The Gentlemen's Hour (Boone Daniels #2)

One of the many reasons his stuffy La Jolla neighbors love having Eddie in the hood.

Red Eddie is shirtless over black hui board trunks, the black being a symbol of extreme localism back in the islands. If you’re a haole and you pull up to a break full of guys with black trunks on, pull out. What Eddie isn’t wearing is a helmet, or elbow or knee pads, because he thinks they make him look stupid.

Now he points to the bracelet attached to his right ankle.

“You see this?” he says as Rabbit and Echo usher Boone into the backyard. “This is your bad.”

Boone isn’t exactly eaten up with guilt. For one thing, if you had to be under house arrest, Red Eddie’s is a pretty nice crib to do it in. His little nest is seven thousand square feet overlooking Bird Rock Beach, with a horizon pool, Jacuzzi, skateboard half pipe, four bedrooms, a living room with a 260-degree view of the Pacific, a state-of-the-art kitchen where Eddie’s personal chef does new and progressive things with Spam, and a home theater with its enormous flat-screen-plasma, Bose sound system and every piece of video-game techno known to postmodern man.

Second, Eddie should be in an eight-by-seven hole in a FedMax facility on some cold, rainy stretch of northern coast instead of his sunny mansion in La Jolla, because the Harvard-educated, Hawaiian-Japanese-Chinese-Portuguese-Anglo-Californian pakololo magnate was importing underage Mexican girls along with his usual marijuana shipments, and Boone is more than happy to accept responsibility for busting him.

Therefore, third, Red Eddie is damn lucky to be under house arrest as his lawyers drag out the criminal proceedings against him while persuading the judge that Red Eddie, who owns houses in Kauai, Honolulu, the Big Island, Puerto Vallarta, Costa Rica, and Lucerne, is no flight risk because of his ties to the community. “Ties to the community”—no shit, Boone thinks. Eddie’s ties to the community are stored in numbered accounts all over Switzerland and the Cook Islands.

“Do you know, Boonedoggle,” Eddie says, “that I can’t go more than seventy-five feet from my house except to go to the doctor? And did you further know, Bonnie-boone, that I have developed a chronic condition that requires frequent medical attention?”

“You’re a perpetual dickwad?” Boone asks.

Which indicates massive testosterone levels on his part.

Red Eddie just smiles at the insult, but his Doberman, Dahmer, likewise perched on the edge of the half pipe, looks down at Boone and growls.

“You’re starting to look alike,” Boone says. “He has a collar, too.”

They do kind of look alike—short hair; thin, wiry bodies; long, sharp noses. Except that Eddie’s hair is orange while Dahmer’s is jet black, and Eddie’s body is festooned with tattoos whereas Dahmer has retained the natural look. The other big difference is internal—as a dog, albeit a vicious dog, Dahmer possesses a genetically encoded set of moral restraints.

Eddie launches himself off the platform, flies down the pipe, gets air, does a 180, lands on the opposite platform, and asks, “You know what your problem is, Ba-Boone?”

“Why do I have a feeling that you’re going to tell me?”

“You’re lolo,” Eddie says. “Stupid. You’re a bus laugh, you really crack me up. Number the first—you had a chance to end my game and you passed on it. Stupid. Number the second—you thought I was guilty of child prostitution when I didn’t know those sick taco f*cks were sticking little girls in between my bales of healthful herbal products. Stupider, and, may I add, personally hurtful. Number the third—you actually had the temerity to try to put me into prison for this misapprehension. Stupidest. And just when I think you have achieved the summit of stupidityness, you surpass yourself.”

He has a point, Boone thinks. I probably should have let him drown when I had the chance, and I was dumb enough to think that the justice system was going to exact justice. And even though Dave could and would testify that Red Eddie had hired him to bring shipments of weed in from the ocean, there was no physical evidence. And no evidence directly tying Eddie to the children, either. The sad fact is that Eddie will probably soon take off his ankle bracelet and walk. So how could I top that?

Eddie tells him.

“Boone, Boone, Boone,” he says, “I keep an eye on my friends and a bigger eye on my enemies, and seeing as how you are simultaneously both, why’d you think you could intrude your stupidosity into my business and it wouldn’t reach my ear?”

The light comes on.

Boone says. “Corey Blasingame.”

“Killed one of the ohana,” Eddie says. “Lolo as you are, do you think for one moment I would let that slide? No can be.”

“I didn’t think about it at all.”

“Exactly.”

Check. A haole killed a native Hawaiian—not only a native Hawaiian, but a genuine kamaaina, a man of standing, a hero. Of course Eddie would consider himself honorbound to avenge that, even if no one asked him to, or even wanted him to. It would have nothing to do with a simplistic sense of justice, or even his feeling for Kelly, it would be about Eddie’s prestige.

Like any socio, Eddie is all about Eddie.

“Hey, Eddie,” Boone says, “let’s do a quick tally—how many Hawaiians Corey has killed versus how many Hawaiians you’ve killed.”

Eddie looks at his boys and says, “Hurt him a little.”

Before Boone can move, Rabbit slides in and jams a heavy fist into Boone’s kidney. It hurts, a lot more than a little, and Boone finds himself on his knees.

Which was more or less the idea.

Eddie looks down with some satisfaction, launches himself, does another aerial maneuver, and lands again.

“Don’t you talk to me that way,” he says. “Especially when I’m making you a favor. I’m only trying to save you a little sweat, bruddah, keep you from spinning in little Boonedoggedness circles for absolutely nuttin’.”

Eddie thinks he owes Boone because Boone pulled Eddie’s little son out of the ocean once. Now he leans over and sticks his pointed nose right at Boone. “Whatevuhs you do or don’t, whatevuhs Alan Burke do or don’t, no boddah, garans—little Corey B be dead. Anyone gets in my line, including you, Boone, there’ll be koko. Blood. Mo bettuh you paddle off, bruddah.”

“You’re right, Eddie,” Boone answers. “I should have let you drown.”

You at least deal dope and you probably dealt children, you take what you want by force, and your wealth is built on other people’s pain.

“I talk to the shark,” Eddie says, “and only the shark can tell me when it’s my time. And he hasn’t told me.”

“I’ll have a word with him.”

Eddie laughs. “You do that, Boone-brah. Now get up and get out. My physical therapist is coming over. Five-five, an insta-woodie rack, and a Dyson mouth. Speaking of which, it must be a dry spell for you now that Sunny has flown, or are you tapping that little Brittita?”

He sees the dark look come across Boone’s face. “Boddah you? You give me stink eye, you got bus nose like I smell, da kine? You wanna go, bruddah, let’s go. Local-style, skin on skin.”

“If you didn’t have the dog and your boys—”

“But I do. Sucks for you.”

He slides down the tube.

Sucks for me, Boone thinks as he gets to his feet and feels the resultant ache in his back where his kidney is protesting its ill treatment.

Eddie sucks for the whole world.



45

Rabbit and Echo drive Boone back to the Spy Store to pick up the Deuce.

Eddie will kill you but he won’t inconvenience you, because it would violate his sense of aloha.

“I owe you a shot,” Boone tells Rabbit.

“I shame, bruddah.”

“I shame.”

“Nothing personal.”

“Personal.”

“As awri,” Boone says. That’s all right.

“Ass why hard,” Rabbit says.

“Ass why—”