The Gentlemen's Hour (Boone Daniels #2)

But he had to admit that even in his lifetime he had witnessed the gradual crowding out of his beloved surf breaks, as the sport gained in popularity and became cultural currency. It seemed like everyone was a surfer these days, and the water was crowded. The weekends were freaking ridiculous, and Boone was tempted sometimes to take Saturdays and Sundays off, there were so many (mostly bad) surfers hitting the waves.

It didn’t matter, though; it was just something you had to tolerate. You couldn’t stake out a piece of water like it was land you’d bought. The great thing about the ocean was that it wasn’t for sale, you couldn’t buy it, own it, fence it off—hard as the new luxury hotels that were appearing on the waterside like skin lesions tried to block off paths to the beaches and keep them “private.” The ocean, in Boone’s opinion, was the last stand of pure democracy. Anyone—regardless of race, color, creed, economic status, or the lack thereof—could partake of it.

So he found localism understandable but ultimately wrong.

A bad thing.

A malignantly bad thing, because more and more often, over the past few years, Boone, Dave, Tide, and Johnny all found themselves playing peacemaker, intervening in disputes out on the water that threatened to break into fights. What had been a rare event became commonplace: preventing some locies from hammering an interloper.

There was that time right at PB. It wasn’t the Dawn Patrol, it was a Saturday afternoon so the water was crowded with locals and newcomers. It was tense out on the line, too many surfers trying to get in the same waves, and then one of the locals just went off. This newbie had cut him off on his line, forcing him to bail, and he sloshed through the whitewater and went after the guy. Worse, his buddies came in behind him.

It would have been serious, a bad beat-down, except Dave was on the tower and Johnny was in the shallows playing with his kids. Johnny got there first and got between the aggro locies and the dumb newbie and tried to talk some sense. But the locies weren’t having it, and it looked like it was on when Dave came up, and then Boone and Tide, and the Dawn Patrol combo plate got things settled down.

But Boone and the other sheriffs from the Dawn Patrol weren’t at every break, and the ugly face of localism started to scowl at a lot of places. You started to see bumper stickers proclaiming “This Is Protected Territory,” and the owners of those cars—too often fueled by meth and beer—felt entitled to enforce the edict. Certain breaks up and down the California coast became virtual “no go” zones—even the surf reports warned “foreigners” to stay clear of those breaks.

What evolved were virtual gangs claiming ocean turf.

It was ridiculous, Boone thought. Stupid. Everything that surfing isn’t. Yeah, but it was. A scar on the body oceanic, even if Boone didn’t want to look at it.

But he never expected to see it in The Sundowner.

The Sundowner is old school. Go in there, you’ll find guys from the Dawn Patrol, from the Gentlemen’s Hour, surfers from the pro tour, out-of-towners on a pilgrimage to a surf mecca. Everyone is welcome at The Sundowner.

Maybe Boone should have seen it coming. The signs were all there, literally, because he started to see them in the windows of other joints in Pacific Beach, reading “No Caps. No Gang Colors.”

Gang colors?!

Freaking gang colors on Garnet Avenue?

Yeah, and it was a problem. The past few years, gangs started to come to PB. Gangs from Barrio Logan and City Heights, but also local gangs, surf gangs—surf freaking gangs—claimed clubs and whole blocks as their partying turf and defended them against other gangs. More and more bars began to hire full-time professional bouncers and security, and the streets of laid-back, surf-happy PB got sketchy at night.

But that couldn’t happen at The Sundowner.

Yeah, except it did.



11

Petra slides into the booth across from Boone.

He pretends to study the menu, which is ridiculous because Boone has had breakfast here almost every morning for the past ten years, and always orders the same thing.

The waitress, Not Sunny, is a tall blonde, leggy and pretty, and Petra wonders if there’s some sort of secret breeding facility in California where they just crank out these creatures, because there seems to be an inexhaustible supply. When the original Sunny left her job at The Sundowner to go off on the professional surfers’ tour, the new tall, blond, and leggy replacement appeared immediately, in a seamless progression of California Girls.

Nobody seems to know her real name, nor does she seem bothered that she has been tabbed Not Sunny, doomed to exist in Sunny’s shadow, as it were. Indeed, Not Sunny is a pale version of her namesake; on the surface as pretty, but lacking Sunny’s depth, intelligence, and genuine warmth.

Now Not Sunny stares at Boone and says, “Eggs machaca with jack cheese, corn and flour tortillas, split the black beans and home fries, coffee with two sugars.”

Boone pretends to study the menu for an alternative, then says, “Just flour.”

“Huh?”

“Just flour tortillas, not corn.”

Not Sunny takes a moment to digest this change in her world, then turns to Petra and asks, “And for you?”

“Do you have iced tea?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“I’ll have an iced tea, please,” Petra says. “Lemon, no sugar.”

“Lemonnnnn . . . no sugar,” Not Sunny says to herself as she walks away to place the order, which, in fact, the cook had thrown on the grill the second he saw Boone come through the door.

“Oh, put the menu down,” Petra says to Boone.

Boone puts the menu down and looks at her. It isn’t a nice look.

“Why are you so angry?” she asks.

“Kelly Kuhio was one of the finest people I ever knew,” Boone answers. “And your piece-of-shit client killed him.”

“He did,” Petra says. “I’m by no means convinced, however, that he’s guilty of first-degree murder.”

Boone shrugs. It’s a slam dunk—if the DA can put Corey on death row, good for her. Mary Lou Baker is a tougher-than-nails veteran prosecutor who doesn’t lose a lot of cases, and she is coming hard on this one.

Hell, yes, she is, because the community is outraged. The killing made the headlines every day for two weeks. Every development in the case makes the paper. And the radio talk show jocks are all over it, demanding the max.

San Diego wants Blasingame in the hole.

“I’ll tell you what I am convinced of, though,” Petra says. “I’m convinced that this city has formed a collective lynch mob for Corey Blasingame because he’s bad for the tourist industry upon which the economy depends. San Diego wants families to come to Pacific Beach and spend money, which they’re not likely to do if the area gets a reputation for violence. So the city is going to make an example of him.”

“Yeah?” Boone asks. “You have any other kook theories?”

“Since you asked,” Petra says, “I think you’re so angry because this stupid tragedy has shattered your image of surfing as some sort of pristine moral universe of its own, removed from the rest of this imperfect world where people do horrible things to one another for no apparent reason. Poor, stupid Corey Blasingame has spray-painted his violent graffiti all over your cozy Utopia and you can’t deal with it.”

“You mind if I sit up, Doc?” Boone asks. “Or should I just lie down on the floor, seeing as how there’s no couch?”

“Suit yourself.”

“I will,” Boone says. He cranes his neck to see Not Sunny leaning against the bar and says, “Make that to go, please?”

Petra says, “Coward.”

Boone stands up, digs in his jeans pocket, and comes out with a couple of crumpled dollar bills that he tosses on the table as a tip. Chuck Halloran, the owner, won’t allow Boone to pay an actual tab.

“No, 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 surfing buddies 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.”

“On 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?”