Dawn Patrol

72

Cheerful sits at the hovel that is Boone's desk, trying to balance the books.

Boone Daniels is a perpetual pain in the ass. Immature, irresponsible, a hopeless businessman.

But what were you, Cheerful asks himself, before Boone came into your life?

A lonely old man.

Boone once saved him several million dollars in alimony when the businessman uncharacteristically fell head over heels in love with a twenty-five-year-old Hooters waitress, for whom he bought a new rack and fuller lips to heighten her low self-esteem. Her self-image lifted, she promptly felt herself attractive enough to screw a twenty-five-year-old wannabe rock star and begin a television career that she intended to finance with California community property.

Boone felt bad for the lovesick old guy and took the case, took the pix, made the video, and never showed either of them to Cheerful. He did show them to the soon-to-be ex-Mrs. Cheerful and told her to take her big tits, full lips, guitar-stroking boyfriend, and a $100K alimony settlement, get out of San Dog, and leave Cheerful the hell alone.

“Why should I?” she asked.

“Because he's a nice old man and you fucked him over.”

“He got his money's worth,” she said. Then she looked at him with an expression of lust she no doubt learned from porn videos and asked, “You want proof?”

“Look,” Boone replied, “you're hotter than hell, and I'm sure you're the whole barrel of monkeys in bed, but, one, I like your husband; two, I'd cut my junk off with a jagged, shit-encrusted tin can lid before I'd ever stick it anywhere near you; and three, I'll not only take your home movies and photo album into court, but I'll put them on the Net, and then we'll see what that does for your television career.”

She took the walk-away deal.

And made it big on TV playing the second lead, the sassy best friend, on a sitcom that's been draining viewer IQs for years.

“What do I owe you?” Cheerful asked him afterward.

“Just my hourly.”

“But that's a few hundred,” Cheerful said. “You saved me millions. You should take a percentage. I'm offering.”

“Just my hourly,” Boone said. “That was the deal.”

Cheerful decided that Boone Daniels was a man of honor but a crap businessman, and therefore he made it his hobby to try to get Boone on some sort of sound financial footing, which is something like trying to balance a three-legged elephant on a greased golf ball, but Cheerful persists anyway.

You had money, sure, he tells himself now, but nothing else. You'd do your books, count your money, and sit around your condo eating microwave meals, watching television, cussing out the Padres' middle relief, and thinking about how miserable you were.

Ben Carruthers-multimillionaire, real estate genius, total personal failure. No wife, no kids, no grandkids, no friends.

Boone opened up the windows, let some air and sunshine in.

The Dawn Patrol brought youth into your life. Hell, it brought life into your life. Much as you grouse about them-watching these kids, getting to be a part of their lives, sticking your beak into Boone's cases, playing the curmudgeon-they make it worth getting up in the morning.

Boone, Dave, Johnny, High Tide, Sunny, even Hang Twelve-they're precious to you, admit it. You can't imagine life without them.

Without Boone.

The kid Hang Twelve sits staring at the phone, willing it to ring.

Cheerful thinks he needs to say something to the kid. “He's okay.”

“I know.”

But he doesn't.

Neither of them do.

“You hungry?” he asks Hang.

“No.”

“You have to eat,” Cheerful says. He takes a twenty from his wallet, hands it to Hang. “Go over to The Sundowner, get us a couple of burgers, bring them back.”

“I don't really feel like it,” Hang says.

“Did I ask you what you felt like?” Cheerful says. “Go on, now. Do what I tell you.”

Hang takes the money and leaves.

Cheerful goes to the Yellow Pages, gets the number of Silver Dan's, and calls it. “Let me speak to Dan Silver,” he says. “Tell him Ben Carruthers is on the line.”

He waits impatiently for Silver to get to the phone.