“Never trust a haole” has become Eddie’s new mantra.
He’ll actually sit cross-legged on his half-pipe platform first thing every morning—which for him is about eleven o’clock—and chant, “
never trust a haole,” one hundred times or until he gets sick of doing it, which is usually about six reps. Then he smokes a big bowl of pakololo to enhance his aloha, which it massively does.
By this time the chef has the Spam fired up.
Then Eddie has to figure out how to kill the whole day without going more than seventy-five feet from his house. This usually involves numerous business meetings, his physical therapist, his masseuse, constant refreshment of Maui Wowie, sunbathing, skateboarding, thousand-dollar-a-throw call girls, and dozens of video games with Rabbit and Echo, none of which they’d better come close to winning.
His other pastime is surfing medical Web sites because he’s allowed necessary visits to consult with a physician. So Eddie has developed a staggering variety of physical symptoms that would arouse the envy of the most ambitious hypochondriac. Since his arrest, Eddie has been tested for lupus, fibromyalgia, cholera, and an elusive yet persistent recurrence of “Raratonga fever,” for which he is even now seeking permission to travel to Lucerne to consult with the world’s only, and therefore preeminent, specialist—a haole.
Anyway, Rabbit feels a little bad about punching Boone, and Echo . . . uhhh . . . echoes the sentiment. They drop him off back at the Deuce.
“You take care, eh, Boone?”
“Care.”
“Bumbye,” Boone says.
By and by, later.
He climbs into the Deuce and heads for The Sundowner.
On the way he calls Dan Nichols, and then Johnny Banzai.
46
Boone takes a shower in the office and changes out of his sweaty clothes.
The hot water helps, but just. His face is puffy from the “ground and pound,” and his neck bears a rough red splotch from the chokeout that looks like he tried to hang himself and changed his mind. His whole back hurts from the body slam and the kidney punch, and Boone begins to think that there might be better ways of earning a living.
He could be a lifeguard—Dave’s offered many times to get him on—or he could become a . . .
A . . .
Okay, a lifeguard.
That’s about it.
Cheerful is just about ready to leave for the day, as he has Stouffer’s and Alex Trebek waiting for him. To say that Cheerful is a creature of habit is akin to opining that a sloth is a creature of leisure. His life is measured by strict routine and ritual.
Every Saturday he goes to Ralph’s and buys seven Stouffer’s Lean Cuisine microwave dinners, one, obviously, for each night of the week. (Saturday is Swiss Steak, Sunday is Turkey Tetrazzini, Monday spaghetti Bolognese, Tuesday chicken and rice, Wednesday . . . you get the idea.) He dines (okay, go with it) at precisely 6:00 p.m. as he watches the local news, then
, then
, at which he keeps his own score in his head and usually wins. In the half hour it takes for
to spin, he showers, shaves, and changes into his pajamas and a robe. He’s back in front of the television to watch the rerun of
that Hang Twelve programmed to Tivo for him, and then he goes to bed. Saturday and Sunday were a bit of a problem, as there is no
nor reruns of
, but Hang solved this dilemma by banking episodes of
and taking a blood oath of secrecy.
At nine, Cheerful goes to bed.
He gets up at four to have a cup of tea, a slice of unbuttered rye toast, and to check the Asian markets. At eight, half his working day over, he rewards himself with another slice of toast, which fuels him for a half-mile walk. Then he goes to Boone’s office, fusses with the books, and waits impatiently for Boone to show up from the Dawn Patrol. He has lunch at 11:00 a.m., when Hang runs across to The Sundowner and brings back half a tuna salad sandwich and a cup of tomato soup.
Every day, no variation.
Cheerful is a billionaire, and this is his blissfully miserable life.
But now he stays long enough for Boone to fill him in on his day of fun and adventure.
“Blasingame sounds like a piece of work,” Cheerful says.
“Which one?” Boone asks.
“The dad,” Cheerful grumbles.
“I’m beginning to wonder about the kid,” Boone says.
“How so?” Boone shrugs. He doesn’t quite have his finger on it, but there’s something sketchy about the whole story. He starts to explain when he hears Dan Nichols’s voice downstairs:
“Up here!” Boone yells down the stairs.
Dan comes up.
“Dan, Ben Carruthers,” Boone says, introducing Cheerful. “Ben, Dan Nichols.”
“Pleasure,” Dan says. “Any relation to the Ben Carruthers of Carruthers Holding?”
“That’s me,” Cheerful says.
“I’ve always wanted to meet you,” Dan says. “You’re kind of a recluse.”
Cheerful nods. “I have an appointment. Nice to meet you.”
He goes down the stairs. “I’m impressed,” Dan says. “I won’t ask if he’s a client.”
“A friend.”
“Then I’m even more impressed,” Dan says. “Your friend is an investment genius. His company owns about half the world, I think.”
“He’s a good guy.”
Dan looks at Boone’s face and neck. “You been in a fight?”
“Working out in the gym.”
“Sort of PI stuff, huh?”
Not really, Boone thinks. The few other PIs he knows do their workouts in bars, lifting shots and beers. “I have the equipment.”
“Good.”
“One last time, Dan. You sure you want to know?”
Because some things are better left unknown. Ignorance may not be bliss, but knowledge isn’t always a chocolate cone with sprinkles, either. And if something’s in the past, it might just be better to leave it there—not everything you bring up from the bottom of the ocean is treasure.
