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Authors: Don Winslow

The Gentlemen's Hour

BOOK: The Gentlemen's Hour
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Praise for Don Winslow's

The Gentlemen's Hour

“Escape at its finest . . . Smart and fast-moving . . . Winslow produces the large cast of characters with panache and delight. Pick it up and watch out for that undertow.”

—Alan Cheuse,
The Dallas Morning News

“His prose drips with authentic detail, capturing the seedy side of the San Diego surfing scene as well as the beauty of sundown on the southern California coast. Even if you don't know the difference between hanging ten and a ‘gremmie,' Winslow's novel will have you craving waves.”

—Christian DuChateau, CNN

The Gentlemen's Hour
is beach reading with a kick—pure, uncut hammock heroin served with a side order of social relevance.”

—Peter Rowe,
The San Diego Union-Tribune

“No other current crime writer does a more compelling job of capturing the geography, the people and the terrible things that can happen in this beautiful landscape . . . and the whole book moves with vigour and finesse.”

—Jack Batton,
The Toronto Star

“As Boone Daniels' latest adventure proves, Winslow remains refreshingly inventive while guiding his protagonist, and his readers, to a satisfying conclusion.”

—Steve Duin,
The Oregonian

“Winslow hits the perfect balance here between surf and substance, enough of the latter to give his characters some gristle but not so much as to keep his story from being as unabashedly enjoyable as a perfect day at the beach.”

(starred review)

“[Winslow's] combination of social commentary and breathless action packs a wallop.”

(starred review)

“This sequel to Winslow's
Dawn Patrol
is more than just a snappy summertime thriller written with hip surfer dude dialog. It's a thoughtful cultural commentary about an iconic coastal community with too much money, constant sunshine, and terminal greed.”

Library Journal
(starred review)

“The laid-back calm of the Southern California surfing community of Pacific Beach boils over violently in Winslow's fast-paced sequel to
The Dawn Patrol
. . . . Winslow ensures there's nothing ‘gentlemanly' about the action.”

Publishers Weekly

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Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Chapter 69

Chapter 70

Chapter 71

Chapter 72

Chapter 73

Chapter 74

Chapter 75

Chapter 76

Chapter 77

Chapter 78

Chapter 79

Chapter 80

Chapter 81

Chapter 82

Chapter 83

Chapter 84

Chapter 85

Chapter 86

Chapter 87

Chapter 88

Chapter 89

Chapter 90

Chapter 91

Chapter 92

Chapter 93

Chapter 94

Chapter 95

Chapter 96

Chapter 97

Chapter 98

Chapter 99

Chapter 100

Chapter 101

Chapter 102

Chapter 103

Chapter 104

Chapter 105

Chapter 106

Chapter 107

Chapter 108

Chapter 109

Chapter 110

Chapter 111

Chapter 112

Chapter 113

Chapter 114

Chapter 115

Chapter 116

Chapter 117

Chapter 118

Chapter 119

Chapter 120

Chapter 121

Chapter 122

Chapter 123

Chapter 124

Chapter 125

Chapter 126

Chapter 127

Chapter 128

Chapter 129

Chapter 130

Chapter 131

Chapter 132

Chapter 133

Chapter 134

Chapter 135

Chapter 136

Chapter 137

Chapter 138

Chapter 139

Chapter 140

Chapter 141

Chapter 142

Chapter 143

Chapter 144

Chapter 145

Chapter 146

Chapter 147

Chapter 148

Chapter 149

Chapter 150

Chapter 151

Chapter 152

Chapter 153

Chapter 154

Chapter 155

Chapter 156

Chapter 157

Chapter 158

Chapter 159

Chapter 160

Chapter 161

Chapter 162

Chapter 163

Chapter 164

Chapter 165

Chapter 166

Chapter 167

Chapter 168

Chapter 169

Chapter 170

Chapter 171

About Don Winslow

But I don't need that much

Sunshine in my cup,

No, I don't need that much. . . .

—Nick Hernandez, Common Sense, “Sugar in My Cup”



See “flatter than.”

Like the ocean this August morning in Pacific Beach, San Diego, California.

Aka Kansas.

As the Dawn Patrol gives way to the Gentlemen's Hour.


Earth, air, fire, and water.

The four elements, right?

Let's let air go for a minute—except in LA, it's pretty much a given. Fire's not the topic either—for now, anyway.

Leaving earth and water.

They have more in common than you'd think.

For example, they can both look static on the surface, but there's always something going on underneath. Like water, earth is always moving. You can't necessarily see it, you might not feel it, but it's happening anyway. Beneath our feet, tectonic plates are shifting, faults are widening, quakes are tuning up to rock and roll.

So that dirt we're standing on, “solid ground”?

It's moving beneath us.

Taking us for a ride.

Face it—whether we know it or not, we're all always surfing.


Boone Daniels lies face up on his board like it's an inflatable mattress in a swimming pool.

He's half asleep. The sun that warms his closed eyes is already burning off the marine layer relatively early in the morning. He's out there as usual with the Dawn Patrol—Dave the Love God, High Tide, Johnny Banzai, Hang Twelve—even though there's no surf to speak of and nothing to do except talk story. The only regular not present for duty is Sunny Day, who's in Oz on the Women's Professional Surfing Tour and also making a video for Quiksilver.

It's boring—the torpid dog days of late summer, when Pacific Beach is overrun with tourists, when most of the locies have basically sung “See you in September,” and the ocean itself can't work up the energy to produce a wave.

“Kansas,” Hang Twelve complains.

Hang Twelve, thusly glossed because he has a dozen toes—fortunately six on each foot—is the junior member of the Dawn Patrol, a lost pup that Boone took under his arm when the kid was about thirteen. White as a Republican National Committee meeting, he sports Rastafarian dreadlocks and a red retro-beatnik goatee, and despite or perhaps because of his parents' many acid trips, he's an idiot savant with a computer.

“Have you ever been to Kansas?” Johnny Banzai asks, sounding a little aggro. He doubts that Hang has ever been east of Interstate 5.

“No,” Hang answers. He's never been east of Interstate 5. “Then how do you know?” Johnny presses, in full-on interrogator mode now. “For all you know, Kansas could be covered with mountain ranges. Like the Alps.”

“I know there's no surf in Kansas,” Hang Twelve says stubbornly, because he's almost certain there's no ocean in Kansas, unless maybe it's the Atlantic, in which case there's probably no surf either.

“There's no surf in San Dog,” Boone offers. “Not today, anyway.”

Dave, lying on his stomach, lifts his head off the board and pukes
into the water. Again. Boone and Dave have been boys since elementary school, so Boone has seen Dave hung over many, many times, but not quite like this.

Last night was “Mai Tai Tuesday” at The Sundowner.

“You gonna live?” Boone asks him.

“Not enthusiastically,” Dave answers.

“I'll kill you if you want,” High Tide offers, propping up his big head on one big fist. The origin of the 375-pound Samoan's nickname is obvious—he gets into the ocean, the water level rises; he gets out, it falls. Simple displacement physics. “Something to do, anyway.”

Johnny Banzai is all over it. “How? How should we kill Dave?”

As a homicide detective for the San Diego Police Department, killing Dave is right in Johnny's wheelhouse. It's refreshing to put his mind to a murder that
going to happen, as opposed to the three all-too-real killings he has on his desk right now, including one he doesn't even want to think about. It's been a hot, tetchy summer in San Diego—tempers have flared and lives have been extinguished. A vicious drug war for control of the Baja Cartel has spilled across the border into San Diego, and bodies are turning up all over the place.

BOOK: The Gentlemen's Hour
7.38Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub

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