Dawn Patrol

40

Boone makes the short drive down to La Jolla Shores.

It might be the prettiest beach in San Diego, Boone thinks. A gentle two-mile curve from the bluffs of beautiful-people La Jolla Village to the south all the way to the Scripps Pier in the north, with the pale sienna cliffs of Torrey Pines in the background.

Just off to his left, to the south, are the twin hotels-the La Jolla Shores and the La Jolla Tennis and Beach Club-that sit right on the beach. And the Tennis and Beach Club houses the famous Marine Room restaurant, where on a stormy night you can sit and eat shrimp and lobster with the waves hitting right against the window.

Boone likes Shores, as the locals simply call it, even though the surf usually isn't very challenging, because it's calm and pretty and people always seem to be having a good time there, whether they're in the water, playing on the sand, strolling the boardwalk, or having a cookout in the little park that edges the beach. At night, people come down and make bonfires and sit and talk, or play guitars, or dance to the radio, and you can hear all kinds of music down here at night, from rasta to retro folk to the exotic, twisting chants that the groups of Muslim students like.

Boone likes to come down here for that reason, because he thinks it's what a beach is supposed to be-a lot of different kinds of people just hanging out having a good time.

He thinks that's what life's supposed to be, too.

Mick's car is parked in the narrow alley behind his building.

A silver Beemer with the hopeful vanity plate that readsSCRNRITR .

“I'll be a son of a gun,” Boone says.

“They're here?” Petra asks, her voice a little high and excited.

“Well, his car's here,” Boone says, trying to lower her expectations. But the truth is, he's pretty hopeful that they're in there, too.

“Wait in the van,” he says.

“No way.”

“Way,” Boone says. “If I go in the front, they might come out the back?”

“Oh. All right, then.”

It's total bullshit, Boone thinks as he gets out of the van, but it will keep her out of my way. He walks up the stairs to Mick's door and listens.

Faint voices.

Coming from the television.

Other than that, nothing.

Boone tries the door.

It's locked.

There are two windows on this side of the apartment. The venetian blinds are closed on both, but even through the glass, Boone can smell the dope. Mick and Tammy must be having a hell of a party.

Boone raps on the door. “Mick?”

Nothing.

“Yo, Mick. ”

No response.

So either they're in there hiding or in the bedroom, stoned, and can't hear anything. Well, Boone thinks, if they can't hear anything. .. He kicks the glass in, reaches through the hole, unlocks the window, and slides it open. Then he climbs through.

Mick Penner is asleep on the sofa.

Passed out is more like it. He's lying facedown, one arm dangling to the floor, his right hand still holding a bottle of Grey Goose.

Boone walks right past him into the bedroom.

No Tammy.

He opens the bathroom door.

No Tammy.

He looks at the back door. Still locked from the inside.

Tammy isn't here and she didn't just go out the back. There are no women's clothes, no makeup in the bathroom, no smell of perfume, moisturizer, hair spray, nail polish, nail polish remover.

It smells like a guy's place.

A guy on a steep downhill slide.

Stale sweat, old beer, unchanged linens, garbage, a trace of eau de vomit. Mick himself reeks. When Boone steps back into the living room, it's instantly apparent that the guy hasn't hauled himself into a shower for a few days.

Mick isn't cute or pretty right now. If his trophy wives could see him passed out on this couch-his dirty hair disheveled, his teeth green with grime, dried grunge caked around his lips-they wouldn't be slipping between the clean, crisp sheets of the Milano with him. If they were in a good mood, they might, might, drop a quarter into his hand and keep moving.

“Mick.” Boone gently slaps him across the face. “Mick.”

He slaps him again, a little harder.

Mick opens one jaundiced eye. “What?”

“It's Boone. Boone Daniels. Wake up.”

Mick closes his eye.

“I need you to wake up, dude.” Boone grabs him by the shoulders and sits him up.

“The fuck you doing here?” Mick asks.

“You want some coffee?”

“Yeah.”

“You got any?”

Boone walks into the kitchen area.

Dirty dishes are piled in the sink or strewn over the counter. Empty boxes of microwave meals overflow the garbage can or have just been tossed on the floor. Boone opens the fridge and finds an opened bag of Starbucks espresso on the door shelf. He dumps the grounds out of the filter in the coffeemaker, washes the carafe, finds a new filter, puts the coffee on, and scrubs out a cup while he listens to Mick puking in the bathroom.

Mick emerges, his face dripping with water where he splashed it on himself.

“Fuck, dude,” Mick says.

“You've been slamming it,” Boone says.

“Hard.” Mick sniffs his armpits. “God, I stink.”

“I noticed.”

“Sorry.”

“No worries.” Boone hands Mick a cup of coffee.

“Thanks.”

“It's hot, bro. Don't toss it.”

Mick nods and takes a sip of coffee.

Boone sees his hand quiver.

“Tammy Roddick.”

“Doesn't ring a bell,” Mick says.

Something in Mick's face-a little tension along the jawline, the blue eyes going hard. The look is unmistakable-it's the look of a guy who's in love with a woman who's dumped him.

“Does this ring a bell?” Boone asks. “A burglary at the home of a Mr. and Mrs. Hedigan in Torrey Pines about three months ago. Maybe I should go over and ring the Hedigans' bell, ask them if your name-”

“Nice, Boone. Real nice,” Mick says. “I thought we were friends.”

“Not really,” Boone says. I don't slip my friends twenties to answer questions. My friends aren't sleazy matinee call boys. “Have you seen Tammy lately? Like today, for instance?”

Mick shakes his head. “I wish I had.”

Yeah, Boone thinks. So much for the unrung bell. “What do you mean?”

Mick's face gets all soft and serious. “I loved her, Boone. I mean, I loved that fucking bitch. Really loved her, you know?”

He met her at Silver Dan's. Watched her dance and was, like, mesmerized. Got a lap dance from her and asked her out, like on a real date. To his surprise, she accepted. He met her at Denny's after her shift and bought her breakfast. Then they went to her place.

“I thought I knew what good sex was,” Mick says. “Not even close.”

He loved just being with her, just looking at her. She had these green cat eyes, man, that you couldn't take your own eyes off of. They were hanging out watching TV one night. They had the Animal Channel on, and it was a documentary about leopards, and Mick looked at her and said, “Those are your eyes, babe. You have leopard eyes.”

Yeah, but it wasn't just the sex, and it wasn't just her eyes-he loved just being with her, man. All that corny, romantic, chick-flick bullshit he never believed in? Mick started doing it, man. Walks on the freaking beach, breakfast in bed, holding hands, talking.

“She was smart, man,” Mick says. “She was funny. She was…”

Mick actually looks like he's going to cry. He looks down into his coffee cup like it has memories at the bottom.

“So what happened?”

“She dumped me.”

“When?”

“Three months ago?” Mick says. “At first, I was all like, you know, fuck the bitch, but then it really started to eat at me, you know? I even fucking called her, man, left messages on her machine. She never called me back.”

“When did you last see her?”

“I tried to go see her at her new club,” Mick says. “She had the bouncers toss me. I'm PNG at TNG.”

“When was that?”

“Three, four days ago?” Mick says. “I dunno. How long have I been drinking?”

“What happened?” Boone asks.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, if you guys were so in love and everything,” Boone says. “What happened?”

He's not ready for the answer that Mick gives him.

“Teddy D-Cup.”

Teddy D-Cup is what happened.