was just a few cinnamon cakes and a maple bar that had seen better days. We were both sipping coffee.
“ You want the maple bar?” asked Hansen.
“ It’s all yours.”
A slender woman with a great white sheepdog jogged past us on PCH, then angled down toward the boardwalk, where the bulk of the joggers were. The sun was higher up on the horizon than when we had first started on the donuts. Hansen was a tan guy. He was wearing tan slacks, loafers and no socks. His ankles were also tan and I suspected there was a tanning bed somewhere with his ass prints all over it.
“ I take it Heidi Mann swung by your office,” said Hansen. “If you want to call it that.”
“ It’s a nice office.”
“ It’s a Jim Knighthorse football shrine.”
“ Like I said, it’s a nice office.”
“ Sprinkled with bullet holes,” he said.
“ The bullet holes give it character.”
He shook his head and licked his fingers. When it comes to donuts and frosting, every man reverts to his inner ten-year-old. After some minor debate, I went ahead and fished out one of the cinnamon cakes. I took a healthy bite. It tasted better than it looked.
I said, “You have anything on her boyfriend?”
He shook his head. There was some chocolate frosting in his thick cop mustache. With the frosting, Hansen didn’t look nearly as cool as he thought he looked.
He said, “No. And it’s not as clean and clear-cut as she probably made it out to be.”
I nodded. Few things were. I waited.
“ Her boyfriend might have been a small-time drug dealer. We’re thinking he might have run into some trouble down that road.”
“ It’s a hell of a road,” I said. I had eaten six donuts. Dammit, I wanted another. What the hell was wrong with me? “You look into the shark hunters?”
“ No reason to.”
“ They threatened them, according to Heidi.”
“ They’re just fishermen, Knighthorse. And these…activists get threatened all the time. Heidi and Mitch and others like them, get under people’s skin for a living. They shut down honest businesses for a living. To most people, they’re a pain in the ass. Come to think of it, they kind of sound like you.”
“ My kind of people,” I said. “What do you know of the shark hunters?”
“ They hunt sharks. Some of them, apparently, just for the fins.”
“ What do you think of that?”
“ I think it has nothing to do with my job, so I could give a shit.”
“ That’s what I thought. And the story about the dogs?”
“ Using dogs for bait?”
I nodded. “Yeah, that.”
“ Sounds shitty.”
“ That’s all you have to say?”
“ That’s all I can say. I can’t save the world, Knighthorse. That’s your job.”
We were both silent, and as the sun rose a little higher, we spotted our first bikini walking across the sand. Hansen smiled. I might have smiled, too, if I felt like it.
I didn’t.
Chapter Three
Cindy and I were at Buca di Beppo in Huntington Beach, and I couldn’t have been happier.
“ You love it here,” said Cindy.
“ They serve large portions,” I said.
“ They serve family-sized portions,” she corrected.
“ That’s just a fancy way of saying large.”
“ It’s not that fancy.”
“ What can I say, I’m a simple man.”
“ With a huge appetite,” she said. “And for the love of God don’t say, ‘It ain’t easy being me.’”
I winked. “I didn’t have to.”
The waiter came over and took our order. The family-sized portions were meant to feed four. In our case, one, although Cindy would nibble on it here and there, but not enough to do any real damage. Mostly she would fill up on salad and bread and tiramisu.
I was drinking a pint of Pyramid Hefeweizen, a new favorite. Cindy was working her way steadily through a house chardonnay. I don’t like chardonnay, or wine for that matter. It tastes funny. The problem with wine is that it doesn’t taste like beer. If wine tasted like beer, well, we would be in business.
I only see Cindy about three times a week, which works out to be about perfect. Just enough days off to miss her, and just enough on to feel deeply connected.
She asked me what I was working on and I told her. About the time I finished telling her, I finished my beer. Synchronicity at its best. Our waiter came by, saw the pathetic condition of my empty beer mug, and promptly did something about it. Good man. A few minutes later and I was once again drinking from a full pint, as happy as a mole with eagle eyes.
“ So is that why you ordered vegetarian tonight?” asked Cindy. “Because of the mistreatment of these animals?”
“ It got me thinking,” I said.
“ Thinking how?”
“ About the mistreatment of animals in general. Humans are bastards to our creatures.”
“ Humans are also hungry,” said Cindy.
“ Well, this human might change his ways.”
“ Change how?” asked Cindy. “I thought real men eat meat.”
“ Real men stand up for what they believe.”
“ And what do you believe?” she asked.
“ I’m working on that,” I said.
“ And in the meantime, no more meat?”
“ For now,” I said.
“ And what if I want meat? And for the love of God don’t turn that sexual.”
“ I haven’t a clue what you mean,” I said innocently, wiping away what I was certain was a foam mustache. “And eat what you want. I’m not trying to change the way you eat.”
“ Thank God. I love bacon.” She swirled her wine in her glass. Professor Cynthia Darwin was blond and blue- eyed and looked nothing like the distinguished anthropology professor I knew her to be. A distinguished professor with the pedigree name. Yes, she’s related to that Darwin. Survival of the fittest and all that.
She said, “So, in the meantime, you’re not going to eat meat?”
“ Nope.”
“ Do you think you’ll ever eat it again?”
“ Dunno.”
She looked at me from behind her glass. Her pupils were growing increasingly dilated, seemingly with each sip.
“ So, you’re doing it for the animals?” she asked.
“ Something like that.”
“ Somehow,” she said, setting down her glass and reaching across the table and taking my hand, “I find that kind of sexy.”
“ Protecting animals is sexy?”
