Free The Gentlemen's Hour by Don Winslow

5, which Boone doesn’t get, but the rest are the usual Celtic knots, barbed wire, and the like.
    â€œS’up?” Boone asks.
    â€œS’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.”
    â€œHow come you’re not there now?”
    â€œThought I’d change it up a little.”
    â€œThink again, bro.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œThink 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.
    â€œThat’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?
    â€œJust 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.
    â€œShow 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.
    â€œThis is Boone Daniels,” he says to the younger surfer. “Boone freaking Daniels. Mister Daniels to you, pup, and you’ll show him some respect.”
    â€œSorry,” 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 downto 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 fishermen didn’t want to throw so bad after all.
    You call the wolf, you get the pack.
    â€œYou’re welcome here,” the older guy says. “Always welcome.”
    â€œI appreciate it.”
    â€œMike Boyd,” he says, stretching out his hand. “I’m a karate buddy of Dave’s.”
    â€œRight, 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