The Gentlemen's Hour (5 page)

“Yeah?” Boone asks. “You have any other kook theories?”

“Since you asked,” Petra says, “I think you're so angry because this stupid tragedy has shattered your image of surfing as some sort of pristine moral universe of its own, removed from the rest of this imperfect world where people do horrible things to one another for no apparent reason. Poor, stupid Corey Blasingame has spray-painted his violent graffiti all over your cozy Utopia and you can't deal with it.”

“You mind if I sit up, Doc?” Boone asks. “Or should I just lie down on the floor, seeing as how there's no couch?”

“Suit yourself.”

“I will,” Boone says. He cranes his neck to see Not Sunny leaning against the bar and says, “Make that to go, please?”

Petra says, “Coward.”

Boone stands up, digs in his jeans pocket, and comes out with a couple of crumpled dollar bills that he tosses on the table as a tip. Chuck Halloran, the owner, won't allow Boone to pay an actual tab.

“No, I mean it,” Petra says. “Not only are you afraid of taking a hard look at yourself, you're also afraid that if you take this case, all your surfing
buddies will think less of you and throw you out of the fraternity. I wouldn't have thought it of you, but you leave me with no other choice.”

“On second thought,” Boone says to Not Sunny, “just cancel the order.”

He walks out the door. Not Sunny comes over to the table. “Do you still want the iced tea?”

Petra sighs. “Oh, why not?”

Not Sunny sets the glass on the table.

We have something in common, Petra thinks.

We're both not Sunny.

The night that Kelly Kuhio was killed, PB was rolling with tourists and locals out for a good time. The bars were full and spilling out onto the sidewalks, the beer and wine were flowing, music was pulsing from the clubs and cruising cars with the bass turned up.

Dave and Tide were in The Sundowner, hogueing a platter full of fish tacos, just cooling it out after a day-long session. Dave was burned out from a double shift; Tide was bored from a week of supervising bone-dry storm drains. They were sitting at their table, speculating on where Sunny might be at that moment, somewhere in the world, when the aggro started.

Yelling coming from the bar.

Corey Blasingame was a local kid, nineteen or so, who usually surfed out at Rockpile. Corey could ride a wave, but that was about it—he had no flair, no skill that would distinguish him. Now he was sporting a shaved head and a hoodie in the middle of freaking summer, although the sleeves were cut off to reveal his tattoos.

He had three boys with him—domes also shaved, ripped T-shirts and hoodies, baggy cammie trunks over ankle-high Uggs—and there was some ridiculous crap going around about these guys glossing themselves the Rockpile Crew, how they charged themselves with keeping “law and order” at that La Jolla break, just up the road from Pacific Beach, how they kept the “foreigners” out of their water.

A surf gang in La Jolla. Totally goobed. You know, La Jolla? The richest place in America? Where grown men with silver hair shamelessly wear pink polo shirts? A gang? It was so funny you almost couldn't laugh at it.

Tide did. When Boone brought up the ludicrous nature of a La Jolla gang during the Dawn Patrol, Tide said, “They got gangs in La Jolla. Doctor gangs, lawyer gangs, banker gangs. Those mean fuckers will rip you up, man, you don't replace a divot.”

“Art gallery gangs,” Dave added. “You don't mess with them janes, you value your junk.”

Anyway, the Rockpile Crew was up front, demanding service that the bartender had refused because they were underage. They started yapping about it, arguing, chanting “Rockpile Crew,” and just generally being pains in the ass, disrupting the nice vibe of the evening. Chuck Halloran, the owner, looked out from behind the bar at Dave, like, can you give me a hand with this?

Kelly Kuhio was in a booth with some friends, and he started to get up. Dave saw this and waved him off, like, I got this. That was the thing, Boone thought later, after it all went south—Kelly wasn't even involved in the hassle. He just sat in his booth drinking grapefruit juice and hitting some nachos. He had nothing to do with it.

For that matter, Boone had nothing to do with it, either. He was MIA from The Sundowner that night, on a date with Petra.

So it was Dave who got up from his chair and edged his way through the crowd to the bar and asked Corey, “What's up?”

“What's it to you?”

Dave looked at Corey's eyes and he could see the kid was jacked up. Certainly on beers, but probably something more—meth or speed or something. The boy was hopping up and down on the balls of his feet, his fingers flexing. Still, Dave could also tell from the look in his eye that Corey didn't really want a fight, that he was looking for a face-saving way to back down.

No problem, Dave thought. I'm all about the peace. Yeah, not really. Dave actually likes to go, but that's not what Chuck needed at the moment, and anyway, K2 was in the house, and the man deplored violence. So Dave said, “Dude, you're too cool to want to cost Chuck his license, right? And I don't want to throw with you, you look tough, man.”

Corey smiled and it should have been over right there.

Except that one of Corey's crew didn't want it to be over.

Trevor Bodin was a punk. Unlike Corey, Trevor had the build to back it up. Trevor did his time in the gym and in the dojo, and he fancied himself some kind of mixed martial artist, always yapping about breaking into the Ultimate Fighting Championship.

Now Trevor opened his piehole to say, “You don't want to mess with us, man.”

It was all too predictable that Bodin would want to keep this flame burning. Unlike if he were in a UFC octagon, he was surrounded by his boys who could pull his nutsack out of the fire if he got in trouble, so Trevor was real brave and mouthy.

“What's this have to do with you?” Dave asked him.

“What's it have to do with
you
?” Trevor answered.

Which was, like, a mistake.

Dave stepped forward and just kept walking, moving the guy toward the door. Tide did the same with Corey and the two other Rockpile Crew, and not one of them, not Corey or Trevor or Billy or Dean Knowles, did
a damn thing about it. They didn't push back, they didn't throw, they just let themselves get ushered out onto the sidewalk.

Which was good thinking for morons. They were looking at two Pacific Beach
legends
, and the legends wanted them out of there, and they were just smart enough to go. But not smart enough to keep their mouths shut. It was almost comical, Corey hopping so he could yell over Tide's shoulder, “Rockpile Crew! Rockpile Crew!”

“Whatever,” Dave said. “Move along.”

“You don't own the sidewalk,” Trevor said.

“You want to see what I own?” Dave asked.

Trevor didn't. Neither did the rest of the crew. They strutted up Garnet, chanting, “Rockpile Crew! Rockpile Crew!”

Dave and Tide went back to the bar and laughed about it.

Nobody was laughing about it the next day.

Because Kelly Kuhio was in a coma.

Boone walks straight to the beach.

Where he always goes when he's pissed off, sad, or confused. Looks to the ocean for an answer, or at least solace.

Pete's full of shit, he thinks as he looks at the torpid sea. Classic defense attorney bullshit. It's always somebody else's fault, not the poor criminal's. He's just a victim of society. “Lynch mob” my aching ass. Four guys going to a man's house and beating him to death, that's a lynch mob.

Except Pete's not some knee-jerk, NPR-addicted, Volvo-driving, crunchy granola, left-wing type. She enthuses about the Laffer curve,
thinks litterers should get jail time, and owns a gun, for Chrissakes. Hell, if she wasn't getting paid to do the opposite, she'd be out to hang little Corey from the yardarm.

The beach is crowded today, mostly with families. Lots of kids running around, and they don't seem to care that there's no surf. The mommies and daddies sure like it, they can relax and let the kiddies ride the boogie boards in the tiny whitewash. Other kids are tossing Frisbees, playing paddleball, making sand castles. A few women are asleep in beach chairs, paperback books lying open on their laps.

Up on Crystal Pier people are strolling around, enjoying the view, the sunshine, the blue water. A few fishermen cluster at the end of the pier, their lines stretched down into the water, pretty much just an excuse to be out there on a day when the fish aren't biting. Below the pier a few lunchtime surfers are out, more from habit than hope that any decent wave is going to come along. Still, it's better than sitting in the office cubicle waiting for the bell to sound again and summon them back to whatever shit is waiting on their desks.

Pete's right about the lynching thing, Boone reluctantly concedes. The papers have been full of editorials and letters demanding strong reaction to the Kuhio murder, and the radio talk shows have been hammering the deterioration of Pacific Beach, the callers and hosts screaming for a “crackdown.”

So dumb-ass Corey takes some of that weight. Is that so unfair? He killed someone.

Case closed.

Or is it? Was it the punch that killed Kelly, or the sidewalk? You've been in a few scuffles yourself, thrown a couple of punches. What if the addressee of one of those had fallen backward, hit his head on something unforgiving that canceled his reservation? Would that have made you guilty of murder, justifiably put you in a box the rest of your life?

It depends.

On what?

On the very shit that Alan Burke wants you to look into. You know the game—a top-notch trial lawyer such as Alan is too smart to try for an acquittal, he'll try to get the jury to go for a lesser charge, and he'll angle his case toward the sentencing hearing. That's if he takes it to trial at all—he'll probably try to find some facts that might persuade the DA to cut the kid a deal instead.

Boone looks back out at the ocean, where a flock of pelicans skim over the surface. A weak breeze wafts a scent of salt air and suntan lotion.

Is Pete right? Boone wonders. Is that what has you so jacked up? That this murder confirmed something you've known for a long time but didn't want to admit—that surfing isn't the Utopia you always wanted it to be? Needed it to be?

He decides to see his priest.

Dave the Love God sits atop the lifeguard tower.

Boone walks to the base of the tower and asks, “Permission to come aboard?”

“Granted.”

Boone climbs up the ladder and sits down next to Dave, who doesn't so much as turn his head to acknowledge his presence. Dave stares steadily out at the water, the shallows of which are packed with tourists, and doesn't take his eyes off it. Sure, the ocean is placid, but Dave knows from experience how quickly tedium can turn to terror. While the running joke among the Dawn Patrol is that Dave uses the tower as a vantage point to
scope
turista
women—which he does—the actual truth is that when Dave is on duty and people are in the water, he is deadly serious about his job.

It's the rule that Boone's dad drilled into him, the rule that they all grew up with:

Never turn your back on a wave.

Never turn your back on the absence of a wave, either, because the second you do, a real thundercrusher will rise out of nowhere and smack you down. The ocean may look like one thing on the surface, but there's
always
something different happening underneath. That something could start a thousand miles away and then be headed toward you and you'll never know about it until it happens.

Dave's been on duty on a totally placid day when a freak rip comes in and takes a few swimmers out and then it's on, and the few seconds it might have taken him to get over his surprise would have cost those people their lives. As it was, he wasn't surprised, never surprised by the ocean, because, as much as we love her, she's a treacherous bitch. Moody, mercurial, seductive, powerful, and deadly.

So Dave's head never turns toward Boone as they talk. Both men look straight out at the water.

“Your take on something?” Boone asks.

“You come seeking wisdom, Grasshopper?”

“Do you think,” Boone says, “that we're a smug, self-anointed elite that can't see past our own zinc-oxide-covered noses?”

Dave touches the bridge of his nose to check that the zinc oxide is still fresh. Then he says, “Sounds about right.”

“What I thought,” Boone says, getting up.

“That's it?”

“Yup.”

“'Bye.”

“Thanks.”

“Nada.”

Boone walks up the beach.

Boone only knows what happened that night from the newspaper accounts and the usual beach-bongo telegram system of rumors that went around PB.

But here's how it went.

Kelly Kuhio walked out of The Sundowner a little after midnight, stone-cold sober, on his way to his car in a parking lot on the corner.

He never made it.

Corey Blasingame—drunk, stoned, high on whatever—stepped out of the alley, backed by his crew, walked up to Kelly, and punched him.

Kelly fell backward and hit his head on the curb.

He never regained consciousness.

They unplugged him from life support three days later.

Petra sits and sips her tea.

Very unlike her, to sit and do nothing, but she's sort of enjoying it, sitting and musing about Boone.

An odd man, she thinks. Simplistic on the surface, but extraordinarily complicated below. A maelstrom of contradictions beneath a placid-seeming sea. A Tarzan-like surfer boy who reads Russian novels at night.
A devoted glutton of junk food without an ounce of body fat who can grill fish to a turn over an open fire. A philistine who, when jollied into it, can talk quite intelligently about art. A disillusioned cynic with barely concealed idealism. A man who will desperately sprint away from anything that resembles emotion, but a deeply sensitive soul who might simply be the kindest and gentlest man you've ever met.