and a ball of flame.
71
Hang Twelve runs.
Pushing off on all twelve toes, he hoofs it as hard as he can toward Sunny's house. Like he's trying to pump the fear through his bloodstream and out of his body.
It ain't working.
Hang is terrified.
Word traveled down to Pacific Beach with the speed of rumor itself. The Boonemobile went off the bluff at Sea Cliff Park and burst into flames. Boone Daniels hasn't been found. The firemen are there now. There's already talk of a paddle-out and a memorial service after the big swell is over.
Hang doesn't know what to do with his fear, so he takes it to Sunny.
You gotta understand where he's coming from.
Where he came from.
Father a tweeker, mother a drunk, Brian Brousseau's home life, if you want to call it that, was a bad dream during a nightmare. Brian got about as much care and attention as the cat, and you don't want to see the cat. He was about eight when he started picking up the leftover roaches lying around the crappy little house.
Brian liked the feeling he got from smoking the roaches. It eased his fear, muffled the fights between his mom and dad, helped him get to sleep. By the time he was in junior high, he was toking up every day, before and after school. When school was finally over, he'd wander down to the beach, smoke up, and watch the surfers. One day, he was sitting in the sand, just toasted, when this surfer came out of the water, walked up to him, and said, “I see you here every day, grom.”
Brian said, “Uh-huh.”
“How come you just watch?” Boone asked. “How come you don't surf?”
“Don't know how,” Brian said. “Don't have a board.”
Boone nodded, thought about it a second, looked down at the skinny little kid, and said, “You want to learn? I'll show you.”
Brian wasn't so sure. “You a fag, man?”
“You want to ride or not, dude?”
Brian wanted.
Scared as shit, but he wanted.
“I can't swim,” he said.
“Then don't fall off,” Boone said. He looked down at Brian's feet. “Dude. Do you have six toes?”
“Twelve.”
Boone chuckled. “That's your new name, gremmie-‘Hang Twelve.’”
“Okay.”
“Stand with your feet about shoulder width,” Boone said.
Hang got up. Boone shoved him in the chest. Hang stepped back with his right foot to keep his balance. “What-”
“You're a goofy-foot,” Boone said. “Left-footed. Lie down on the board.”
Hang did.
“On your stomach, ” Boone said. “Jesus.”
Hang turned over.
“Now, jump up on your knees,” Boone said. “Good. Now into a squat. Good. Now stand.”
