The Gentlemen's Hour

Alan tries to blow right through that little problem. “He hasn’t confessed to anything. This wipes out his prior so-called confession.”

“Not necessarily,” she says. “It’s a new story he tells now that he’s closer to the reality of prison, but the original confession has immediacy.”

“I’ll put him on the stand,” Alan says, “and the jury will believe him.”

Yes, they will, she tells herself. Because even you think you believe him. Face it, you like Trevor Bodin for the killing now. It’s like Alan’s living in her head because he says, “Reduce Corey to manslaughter, rip up Bodin’s deal on the basis that he lied to you, and raise the charge on him.”

Right, she can hear the defense attorney cross-examine her already.

“You originally charged Corey Blasingame with the killing, didn’t you? And you charged him because you were confident that he did it. Just as you say you’re confident now that my client did it?”

She looks at Alan and says, “You know I can’t do that.”

“I know you can’t hold this charge on a kid you know is not guilty,” Alan says softly. “Isn’t in you, Mary Lou.”

“Don’t push it,” she snaps. “Your kid isn’t exactly a martyred innocent, is he? He went out looking for a fight, he found one, he went over in a gang, and they beat a man to death because the man wasn’t white. He has to do some time for that, Alan.”

“I agree,” Alan says. “But not life without parole.”

“Let me think about it.”

“Hours,” Alan says. “Not days.”

When he leaves, Mary Lou stands in the window and looks out at downtown San Diego, a city that will not react well to a reduction of the charges against Corey Blasingame. She’s already heard the refrains in reference to the other three: “Rich white kids get slapped on the wrist.” “If it had been Mexicans or Samoans who did this, they’d be under the jail.” Maybe they’re right, she thinks. And maybe Alan’s right when he implies that we’re making a scapegoat of Corey Blasingame.

But explaining the reduction to the powers will be brutal. She has to tell them something, give them some reason, and the only one she can give is that the confession was bogus, the witness statements hinky, and the investigation botched. Rush to judgment and all that. It’s Harrington and Kodani who’ll take the fall.

She couldn’t give a shit about Harrington, a loose cannon who has it coming, but John Kodani is a good detective, smart, ethical, hardworking. He had a suspect who confessed and he believed the confession, that’s all. Now it could cost him an otherwise brilliant career.

It’s a shame.

Then again, it’s all a shame, isn’t it?

Her intercom buzzes.

“Yes?”

“There’s a George Poptanich to see you?”

103

Dave the Love God climbs down from the tower.

Another uneventful day of watching tourists not drown. And tourists not drowning, as has been amply explained to him by the Chamber of Commerce, is a very good thing. Earlier in the year, a swimmer had been killed by a great white, which is a very bad thing—obviously for the swimmer but also for business, and also explained to the lifeguards by the Chamber.

Short of getting Robert Shaw and Richard Dreyfuss and heading out in a boat, Dave’s not sure what he’s supposed to do about shark attacks, although he did actually foil a great white one time by kicking it in the nose. The fact is that the ocean does have sharks—and riptides and big waves—and people are going to be attacked, just as they’re going to drown; but statistically the most dangerous activity

by far

that people do in connection with the beach is to drive to it.

Anyway, he decides to grab a beer at The Sundowner. Johnny B might be there on his way to the night shift, High Tide is coming off his day, and Boone . . .

Who knows where Boone might be?

Boone is on some kind of strange, weird trip. Maybe it’s Sunny being gone, or his infatuation with the British betty—who is definitely, unquestionably,

hot

—or maybe it’s just that he’s tired of surfbumdom, but the Boone he knows is 404. It’s funny because Boone, more than any of them, could always find the through line of a wave, and would hold that line like he was laser- guided. Now he’s flapping around all over the water like some newbie kook, headed for a bad wipeout.

Sure enough, Johnny Banzai and Tide are holding the bar in place, although JB is nursing a Diet Coke.

“S’news?” Dave asks.

“Nuttin’,” Tide says.

“S’up, Johnny?”

“S’up, Dave?”

There’s nothin’ up in August, man—not the surf, not their spirits. Only thing that’s up is the temp.

And the tension, because Johnny B looks worked.

“Boone is helping Alan Burke fuck me,” Johnny explains.

“What?” Dave asks. Boone fucking over a friend? Not poss.

“It’s true,” Tide says. He tells Dave about Boone joining the Blasingame defense team.

“Backpaddle,” Dave says. “You’re telling me that Boone is trying to rescue the little bastard who killed K2? No freaking way.”

Johnny shrugs, like, it’s true, go figure.

“Whoa,” Dave says. What the crud is happening to us? he wonders. What’s happening to the Dawn Patrol?

It’s shrinking for one thing, he thinks.

Sunny is gone.

And face it, Boone may be on his way out, if he’s not adios already.

What’s that old cliche about (shudder) marriages—“We just drifted apart?” Are we just drifting apart, Dave wonders, or is it more than that?

Too bummed for a beer, Dave just heads home.

104

Boone goes back to Schering’s office at 10:00 p.m.

Parks the van down the road and walks up to the office complex. The lock is easy—it only takes him a couple of minutes to get in.

He turns the little flashlight on, sticks it in his mouth, and hits Schering’s desk. The computer is on “sleep,” and, to Boone’s relief, Schering was still logged on. Boone double clicks on an icon marked “Billings” and is soon scrolling through Schering’s recent time records. Boone sticks a thumbdrive in the port in back of the hard drive, drags and clicks, then removes the thumb, peeks out the window, and goes out the door.

Thanks to technology, he thinks, rifling records is so much easier than it used to be.