that’s material to the investigation of an unattended death—”
“Hello?” she says, waving her hand. “
I’m
the attorney? Stanford Law? Top of my class?”
“And if
I
withhold information, they could yank my license.”
“Then forget I told you,” she says. “Look, I’ll swear that I didn’t tell you, all right?”
“How did you do in ethics class?” Boone asks.
“An
A
,” she says. Like, What else?
“What, did you cheat on the final?”
“When did you become such a Goody Two-sandals?” she asks. “I thought you were so laid-back.”
“I need my PI license to eke out a meager living,” Boone says, realizing as it comes out of his mouth that it makes him sound totally lame. The rules were not made to be broken, but they were made to be bent, and any PI who doesn’t bend them into pretzels isn’t going to be in business for long.
Besides, Boone thinks, there’s a solid reason for not telling the SDPD that the dead woman at the Crest Motel isn’t Tammy Roddick. The deceased checked into the motel, pretending for some reason to be Tammy. It’s possible that someone bought the act and killed her because of it. So the real Tammy, out there somewhere, is safe until the truth gets out.
The problem is to find her before the killer realizes his mistake.
Petra is saying something about “… could put her in danger.”
“I’m there already,” Boone says.
Which, to his surprise, shuts her up.
Must be the shock, he thinks. Seeing as how he’s ahead of her in the wave, he decides to ride it out. “Then the first step is to find out, if the dead woman isn’t Tammy—”
“She isn’t.”
“I got that,” Boone says, thinking, Well, it was nice while it lasted. Then: “Who was she?”
“I don’t know.”
Boone shakes his head to make sure he heard her say that she didn’t know something, then he says, “We’d better find out.”
“How are we going to do that?”
“
We’re
not,” Boone says. “
I
am.”
Because Boone knows:
You want to find out about physics, you go to Stephen Hawking; you want to learn about basketball, you go to Phil Jackson; you want to know about women who take their clothes off for a living, you go to—
21
Dave the Love God sits on his lifeguard tower at Pacific Beach and intently scopes two young women making their way up the beach.
“Visible tan lines, fresh,” Dave tells Boone, who’s sitting beside him on the tower, in violation of God knows how many rules. The two women, one a slightly overweight blonde with a big rack, the other a taller, skinnier brunette, are walking past now. “Definitely Flatland Barbies. I say Minnesota or Wisconsin, secro-receptionists, sharing a double room. Which makes for a challenge, but not one without its rewards.”
“Dave …”
“I have needs, Boone. I’m not ashamed of them.” He smiles. “Well, I
am
ashamed of them, but—”
“It doesn’t stop you.”
“No.”
Dave is a living legend, both as a lifeguard and a lover. In the latter category, Dave’s a tenth-level black belt of the horizontal
kata
. He’s been spread over more tourist flesh than Bain de Soleil. Johnny Banzai insists that Dave is actually listed in Chamber of Commerce brochures as an attraction, right alongside SeaWorld.
“No, really,” Johnny has said. “They go see the Shamu show, they check out the pandas at the zoo, and they fuck Dave.”
“You know what I love about tourist women?” Dave now asks Boone.
The list of possible answers is staggering, so Boone simply says, “What?”
“They leave.”
It’s the truth. They come for a good time, Dave gives them one, and then they go home, usually thousands of miles away. They go away, butthey don’t go away mad. They like Dave every bit as much when they go to bed with him as when he doesn’t drive them to the airport.
They even give him
references
.
Truly, they go home and tell their girlfriends, “You’re going to San Diego? You have to look up
“Hello?” she says, waving her hand. “
I’m
the attorney? Stanford Law? Top of my class?”
“And if
I
withhold information, they could yank my license.”
“Then forget I told you,” she says. “Look, I’ll swear that I didn’t tell you, all right?”
“How did you do in ethics class?” Boone asks.
“An
A
,” she says. Like, What else?
“What, did you cheat on the final?”
“When did you become such a Goody Two-sandals?” she asks. “I thought you were so laid-back.”
“I need my PI license to eke out a meager living,” Boone says, realizing as it comes out of his mouth that it makes him sound totally lame. The rules were not made to be broken, but they were made to be bent, and any PI who doesn’t bend them into pretzels isn’t going to be in business for long.
Besides, Boone thinks, there’s a solid reason for not telling the SDPD that the dead woman at the Crest Motel isn’t Tammy Roddick. The deceased checked into the motel, pretending for some reason to be Tammy. It’s possible that someone bought the act and killed her because of it. So the real Tammy, out there somewhere, is safe until the truth gets out.
The problem is to find her before the killer realizes his mistake.
Petra is saying something about “… could put her in danger.”
“I’m there already,” Boone says.
Which, to his surprise, shuts her up.
Must be the shock, he thinks. Seeing as how he’s ahead of her in the wave, he decides to ride it out. “Then the first step is to find out, if the dead woman isn’t Tammy—”
“She isn’t.”
“I got that,” Boone says, thinking, Well, it was nice while it lasted. Then: “Who was she?”
“I don’t know.”
Boone shakes his head to make sure he heard her say that she didn’t know something, then he says, “We’d better find out.”
“How are we going to do that?”
“
We’re
not,” Boone says. “
I
am.”
Because Boone knows:
You want to find out about physics, you go to Stephen Hawking; you want to learn about basketball, you go to Phil Jackson; you want to know about women who take their clothes off for a living, you go to—
21
Dave the Love God sits on his lifeguard tower at Pacific Beach and intently scopes two young women making their way up the beach.
“Visible tan lines, fresh,” Dave tells Boone, who’s sitting beside him on the tower, in violation of God knows how many rules. The two women, one a slightly overweight blonde with a big rack, the other a taller, skinnier brunette, are walking past now. “Definitely Flatland Barbies. I say Minnesota or Wisconsin, secro-receptionists, sharing a double room. Which makes for a challenge, but not one without its rewards.”
“Dave …”
“I have needs, Boone. I’m not ashamed of them.” He smiles. “Well, I
am
ashamed of them, but—”
“It doesn’t stop you.”
“No.”
Dave is a living legend, both as a lifeguard and a lover. In the latter category, Dave’s a tenth-level black belt of the horizontal
kata
. He’s been spread over more tourist flesh than Bain de Soleil. Johnny Banzai insists that Dave is actually listed in Chamber of Commerce brochures as an attraction, right alongside SeaWorld.
“No, really,” Johnny has said. “They go see the Shamu show, they check out the pandas at the zoo, and they fuck Dave.”
“You know what I love about tourist women?” Dave now asks Boone.
The list of possible answers is staggering, so Boone simply says, “What?”
“They leave.”
It’s the truth. They come for a good time, Dave gives them one, and then they go home, usually thousands of miles away. They go away, butthey don’t go away mad. They like Dave every bit as much when they go to bed with him as when he doesn’t drive them to the airport.
They even give him
references
.
Truly, they go home and tell their girlfriends, “You’re going to San Diego? You have to look up
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