The Gentlemen's Hour Read online

  Then in 1890, the local newspaper heiress Ellen Browning Scripps decided that she was an artist, and that La Jolla was a good place for art, so she started an artists’ colony. Art colonists started to build artsy little beach cottages in the downtown neighborhood still known as “The Colony.” You can find galleries there today along Prospect or Girard, together with five-star hotels, expensive boutiques, restaurants, nightclubs, and office buildings, and the La Jolla Museum of Contemporary Art occupies a prominent place on the bluff, but the art most practiced in contemporary La Jolla is the art of the deal.

  Boone also likes the “Hole” etymology because his route takes him near the infamous La Jolla sinkhole.

  A little less than a year ago, an area about the size of a football field simply sank into the earth, taking eighteen two-million-dollar homes with it. City engineers warned the residents just the day before that they shouldn’t sleep there that night, but most did. No one was seriously hurt, but a bunch of people had to be rescued.

  The papers called it a landslide, the television reporters deemed it a sinkhole, the geologists referred to it as a breakaway, and the chief city engineer, in Boone’s favorite comment, said, “This is a geologically active area.” No shit, Boone thinks as he drives near the disaster site—an entire neighborhood just fell into a hole, which is just about as active as it gets.

  Maybe, Boone thinks, the Native Americans knew something we didn’t.

  Like, don’t build over a hole.

  He takes a left and turns down toward “Rockpile,” further proof of the area’s geological hyperactivity.

  The rock pile that gives the break its name is a stack of red boulders, now splattered white from seagull guano, that clearly broke off from the cliffs sometime in the undetermined past and landed in the water. Like any formation of solid matter in the ocean, it created something for waves to break on, in this case a tasty outside left, very attractive to the spiritual descendants of Ellen Browning Scripps and to surfers.

  So you have two very different types of people who frequent Rockpile: artsy ladies in sensible shoes and big hats with their easels, canvases, oils, and watercolors, and then you have surfers. They coexist pretty well, because the painters usually stay up on the cliff and the surfers are down in the water.

  The issue is parking.

  Rockpile is in what is basically a ravine between two outlying points, so there is a narrow road down to it and a small parking lot along the actual beach. The small lot obviously has limited room for cars, which is the source of a lot of the recent trouble at Rockpile.

  The locals know each other’s rides, and if a strange car with a surf rack is parked there, that vehicle and its driver could have a problem. Cars sans racks are usually given a pass because the locies figure it’s a painter who isn’t going to try to take up valuable space out at the break. In fact, some of the artists have taken to leaving cardboard signs reading “I’m an Artist” inside their windshields.

  Boone doesn’t do that. He parks the Deuce in the dirt along the side of the road, goes around to the back of the van, and pulls out his old nine-three Balty longboard and leans it against the side of the van. As he peels down to his board trunks he checks out the other cars.

  Despite the location, it seems to be a pretty working-class group. There are a couple of Beemers and one Lexus, but for the most part it’s Fords, Chevys, and Toyotas. And relatively young; lots of decals for metal bands in the windshields. Other decals are less benign: “If You Don’t Live Here, Don’t Surf Here”; “This Is Protected Territory”; “Rockpile Regulars Only.”

  Nice, Boone thinks as he shoulders his board and then carries it down to the beach. Very broly.

  Rockpile is beautiful, no question about it. Boone can see why anyone would want to paint it, surf it, or just hang out there. Just hanging out is about the only option for a surfer today, because there isn’t much surf, but some of the boys are out there by the rocks, sitting on their boards and waiting for something to happen. And scoping the newbie walking into the water. There’re about ten of them, all sitting up and watching Boone as he jumps on his board and paddles out.

  Boone angles off to the right, toward what would be the shoulder of the break if anything were breaking. It’s surf etiquette—he’s headed toward the rear of the lineup and not crossing the path of a wave if anyone was lucky enough to get a ride. It shows he has manners and that he knows what he’s doing, but that apparently isn’t enough at Rockpile.

  One of the surfers breaks out of the line and paddles toward him.

  Boone stops paddling when the guy gets close, and nods in acknowledgment. The surfer looks to be in his midtwenties, has a lot of tatts, short hair. One of the tattoos is a number 5, which Boone doesn’t get, but the rest are the usual Celtic knots, barbed wire, and the like.

  “S’up?” Boone asks.

  “S’up?” the surfer asks. “You new here, bro? I don’t think I’ve seen you before.”

  Boone smiles. “Haven’t been here for a while. I usually surf the pier at PB.”

  “How come you’re not there now?”

  “Thought I’d change it up a little.”

  “Think again, bro.”

  “What?”

  “Think again, bro,” the kid says louder, getting a little aggro. “This isn’t your break.”

  Boone is careful to smile again. “Isn’t anyone’s break today, bro. There’s nothing breaking.”

  He’s truly amazed that the kid wants to start up over literally nothing. He can’t get crowded out of a wave that doesn’t exist.

  The kid says, “Go home, dude.”

  Boone shakes his head and goes to paddle around him. The kid paddles into his way. Boone tries the other direction and the kid blocks him again.

  “That’s bad form, kid,” Boone says. The “kid” sounds strange coming out of his mouth. It doesn’t seem like so long ago when he was the kid and the veteranos were gruffly teaching him good form. Jesus, Boone thinks, I’ll be on the Gentlemen’s Hour soon. Gumming my fish taco and telling tales about the good ole days.

  The kid asks, “What are you going to do about it?”

  Boone feels a flare of temper but squelches it. I am not going to get into a fight in the water, he tells himself. It’s just too stupid. Push comes to shove . . . well, I won’t let it come to shove, I’ll back off first. But otherwise, kid, I’d knock you off that board and dunk you until some manners soak in and . . . Ego, Boone tells himself. Ego, testosterone, and something else—jealousy of the kid’s youth?

  “Just get out of my line,” Boone says. It sounds weak.

  He sees another surfer paddling full steam toward them. The guy is bigger, bulkier, older, his shoulder muscles huge as he paddles with easy strength.

  I’m about to get my ass kicked, Boone thinks. Gang-jumped in the water.

  Epic.

  “Show some respect!” the new guy hollers as he comes up. “Don’t you know who this is?!”

  He glides and sits up on his board. He’s huge—big, broad chest, heavy muscles, square forehead, thick brown hair greased straight back. Probably midthirties. Boone knows him from somewhere but can’t quite place it.

  “This is Boone Daniels,” he says to the younger surfer. “Boone freaking Daniels.

  Mister Daniels to you, pup, and you’ll show him some respect.”

  “Sorry,” the kid mutters. “I didn’t know.”

  Because BD is a BFD, a Big Fucking Deal, and he has an all-rides pass to any break on the Great California Water Park from Brook Street in Laguna to Tijuana Straits. Messing with Boone means not only jerking with him, which is sketchy enough, but also taking on Dave the Love God, High Tide, and Johnny Banzai.

  Like that time at PB pier a couple of years back, when some dismo fishing dudes thought Johnny B had tangled up their lines and went down to front him about it. Yeah, four of these brave fuckers on Johnny—for about five seconds—then Boone, Dave, and High Tide paddled in and it turned out that the fish
ermen didn’t want to throw so bad after all.

  You call the wolf, you get the pack.

  “You’re welcome here,” the older guy says. “Always welcome.”

  “I appreciate it.”

  “Mike Boyd,” he says, stretching out his hand. “I’m a karate buddy of Dave’s.”

  “Right, right,” Boone says, remembering. Dave took him to a few dojos and they messed around with it a little, and Boone went to one of Dave’s tournaments a couple of years back and Mike was there.

  “How’s Dave?”

  “He’s Dave, he’s good.”

  “Haven’t seen him for a while,” Boyd says. “You still hang with the PB Dawn Patrol?”

  “Yeah, you know.”

  “Your crew is your crew.”

  “That’s it.”

  “What brings you here?” Boyd asks. It’s friendly, not a challenge, but there’s a little edge to it. Boyd’s clearly the sheriff here, and he wants to know what’s going on at his beach.

  “Checking it out,” Boone says.

  “Nothing on today.”

  “Same all over,” Boone says. They talk bullshit—the flat surf, the heat, the usual crap—then Boone asks, “Hey, you know this kid Corey Blasingame? The Rockpile Crew?”

  Boyd turns to the younger surfer and says, “Push off, all right?” When the kid is a few feet away, Boyd spits into the water, and then juts his chin toward the handful of surfers laying on the shoulder. “I’m a martial arts instructor. Brad’s a dry-waller. Jerry’s a roofing contractor. We don’t live here but we’ve been surfing here forever. It’s our place. Some of the kids? Yeah, they’re local kids, some of them come from money, I guess. They live around, so it’s their place, too.”

  “Corey, Trevor Bodin, Billy and Dean Knowles,” says Boone, “they glossed themselves the Rockpile Crew.”

  “Rich, spoiled La Jolla kids playing at being something they’re not,” Boyd says. “There’s no gang here, just a bunch of guys who surf.”

  “Did you know Corey? What can you tell me about him?”

  “Corey’s a strange kid,” Boyd says. “He just wanted to belong somewhere.”

  “And he didn’t?”

  “Not really,” Boyd says. “Just one of those kids who always seemed just one click behind the wheel, you know?”

  “Got it,” Boone says. “What about Bodin?”

  “Tough boy.”

  “Real tough,” Boone asks, “or gym tough”?

  There’s a difference. Boone hasn’t seen a fighter yet who looks bad against a bag. And most look okay in sparring matches, where nobody is really trying to hurt anybody. But you put that same guy in a physical confrontation on the street, in a club, or a bar, and maybe he doesn’t look so good.

  “A little of both,” Boyd says, sounding kind of cagey.

  “You’ve seen him in action?”

  “Maybe.”

  Maybe nothing, Boone thinks. Maybe Trevor had helped Boyd keep the fatherland pure—a little law enforcement on the beach or in the parking lot. “And?”

  “He does okay for himself,” Boyd says. “He’s got an edge to him, you know?”

  No, I don’t know, Boone thinks. Bodin backed down pretty quickly at The Sundowner that night, when he was four on three. Maybe his edge came out when the odds were a little better, like four on one.

  “I guess,” Boone says. “Hey, Mike, tell me something. If you’d paddled over here and I wasn’t a buddy of Dave’s and all that, what . . .”

  Because that kid didn’t paddle over here on his own. You sent him to check it out, chase away the interloper. Were you going to extort me, Mike? Make a profit? Further a criminal activity?

  “You would have been politely asked to find another place to surf,” Boyd says.

  “What if I said no?”

  “You would have been politely asked to find another place to surf,” Boyd repeats. “Why are you asking?”

  “Curious.”

  Boyd nods, looks around at the flat sea. Then he says, “So we’re the bad guys now, I guess, huh? We’re the Neanderthals, the animals who give surfing a bad name, just because this fucked-up kid connected with a punch?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “All I ever wanted,” Boyd says, “all I want now, is one little stretch of water in this whole fucking world. I just want a place where I can come and surf. Is that so much to ask, Daniels? Huh?”

  I dunno, Boone thinks.

  Maybe it is.

  23

  Yeah, but he kind of gets Boyd.

  He gets all the Mike Boyds and the Brads and the Jerrys.

  A man works his ass off his whole life, putting up drywall on a house he could never afford, puts food on the table, clothes on his kids’ backs, and all he asks in return is the chance to ride a few waves. Like, he made that deal and it was a good deal, but then it changed as the water started to get clogged with yuppies, wannabes, dilettantes, and dot-com billionaires who can barely wax their own boards.

  It’s not that they’re just taking his water, it’s that they’re taking his life. Without that Rockpile break, what he is is a drywaller, a roofer, a karate instructor in a strip mall. With that break, he’s a surfer, a Rockpile surfer, and it means something.

  It does.

  So what about the kids, the next generation that Boyd needs to keep in line? They have everything, they live in the houses that the Brads and the Jerrys work on. They have money, privilege, and futures (or used to have futures, nix that for Corey). What the hell are they about?

  Why do kids from Rockpile emulate gangstas?

  And why are you so pissed off about it? he asks himself as he drives south on the PCH, back toward PB. Because they turned to surfing, like you did, and found something different than you did? An aggressive localism? A crew? A tribe?

  You have your crew, he tells himself, you have your tribe.

  Dave, Johnny, Tide, even Hang.

  Sunny, in absentia. And face it—it’s everything to you. Probably more than it should be.

  Yeah, but you don’t go out killing people. You just go out and surf, talk some bullshit, have some laughs, bolt some fish tacos. Watch the sun set.

  Good times.

  So why didn’t Corey find that?

  Maybe because you find what you look for.

  What Boyd said about Corey Blasingame? Even in his own circle, the kid didn’t quite cut it. It was like he was trying to fill in this silhouette of what he thought he should be, but he couldn’t color inside the lines.

  Boone’s cell phone rings.

  Hang set it to play the first bar of Dick Dale’s “Misirlou.”

  “S’Boone.”

  “Boone—Dan. I have those records you asked for.”

  “Cool,” Boone says. “Meet me on the pier.”

  “Ten minutes?”

  “Sounds right.”

  Boone makes the rest of the drive back to Crystal Pier, parks the Deuce in the narrow slot by his cottage, and walks out to the end of the pier. Dan Nichols is already out there, leaning against the railing, staring out at the ocean. Something you probably do a lot, Boone thinks, if you suspect your wife is cheating on you.

  Dan hands him the phone record and e-mail printouts.

  “Did you look at them?” Boone asks.

  “Yeah.”

  “And?”

  “Nothing jumps out,” Dan says. “No repeated calls to the same number, except to Melissa.”

  “Who’s—”

  “Her best friend.”

  “Do me a favor?” Boone says. “Cross out

  any

  of these you can explain.”

  “You could run the numbers, couldn’t you?”

  “Yup,” Boone says, “any you don’t cross out. Trying to save me some time and you some cash.”

  “Money isn’t my problem in life, Boone.” Dan looks sad, really beaten down. He runs down the sheet of phone numbers, crossing out line after line.

  Boone says, “Dan, may
be this means you’re wrong about this. Which is, like, a

  good

  thing, you know?”

  “I just

  feel

  it.”

  “Okay.” He takes the records from Dan. “I’ll shout you.”

  “Thanks.”

  “De nada.”

  Boone walks back to the office, hands the phone records to Hang. “Want to make a little extra jack?”

  “Deeds.”

  Surfbonics for “yes.”

  “Run these phone numbers,” Boone says. “Names and addresses.”

  “Moly.”

  Momentarily.

  Boone goes upstairs. Hang Twelve can not only make a computer sing, he can also make it perform Puccini arias standing on a basketball while juggling burning torches.

  Cheerful is banging the adding machine.

  “Didn’t have a chance to tell you,” Boone says. He shoves some old mags off his chair and sits down. “I took the Corey Blasingame gig.”

  Cheerful doesn’t look happy. Which, of course, is his default setting anyway, but now he turns the color up on the unhappy dial. “I’m not sure that’s such a smart move.”

  “It’s a macking dumb move,” Boone says. “Why I’m qualified.”

  “Petra talk you into it?”

  “Sorta.”

  “It’s not going to make you very popular around here,” Cheerful says.

  Boone shrugs. “Keep it to yourself for a while.”

  Hang Twelve bounds up the stairs. “I zipped the Arabics, got tags and cribs for every sat reach-out—totally squeezy, tube blast—and went Amish for you. Foffed?”

  Translation: I ran the numbers, Boone dude, and got names and addresses for every cell-phone call—it was really easy and very fast—and I printed out a hard copy for you. Happy?

  “Mahalo.”

  “Nurries.”

  No worries.

  “Late, yah?”

  “Latrons.”

  Hang bounces back down the stairs.

  Boone looks at the printout. It has nothing to offer—calls to grocery stores, her masseuse, a boutique in Solana Beach . . . routine stuff with very few repeats. So if Donna Nichols has a lover, she isn’t communicating with him over the phone.