The Gentlemen's Hour

by Don Winslow

Jones prefers to be active. He enjoys his work, but a little leisure doesn’t go down so hard, either. Apparently his employer and the powers that be are trying to work this particular problem out “amicably.” If so, Jones gets a free vacation in San Diego; if not, he does a job of work and takes a fatter envelope home with him.

  In the meantime he strolls the beach boardwalk, slathers himself with sunblock, observes the lovely young ladies in their swimsuits, and imagines them grimacing in pain.

  All in all, a good day.

  49

  Boone goes home.

  Pulls a yellowtail steak out of the fridge, gets it ready, and tosses it on the grill.

  Sunny always used to bust him for his ability to eat the same thing over and over again, day after day, but Boone never got what the problem was. His logic was simple: if something is good on Tuesday, why isn’t it good on Wednesday? All that’s changed is the day, not the food.

  “But what about variety?” Sunny pressed.

  “Overrated,” Boone answered. “We surf every day, don’t we?”

  “Yeah, but we change up the place sometimes.”

  He steps outside, turns the fish over, and sees High Tide coming up the pier. Boone goes outside to meet him.

  “Big man,” Boone says. “S’up?”

  “We need to talk.”

  Boone unlocks his door and says, “Come on in.”

  He’s known Tide since college days, when the big man was a star lineman at SDSU, headed for the pros. He was there to pick him back up when a knee injury ended that career. Boone didn’t know him in his gangbanging days, when Tide was the lord of the Samoan gangs in O’Side, before he found Jesus and gave all that up. He’s heard the stories, though—not from Tide but from other people.

  They go into Boone’s. Tide gently lets himself down on the sofa.

  “You want anything?” Boone asks.

  Tide shakes his big head. “I’m good.”

  Boone sits in a chair across from him. “What’s up?”

  High Tide is usually a pretty funny guy. Not now. Now he’s dead serious. “You’re on the wrong side of this, Boone.”

  “The Blasingame case.”

  “See, we don’t look at it as ‘the Blasingame case,’” Tide says. “We look at it as the ‘Kuhio murder.’”

  “‘We’ being the island community?” Bundling together the Hawaiians, Samoans, Fijians, and Tongans who have moved in greater numbers to California.

  Tide nods. “We fight among ourselves, but when an outsider attacks the

  calabash

  , the community, we bond together.”

  “I get that.”

  “No,” Tide says, “if you got that, you wouldn’t be lining up on the other side. We’re talking about Kelly Kuhio . . . K2. You know how many islanders the kids have to look up to? A few football players, a couple of surfers. You remember when the Samoan gangs were going at each other?”

  “Sure.”

  “K2 went street to street, block to block, with me,” Tide says. “He put himself on the line to bring the peace.”

  “He was a hero, Tide, I’m not arguing that.”

  Tide looks bewildered. “Then—”

  “They’re out to lynch that kid,” Boone says. “It’s not right.”

  “Let the system work it out.”

  “That’s what I’m doing.”

  “

  Without

  you,” Tide says. “Burke can hire any PI he wants. It doesn’t have to be you. I’m telling you, it’s personally hurtful to me that you took this case. I’m asking you, as your friend, to step out of it.”

  High Tide is not only a friend, but also one of the most fundamentally decent people whom Boone has ever known. He’s a man who rebuilt his life—not once, but twice—a family man whose view of family extends to his whole community. He’s gone back and worked with the gangs he used to lead in fights, he’s created peace and a little hope. An intelligent, sensitive man who wouldn’t have come with this request unless he’d given it a lot of thought.

  But he’s wrong, Boone thinks. Every lawyer, every investigator in town, could take a pass on this case on the same basis, and even the Coreys of the world—especially the Coreys of the world—need help. If Kelly taught us anything, he taught us that.

  “I’m sorry, Joshua, I can’t do that.”

  Tide gets up.

  Boone says, “We’re still friends, right?”

  “I don’t know, B,” Tide says. “I’ll have to think about that.”

  First Johnny, now Tide, Boone thinks after the big man has left. How many friendships do I have to put on the line for piece-of-shit Corey Blasingame?

  Then he smells his fish burning.

  He runs outside but the tuna has already gone Cajun style on him. He brings it back in, lays it in a tortilla with the red onion, finds some hot sauce in the fridge, pours it all over the fish, and then scarfs down the whole mess in a few big bites.

  Food is food.

  Then he calls Pete.

  She’s still at the office, of course.

  You don’t make partner working nine to five, or even nine to nine.

  “Hall,” she says.

  “Daniels.”

  “Hi, Boone, what’s up?”

  He fills her in on his day looking for the soul of Corey Blasingame, leaving out his fight at the dojo, Red Eddie’s threat, and the fact that he’s pissing off half his friends. There’d be time to tell her about that later.

  When he’s finished his account she says, “There’s really not a lot there we can use. The father is an alternately overbearing and neglectful horror show, and Corey was a mediocre surfer and a poor martial artist. Unfortunately, not poor enough. I think it does knock the ‘gang’ thing back a bit, though.”

  “There is no Rockpile ‘gang’ outside the four of them,” Boone says. “And their only criminal activity seems to be going around trying to start fights.”

  Yeah, except, he thinks. There’s always a freaking “except,” isn’t there? The except in this case being the two points of contact. Corey and the other Mouseketeers surf at Rockpile, a spot notorious for its localism, and the sheriff there is Mike Boyd. Corey and the boys trained at Boyd’s gym, where Corey learned the punch that killed Kelly Kuhio. The freaking Superman Punch.

  “. . . a late dinner or something?” she’s saying.

  “Uhh, Pete, yeah, I’d like to, but I have to work.”

  “The

  w

  word?” she asks. “From the self-proclaimed surf bum?”

  She keeps it light, but he can hear that she doesn’t quite believe him, thinks it’s payback from last night.

  “Yeah, you never know, huh?” Boone says. “But listen, another night . . .”

  “Another night. Well, I won’t keep you.”

  He punches out.

  50

  Dan Nichols is also on the phone.

  Saying, “. . . I understand. . . . I understand. . . . No, I understand.” Dan understands.

  51

  Bill Blasingame sets down the phone.

  His hand is shaking.

  He looks at it, surprised. Tells himself to quit being a pussy and stop his hand from quivering.

  It doesn’t.

  Bill’s

  freaked.

  52

  Well, he paid me back, Petra thinks. She gets out of the elevator and walks into the parking structure of the office building. Apparently an appreciation for subtlety is too much to expect from a man whose idea of sophistication is a shirt with buttons.

  Petra hits the unlock button on her remote key, flinches at the responding honk of the horn, and reminds herself again to take it into the dealer to have that particularly annoying “feature” removed.

  She gets in, turns the ignition, and heads toward the exit, driving down level after level of switchback turns until she comes to the gate, rolls down the window, and touches her card to the little machine.

  What passes for human con
tact, she thinks.

  Well done, girl, she tells herself. Another evening of dining alone over a microwave “dinner” or a take-out Chinese, and

  God

  , would that there were a decent Indian in downtown San Diego that delivered, just to mix it up a little.

  She steers the car onto the street.

  I should start walking to work, she thinks. The streets are relatively safe at night, it’s foolish going to the gym and hitting the treadmill, and God knows I’m not in a particular hurry to get home. Where I usually do the same things I do in the office, only with my shoes off and the television on for background noise. Read documents, take notes . . . go to bed.

  Alone.

  Again.

  Yes, well done, girl.

  She goes down the ramp into the parking structure of her building.

  Damn him, damn him,

  damn

  him.

  53

  A few students are hanging out in Team Domination, sparring, getting in a little bagwork, lifting weights.

  One of them is Boone’s “corner,” Dan.

  “Hey,” Boone says. “Mike around?”

  “He took off.”

  “Any idea where?”

  Dan has this funny little look on his face, like he knows where Boyd is but also knows that he shouldn’t say. The other gym rats have their ears pricked up, too. So apparently “Mike around?” is an interesting question.

  “I say something funny?” Boone asks.

  A guy yanking kettle weights in the corner sets them down and comes over. Boone recognizes him from this afternoon. The guy says, “Mike said you might come around.”

  “And here I am.”

  “He said we could use a guy like you.”

  “Well, I’m a useful guy.”

  I can surf, I can burn fish . . .

  “Mike’s out in Lakeside,” the guy says. “The 14 Club.”

  The 14 Club? Boone thinks. He remembers the “5” tattoo on Mike’s thick forearm. The boy has this number thing going.

  “I’ll go check it out,” Boone says.

  “You go check it out,” the kettle-weight guy says with this weird, smarmy smile.

  So I guess we agree on that, Boone thinks.

  I’ll go check it out.

  54

  It’s an article of faith among surfers in SoCal that you journey east of Interstate 5 at your own risk.

  Nowhere is this more true than in San Diego County.

  In fact, a lot of people make a clear distinction between San Diego County and the fictional “East County,” its eastern portion, the latter, rightly or wrongly, having a rep for crystal meth, biker bars, and the Southern California version of rednecks. Sticking with the stereotypes for the moment, west of the 5 you have stoned-out surfers smoking weed, east of the 5 you got jacked-up gearheads spitting tobacco.

  So Boone drives east, thirty miles out to the town of Lakeside, up in the barren hills just north of Interstate 8.

  Lakeside is cowboy country.

  No, actual, real cowboys—hats, boots, big-belt-buckle cowboys—forty-five minutes from downtown San Diego. The bars out here have pickup trucks in the gravel parking lots, built-in toolboxes in the beds, and dogs chained to eyebolts to keep people from lifting the tools while the owner’s inside having a few beers.

  The 14 Club is your classic cinder-block bunker. The small windows have been painted black to keep cops, wives, and girlfriends from peeking in. The small “14” sign is hand-lettered, red on black. There’s dozens of these joints in “East County”—hard-drinking caves for hardworking guys looking to blow off a little steam at the end of the day.

  Yeah, except—

  Boone walks through the door and the music is

  blasting.

  Bass like resuscitation paddles.

  And it ain’t Merle Haggard, either, or Toby or Travis or who the hell ever. It’s slamming heavy-metal “punk,” for lack of a better description, and the clientele aren’t cowboys, they’re skinheads. Doc Martens, suspenders, T-shirts, tatts, the whole nine.

  Which is surprising to Boone because he thought that scene died a well-deserved death years ago. Great, he thinks, now we have

  retro

  skinheads. I guess everything comes back in style sooner or later.

  Boone, in his faded Bullhead jeans, black Hurley T-shirt, and an old pair of Skechers, feels distinctly out of place.

  SEI.

  The skins are slamming to the music and they are

  jacked

  on beer and speed. This scene could get ugly—ugli

  er

  , Boone reconsiders—in a heartbeat. He looks around and spots Mike Boyd leaning backward on the bar, a bottle of beer in his hand, watching the scene, and nodding with approval.

  Boone pushes his way through the crowd and makes his way to Boyd.

  “Hey!” Boone shouts over the music.

  Boyd looks only a little surprised to see him, but then again, he also looks about half shit-faced. “Three times in one day! To what do I owe the honor?! And how’s your neck?!”

  “Still attached to my head!” Boone answers. “Just barely!”

  “Tap out next time!”

  Yeah, “next time,” Boone thinks. Ain’t gonna be no next time, Mikey.

  “How’d you find me?!” Mike yells.

  “Your boys clued me! I hope that’s cool!”

  “You’re welcome here!” Mike says, tapping his fist to Boone’s. “

  Very

  welcome!”

  “What

  is

  here?!” Boone asks. “What is this?!”

  “You know ‘14’?!” Boyd asks.

  Boone shakes his head.

  “You will!” Boyd says. “When you find yourself, who you really are, your identity!”

  Okay, Boone thinks, this is getting seriously weird.

  “Why did you come here, Boone?!”

  Good question, Boone thinks, his head already throbbing from the concussive noise. Boone’s musical tastes run to Jack Johnson, Common Sense, Dick Dale, maybe a little surf reggae or some good Hawaiian slack key. This shit is killing him. I must be getting old, he thinks, grousing about how loud the kids play their so-called music.

  Next stop, the Gentleman’s Hour.

  He doesn’t know how to answer Boyd’s question. Like, what’s he supposed to say—that he’s hinky Boyd has shown up twice in the same case? That he wonders what the nexus is among the Rockpile Crew, Team Domination, and Corey Blasingame?

  As it turns out, Boyd answers his own question.

  “You came here,” he says, “for the same reason that salmon swim upstream!”

  “To spawn?!” Boone asks. “I don’t

  think

  so, Mike!”

  There are some girls here, but they’re way too young and not at all Boone’s type. Pale, skinny, blond “East County” chicks, wearing black jeans over boots and hanging all over their skinhead boyfriends? No spawning for me, Mike.

  “To fulfill your natural destiny!” Boyd answers.

  Seriously, seriously,

  grim

  weird.

  Anyway, Boone thinks, my natural destiny is to surf until I have to gum my fish tacos and hopefully topple over in a wave.

  West of the 5.

  Speaking of 5, what’s the tatt about?

  And what’s up with this “14” shit?

  The music picks up—picks

  up

  —in intensity and the skins start slamming each other, chest-bumping, head-butting—retro, retro, retro—as the lead guitar wails the same chord over and over again, and then Boone picks up on the lyrics.

  Wham!

  Show ’em who I am!

  Wipe the mud off my feet,

  Hose the mud off the street

  So I can walk again

  Like a white man!

  Okaaaay

  , Boone thinks. Rhymes, anyway. Boyd leans over and yells into Boone’
s ear. “Fourteen! Fourteen

  words

  !”

  Which turn out to be, “We must secure the existence of our people and a future for white children.”

  Boone counts them—fourteen words, all right. “The man who said that,” Boyd hollers, “died in prison!” Good idea, Boone thinks.

  Wham!

  The taco’s head goes bam!

  What do I see?

  Another block is free!

  Where I can walk again

  Like a white man!

  “He gave his

  life

  for the cause!” Boyd yells. He has fucking

  tears

  in his eyes. “We all have to be prepared to give our lives for the cause!”

  Yeah, no, Boone thinks.

  Not me.

  Not for

  this

  cause.

  White supremacist, neo-Nazi, needle-dick, double-digit IQ, mouth-breathing, bottom-feeding, off-the-chart dismo, sick bullshit.

  The skins are rocking out now—the adrenaline is pumping, the blood is flowing.

  Good, Boone thinks.

  Bleed out.

  55

  As Boone drives away, his ears are still ringing from the music and Boyd’s parting words.

  “You’ll be back, Daniels! When you figure it all out, you’ll be back!”

  Yeah.

  Boone drives west until he spots a Starbucks sign—no big trick there—and pulls off. He digs out the laptop and Googles.

  The fourteen words—“We must secure the existence of our people and a future for white children”—were the Nathan Hale of one David Lane, founder of the neo-Nazi group the Order, who was sentenced to a buck ninety in prison for murder, bank robbery, and other happy crap. He tapped out in the joint in 1997.

  So good things

  do

  happen in prison, Boone thinks.

  He types in “5 + white supremacist.”

  What comes up makes him sick to his stomach.

  In white-supremo code, “5” stands for “the Five Words”:

  I have nothing to say.

  56

  Turns out to be a white supremacist slogan coined by a local San Diego buttplug, Alex Curtis, at his trial for violating people’s civil rights. Boone sort of remembers the whole thing. Curtis was a young creep from “East County” who had a Web site and a streaming podcast to spew his drool. Was a big proponent of the “lone wolf” tactic—which said that the racists should act alone to foil law enforcement—go out solo to kill Jews and blacks and the rest of the “mud people.”