Free The Gentlemen's Hour by Don Winslow Page B

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, thekid 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.”
    â€œS’Boone.”
    â€œBoone—Dan. I have those records you asked for.”
    â€œCool,” Boone says. “Meet me on the pier.”
    â€œTen minutes?”
    â€œSounds 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.
    â€œDid you look at them?” Boone asks.
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œAnd?”
    â€œNothing jumps out,” Dan says. “No repeated calls to the same number, except to Melissa.”
    â€œWho’s—”
    â€œHer best friend.”
    â€œDo me a favor?” Boone says. “Cross out any of these you can explain.”
    â€œYou could run the numbers, couldn’t you?”
    â€œYup,” Boone says, “any you don’t cross out. Trying to save me some time and you some cash.”
    â€œMoney 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, maybe this means you’re wrong about this. Which is, like, a good thing, you know?”
    â€œI just feel it.”
    â€œOkay.” He takes the records from Dan. “I’ll shout you.”
    â€œThanks.”
    â€œDe nada.”
    Boone walks back to the office, hands the phone records to Hang. “Want to make a little extra