Dawn Patrol

155

Three weeks later.

Dusk on Pacific Beach.

It's cool, sweatshirt weather, as the mist is starting to move in as if the sun were pulling a curtain around its bed before going to sleep.

Boone stands in front of a grill, carefully turning pieces of yellowtail over the low fire. You have to be gentle with yellowtail. You have to cook it slowly or it dries out and loses its juice.

Johnny Banzai stands beside him, supervising.

Johnny lifts a Corona to his lips, takes a swallow, then says, “Harrington is really pissed he can't crank you on this thing.”

Boone is too big a hero for anyone to mess with right now. The bust of the child-sex operation is all over the talk-radio stations. There's talk of medals, civic awards. Harrington mumbled to Johnny, “Tell that shitbag this doesn't change anything.”

It doesn't, Boone thinks. Not really.

Angela Hart is dead.

And Rain Sweeny, if she's alive, is still in the wind.

“Anyway,” Johnny says. “The DA arm-wrestled him into dropping the assault charges against you.”

“That,” Boone says, “makes the List of Things That Are Good.”

“Yes,” Johnny says. “But in what position?”

“The eternal question,” Boone says.

“Fifth,” Hang Twelve suggests.

“In front of free stuff?” High Tide asks. “You're lolo. ”

“Free stuff is very, very good,” Dave says.

“You could use some free stuff,” Cheerful says to Boone. “I've finished your books and free stuff would come in very handy.”

“I have a paycheck coming in,” Boone says. He gently removes the fish from the grill and sets the pieces on a plate. Then he lays some tortillas on the grill until they are just warm, but not burned.

“How's it coming?” he asks Petra, who sits on the sand with her legs crossed and a cutting board on her lap. She's just finishing slicing up the mango and red onion, and she's staring out at the sun just dipping on the horizon.

They'd talked after he got back from confronting Red Eddie.

“Right, I'll be the one to take the leap,” Petra said. “Are we going to see each other again? I mean, outside of our professional relationship.”

“Is that what we have?”

“So far.”

“I dunno,” Boone said. “What do you think?”

“I don't know, either,” Petra said. “I mean, I don't know where it could go. We want such different things from life.”

“Truth.”

“But maybe that's not a bad thing,” Petra said.

He knew what the smart thing would be. Walk away now. Because they are so different, because they do want different things from life. But there's something about those eyes you don't walk away from. And something about her.

A lot about her.

She's smart, tough, funny, hot, brave, cool.

She's a good person.

They decided to just take things as they come.

And Sunny?

Sunny's out there, he thinks as he watches the sun going down. What a future-all the places she'll go now, all the oceans she'll see, the waves she'll ride. It's her world now, all of it, and who knows if one of those waves will ever bring them together again.

“Here,” Petra says. She gets up and hands him the cutting board. Boone slides the chopped mango and onion into a bowl, then adds some lime juice, a little jalapeсo, and a handful of cilantro and mixes it all up.

Then he takes the tortillas off the grill, lays a piece of fish on each one, then spoons a generous dollop of the fresh mango salsa over the fish.

“Dinner's ready, guys!” he says.

He hands a taco to Petra.

“God, that's won derful,” she says.

Boone serves the tacos, then takes a moment to look at the ocean, the setting sun, the long beach.

This is his beach, his world.

His friends.

His family.

“As I've always said…” he pronounces.

Everything tastes better on a tortilla.