Don Winslow - The Gentlemens Hour

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

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

Its boringthe 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 cant work up the energy to produce a wave.

Kansas, Hang Twelve complains.

Hang Twelve, thusly glossed because he has a dozen toesfortunately six on each footis 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, hes 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. Hes 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 theres no surf in Kansas, Hang Twelve says stubbornly, because hes almost certain theres no ocean in Kansas, unless maybe its the Atlantic, in which case theres probably no surf either.

Theres 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.

Ill kill you if you want, High Tide offers, propping up his big head on one big fist. The origin of the 375-pound Samoans nickname is obvioushe 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 Johnnys wheelhouse. Its refreshing to put his mind to a murder that isnt going to happen, as opposed to the three all-too-real killings he has on his desk right now, including one he doesnt even want to think about. Its been a hot, tetchy summer in San Diegotempers 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.

Drowning him would be easiest, Boone suggests.

Hello? Tide says. Hes a lifeguard ?

Dave the Love God is a lifeguard, only slightly more famous for the lives hes saved than for the women hes slept with on his one-man crusade to boost San Diegos tourist industry. Right now, though, hes belly down on his board, moaning.

Are you kidding? Boone asks. Look at him.

Drowning is too blatantly ironic, Johnny says. I mean, the headline legendary lifeguard drowns in flat sea? It doesnt work for me.

Do you have your gun? Tide asks.

In the water ?

If you were my friend, Dave says with a groan, youd paddle in, get your pistol from your car, and shoot me.

Do you know the paperwork involved in discharging your firearm? Johnny asks.