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tosses on the table as a tip. Chuck Halloran, the owner, won’t allow Boone to pay an actual tab.
    â€œNo, I mean it,” Petra says. “Not only are you afraid of taking a hard look at yourself, you’re also afraid that if you take this case, all your surfingbuddies will think less of you and throw you out of the fraternity. I wouldn’t have thought it of you, but you leave me with no other choice.”
    â€œOn second thought,” Boone says to Not Sunny, “just cancel the order.”
    He walks out the door. Not Sunny comes over to the table. “Do you still want the iced tea?”
    Petra sighs. “Oh, why not?”
    Not Sunny sets the glass on the table.
    We have something in common, Petra thinks.
    We’re both not Sunny.

12
    The night that Kelly Kuhio was killed, PB was rolling with tourists and locals out for a good time. The bars were full and spilling out onto the sidewalks, the beer and wine were flowing, music was pulsing from the clubs and cruising cars with the bass turned up.
    Dave and Tide were in The Sundowner, hogueing a platter full of fish tacos, just cooling it out after a day-long session. Dave was burned out from a double shift; Tide was bored from a week of supervising bone-dry storm drains. They were sitting at their table, speculating on where Sunny might be at that moment, somewhere in the world, when the aggro started.
    Yelling coming from the bar.
    Corey Blasingame was a local kid, nineteen or so, who usually surfed out at Rockpile. Corey could ride a wave, but that was about it—he had no flair, no skill that would distinguish him. Now he was sporting a shaved head and a hoodie in the middle of freaking summer, although the sleeves were cut off to reveal his tattoos.
    He had three boys with him—domes also shaved, ripped T-shirts and hoodies, baggy cammie trunks over ankle-high Uggs—and there was some ridiculous crap going around about these guys glossing themselves the Rockpile Crew, how they charged themselves with keeping “law and order” at that La Jolla break, just up the road from Pacific Beach, how they kept the “foreigners” out of their water.
    A surf gang in La Jolla. Totally goobed. You know, La Jolla? The richest place in America? Where grown men with silver hair shamelessly wear pink polo shirts? A gang? It was so funny you almost couldn’t laugh at it.
    Tide did. When Boone brought up the ludicrous nature of a La Jolla gang during the Dawn Patrol, Tide said, “They got gangs in La Jolla. Doctor gangs, lawyer gangs, banker gangs. Those mean fuckers will rip you up, man, you don’t replace a divot.”
    â€œArt gallery gangs,” Dave added. “You don’t mess with them janes, you value your junk.”
    Anyway, the Rockpile Crew was up front, demanding service that the bartender had refused because they were underage. They started yapping about it, arguing, chanting “Rockpile Crew,” and just generally being pains in the ass, disrupting the nice vibe of the evening. Chuck Halloran, the owner, looked out from behind the bar at Dave, like, can you give me a hand with this?
    Kelly Kuhio was in a booth with some friends, and he started to get up. Dave saw this and waved him off, like, I got this. That was the thing, Boone thought later, after it all went south—Kelly wasn’t even involved in the hassle. He just sat in his booth drinking grapefruit juice and hitting some nachos. He had nothing to do with it.
    For that matter, Boone had nothing to do with it, either. He was MIA from The Sundowner that night, on a date with Petra.
    So it was Dave who got up from his chair and edged his way through the crowd to the bar and asked Corey, “What’s up?”
    â€œWhat’s it to you?”
    Dave looked at Corey’s eyes and he could see the kid was jacked up. Certainly on beers, but probably something more—meth or speed or something. The boy was hopping up and down on