Free Hot Lava by Rob Rosen Page B

capital of the world, though similar looking to the ones that dotted the California coast, with its myriad tourist shops, quaint eateries, and unique galleries. (Which was great, because we were almost out of finely decorated conch shells). A pleasant breeze wafted through the open window, smelling of the ocean that lay just barely out of sight. We eagerly stared out, watching, waiting.
    And then there it was, the Pacific, much different looking on this end of the island than on our own. The waves were massive, breaking in a torrent of white. The surfers in their black wetsuits rode high above or just within the waves, appearing and then disappearing as the water enveloped them. It was just like the surfer movies I’d seen on television, only real and breathtaking.
    The limo pulled into a lot. We hopped out as Liko retrieved the items I’d ordered the night before: two blankets and a picnic basket for four. It felt strange leaving the driver behind, but stranger still to invite him to join us. What did Britney and Paris do? I wondered. Probably slept with their drivers. (Not an unpleasant thought, all things considered.)
    We walked onto the beach, which was small, almost private, perhaps with fifty other spectators, most of whom were surfers. We set up shop off to the side, just below a wide tree that covered our pristine swath of sand. The sun was super strong, broiling at midday. Tanning was one thing, cooking was something else entirely. The shade was nicer, smarter, less wrinkle-inducing.
    We spread the blankets out and arranged the food and iced beers, plus soda for the minor. Then we settled in. The surfers gave us a show as we chowed down. Athletes on the water, majestic as ballet dancers, agile as gymnasts. And so we sat there, staring, mesmerized, relaxed, at least for the time being.
    “Well,” Koni said, midway through our meal. “What’s the plan?”
    We did indeed have one but hadn’t filled him in just yet. After all, he was still in the dark about Will, who he thought was simply a friend of ours, albeit a helpful one with a purported (and then confirmed) big dick. We therefore thought it best to dish out information on an as-needed basis. “First, we’re going to see Lenny’s parents,” I told him. “Will managed to get us the address through, um, some contacts of his. Then we’re going to check out the place that Buck told us about.” We’d tell the local police afterward, and only if we found out anything. After all, the word of a street hustler wasn’t exactly golden, especially one such as Buck, and the cops might not be so willing to act on what he’d said.
    “I think I’ve lost my appetite,” Koni lamented.
    “Yeah,” I concurred. “It’s not going to be pleasant. But the police, from what we know, have already come and gone, and concluded that Lenny’s parents were oblivious to their son’s dealings.” Again we neglected to tell him that what we knew all came from Will.
    “Suspected dealings,” Brandon corrected.
    “Uh huh, exactly. In any case, if we find out anything, it can only help us,” I explained, and hoped I was right. We were, in fact, treading on shaky ground here. But, since Will had told us that the police were indeed through with Lenny’s parents, they were fair game for us. He, of course, being on the case now, could use any information we successfully gathered. And perhaps our not being police would enable us to find out something they had not. After all, the police hadn’t been on Lenny’s side up until this point, which his parents certainly were well aware of, thanks to all the press coverage.
    I know, I know. The whole thing was iffy at best. We were sticking our noses in where they didn’t belong. But please remember, we each felt responsible for Lenny’s death. Had he not escaped, he’d still be alive, perhaps even found innocent by the police and then subsequently released. As things stood, the authorities weren’t convinced either way about his