Dawn Patrol

103

Boone's in a lot longer.

After all, he hit a cop.

A detective, no less.

In a courthouse hallway.

And Boone didn't just punch Harrington once. He went off on himbig heavy hands and muscles hard from years of surfing slamming punch after punch into Harrington's face, ribs, and stomach until Johnny Banzai managed to get some kind of judo hold on him and choke him out.

Now Boone lies on a metal bench in the cell and nobody fucks with him. He shares the cell with mostly blacks, Mexicans, and some white-trash drunks, bikers, and tweekers and nobody fucks with him.

He hit a cop.

A detective, no less.

In a courthouse hallway.

Boone could run for president of the cell and win by acclamation. They love him in there. Guys are offering him their bologna sandwiches.

He's not hungry.

Too fucking miserable to eat.

It's over, he thinks. I took Harrington's bait like the chump fish I am, and now I'm looking at a felonious assault rap on a law enforcement officer. That means certain jail time, and my PI card is gonzo.

Half The Dawn Patrol's pissed at me and the other half must think I'm a total barney, and they're totally correct in that. I let this Roddick babe play me like a fish, make me chase her like she didn't want to be caught, and then, bang, she turns around and rams a hole in the boat.

And we're all going down with it.

Roddick set us up. She was never going to testify against Danny. She sold the insurance company a story so it would deny Silver's claim. Then he could sue for the big bucks when she changed her story. The whole chase thing was to make us want her more. And it worked.

Judge Hammond will deny Alan's motion for a mistrial and grant Todd's motion for a directed verdict. When court reconvenes in the morning, he'll instruct the jury that the insurance company has already been found guilty and that all they need to decide is how much to award in punitive damages.

Which will be in the millions.

And Alan will be referred to the State Bar Association for ethics charges, not to mention the district attorney's office for suborning perjury. So will Pete.

Her career is fucked. She'll be lucky if she keeps her Bar card, never mind make partner. If she does manage to stay in the law biz, she'll be doing fender benders and slip-and-falls until her hair is gray.

A skinny white tweeker approaches Boone and shoves a couple of pieces of stale bread at him. “You want my sammich?”

“No, thanks.”

The tweeker hesitates, his shrunken meth-reduced mouth trembling with anxiety. “You want a blow job?”

“Get away from me.”

The tweeker sidles off.

But this is what life's going to be, Boone thinks. Stale “sammiches,” tweekers for friends, and offers of jailhouse love.

He rolls over and faces the wall, his back to the cell.

No one's going to fuck with him.