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the balls of his feet, his fingers flexing. Still, Dave could also tell from the look in his eye that Corey didn’t really want a fight, that he was looking for a face-saving way to back down.
    No problem, Dave thought. I’m all about the peace. Yeah, not really. Dave actually likes to go, but that’s not what Chuck needed at the moment, and anyway, K2 was in the house, and the man deplored violence. So Dave said, “Dude, you’re too cool to want to cost Chuck his license, right? And I don’t want to throw with you, you look tough, man.”
    Corey smiled and it should have been over right there.
    Except that one of Corey’s crew didn’t want it to be over.
    Trevor Bodin was a punk. Unlike Corey, Trevor had the build to back it up. Trevor did his time in the gym and in the dojo, and he fancied himself some kind of mixed martial artist, always yapping about breaking into the Ultimate Fighting Championship.
    Now Trevor opened his piehole to say, “You don’t want to mess with us, man.”
    It was all too predictable that Bodin would want to keep this flame burning. Unlike if he were in a UFC octagon, he was surrounded by his boys who could pull his nutsack out of the fire if he got in trouble, so Trevor was real brave and mouthy.
    â€œWhat’s this have to do with you?” Dave asked him.
    â€œWhat’s it have to do with you ?” Trevor answered.
    Which was, like, a mistake.
    Dave stepped forward and just kept walking, moving the guy toward the door. Tide did the same with Corey and the two other Rockpile Crew, and not one of them, not Corey or Trevor or Billy or Dean Knowles, dida damn thing about it. They didn’t push back, they didn’t throw, they just let themselves get ushered out onto the sidewalk.
    Which was good thinking for morons. They were looking at two Pacific Beach legends , and the legends wanted them out of there, and they were just smart enough to go. But not smart enough to keep their mouths shut. It was almost comical, Corey hopping so he could yell over Tide’s shoulder, “Rockpile Crew! Rockpile Crew!”
    â€œWhatever,” Dave said. “Move along.”
    â€œYou don’t own the sidewalk,” Trevor said.
    â€œYou want to see what I own?” Dave asked.
    Trevor didn’t. Neither did the rest of the crew. They strutted up Garnet, chanting, “Rockpile Crew! Rockpile Crew!”
    Dave and Tide went back to the bar and laughed about it.
    Nobody was laughing about it the next day.
    Because Kelly Kuhio was in a coma.

13
    Boone walks straight to the beach.
    Where he always goes when he’s pissed off, sad, or confused. Looks to the ocean for an answer, or at least solace.
    Pete’s full of shit, he thinks as he looks at the torpid sea. Classic defense attorney bullshit. It’s always somebody else’s fault, not the poor criminal’s. He’s just a victim of society. “Lynch mob” my aching ass. Four guys going to a man’s house and beating him to death, that’s a lynch mob.
    Except Pete’s not some knee-jerk, NPR-addicted, Volvo-driving, crunchy granola, left-wing type. She enthuses about the Laffer curve,thinks litterers should get jail time, and owns a gun, for Chrissakes. Hell, if she wasn’t getting paid to do the opposite, she’d be out to hang little Corey from the yardarm.
    The beach is crowded today, mostly with families. Lots of kids running around, and they don’t seem to care that there’s no surf. The mommies and daddies sure like it, they can relax and let the kiddies ride the boogie boards in the tiny whitewash. Other kids are tossing Frisbees, playing paddleball, making sand castles. A few women are asleep in beach chairs, paperback books lying open on their laps.
    Up on Crystal Pier people are strolling around, enjoying the view, the sunshine, the blue water. A few fishermen cluster at the end of the pier, their lines stretched down into the