Dawn Patrol - Don Winslow [35]
High Tide was a legend in those O’side rumbles. He’d place his big body in front of his boys, stare down the other side, then yell “Fa’aumu!”—the ancient Samoan call to war. Then it was on, hamo, fists flying until it was the last man standing.
That was always High Tide.
Same thing on the football field. When High Tide came out of the womb, the doctor looked at him and said, “Defensive tackle.” Samoan men play football, period, and because O’side has more Samoans than anyplace but Samoa, its high school team is practically an NFL feeder squad.
High Tide was where running games went to die.
He’d just eat them up, throw off the pulling guard like a sandwich wrapper, then plow the ball carrier into the turf. Teams that played O’side would just give up on the ground game and start throwing the ball like the old Air Coryell Chargers.
Scouts noticed.
Tide would come home from practice to stacks of letters from colleges, but he was interested only in San Diego State. He wasn’t going to go far from home—to some cold state without an ocean to surf in. And he wasn’t going far from aiga, from family, because for a Samoan, family is everything.
So Tide started for four years at State. When he wasn’t slaughtering I-Backs, he was out surfing with his new friends: Boone Daniels, Johnny Banzai, Dave the Love God, and Sunny Day. He gave up the gang banging—it was just old, tired, dead-end shit. He’d still go have a beer with the boys sometimes, but that was about it. He was too busy playing ball and riding waves, and became sort of a matai emeritus in the gang—highly respected, listened to and obeyed, but above it all.
He went early third round in the NFL draft.
Played one promising season, second string for the Steelers, until he got locked up with a Bengals center and the pulling guard came around and low-jacked him.
Tide heard the knee pop.
Sounded like a gunshot.
He came home to O’side depressed as hell, his life over. Sat around his parents’ house on Arthur Avenue, indulging himself in beer, weed, and self-pity, until Boone swung by and basically told him to knock that shit off. Boone practically dragged him back down to the beach and pushed him out into the break.
First ride in, he decided he was going to live.
Used his SDSU glory days to get a gig with the city. Found himself a Samoan woman, got married, had three kids.
Life is good.
Now he explains to Boone some of the intricacies of Oceania business protocol.
“That’s why Eddie only deals with the ohana, bro,” Tide says. “He knows if he goes to a haole family with a debt, they say, ‘What’s it got to do with us?’ Family’s a different concept on this side of the pond, Boone.”
“Yes, it is.”
“Yes, it is.”
Boone eyes Sunny, who’s very deliberately not eyeing him back.
“What’s her problem?” he asks Tide.
Tide has heard all about the British betty from Dave. He slides off his stool, shoves the last bite of the sandwich into his mouth, and pats Boone on the shoulder. “I got work to do. For a smart man, Boone, you’re a fucking idiot. You need any more anthropological insights, give me a ring.”
He pulls his brown wool beanie onto his head, slips on his gloves, and goes out the door.
Boone looks at Sunny. “Hey.”
“Hey.”
“What’s up?”
“Not much,” Sunny says, not looking at him. “What’s up with you?”
“Come on, Sunny.”
She walks over to him. “Okay, are you sleeping with her?”
“Who?”
“Bye, Boone.” She turns away.
“No, she’s a client, that’s all.”
“All of a sudden you know who I’m talking about,” Sunny says, turning toward him again.
“I guess it’s obvious.”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“She’s a client,” Boone repeats. Then he starts getting a little pissed that he has to explain. “And, by the way, what’s it to you? It’s not like we’re …”
“No, it’s not like we’re anything,” Sunny says.
“You see other guys,” Boone says.
“You bet I do,” Sunny shot back. And she has,