The Gentlemen's Hour
Read The Gentlemen's Hour Online
Authors: Don Winslow
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.”
âAlan 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 âgremmie,' Winslow's novel will have you craving waves.”
âChristian DuChateau, CNN
“
The Gentlemen's Hour
is beach reading with a kickâpure, uncut hammock heroin served with a side order of social relevance.”
âPeter 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.”
âJack 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.”
âSteve 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.”
â
Booklist
(starred review)
“[Winslow's] combination of social commentary and breathless action packs a wallop.”
â
Kirkus
(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.”
â
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 âgentlemanly' about the action.”
â
Publishers Weekly
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But I don't need that much
Sunshine in my cup,
No, I don't need that much. . . .
âNick Hernandez, Common Sense, “Sugar in My Cup”
Kansas.
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 minuteâexcept in LA, it's pretty much a given. Fire's not the topic eitherâfor 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 itâwhether 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 PatrolâDave the Love God, High Tide, Johnny Banzai, Hang Twelveâeven 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 boringâthe 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 toesâfortunately six on each footâis 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 obviousâhe 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
isn't
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 Diegoâtempers 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.