The Gentlemen's Hour Page 0,3

hatched a whole lot of chickens. What Dan did was marry his vocation and avocation, building a surf clothing line that just exploded. Started with a little warehouse in PB, and now has his own shiny big building in La Jolla. And you don’t have to be in San Diego to see Nichols’s “N” logo, you can see kids wearing Dan’s gear in Paris, London, and probably Ouagadougou.

So Dan Nichols has many, many bucks.

And he can really surf, so he’s a member in good standing of the PB Gentlemen’s Hour. Now he paddles out behind the barely discernible break and finds Boone sunbathing on his longboard.

“Boone, what’s up?”

“Not the surf,” Boone says. “Hey, Dan.”

“Hey, yourself. What keeps you out past the Dawn Patrol?”

“Sloth,” Boone admits. “Sloth and underemployment.”

If Boone weren’t self-employed he’d be unemployed, and very often it amounts to the same thing anyway.

“Actually, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about,” Dan says.

Boone opens his eyes. Dan looks serious, which is unusual. He’s normally jovial and ultra-laid-back, and why not? You would be too if you had double-digit millions in the bank. “What’s up, Dan?”

“Could we paddle out a little farther?” Dan asks. “It’s kind of personal.”

“Yeah, sure.”

He lets Dan take the lead and paddles behind him another fifty yards out, where the only eavesdroppers might be a flock of brown pelicans flying past. Brown pelicans are sort of the avian mascots of Pacific Beach. There’s a statue of one by the new lifeguard building, which, even now, Dave is climbing to begin another day scoping turistas.

Dan smiles ruefully. “This is hard—”

“Take your time,” Boone says.

Probably Dan suspects that an employee is embezzling, or selling secrets to a competitor or something, which would seriously bum him out, because he prides himself on running a happy, loyal ship. People who go to work at Nichols tend to stay, want to spend their whole careers there. Dan has offered Boone a job any time he wants it, and there have been times when Boone’s been almost tempted. If you’re going to have a (shudder) nine-to-five, Nichols would be a cool place to work.

“I think Donna’s cheating on me,” Dan says.

“No way.”

Dan shrugs. “I dunno, Boone.”

He lays out the usual scenario: She’s out at odd hours with murky explanations, she’s spending a lot of time with girlfriends who don’t seem to know anything about it; she’s distant, distracted, less affectionate than she used to be.

Donna Nichols is a looker. Tall, blond, stacked, leggy—an eleven on a California scale of ten. A definite MILF if she and Dan had children, which they don’t. The two of them are like the poster couple for the SoCal Division of the Beautiful People, San Diego Chapter.

Except they’re nice, Boone thinks. He doesn’t know Donna, but the Nicholses have always struck him as genuinely nice people—down-to-earth, amazingly unpretentious, low-key, generous, good community people. So it’s a real shame that this is happening—if it’s happening.

Which is what Dan wants Boone to find out. “Could you look into this for me, Boone?”

“I don’t know,” Boone says.

Matrimonial cases suck.

Megasleazy, sheet-sniffing, low-rent, depressing work that usually ends badly. And you’re always left feeling like some leering, Peeping Tom pervert who then gets to present the client with proof of his or her betrayal or, on the other hand, confirmation of the paranoia and mistrust that will destroy the marriage anyway.

It’s a bad deal all around.

Only creeps enjoy doing it.

Boone hates matrimonial cases, and rarely if ever takes them.

“I’d consider it a personal favor,” Dan says. “I don’t know where else to turn. I’m going crazy. I love her, Boone. I really love her.”

Which makes it worse, of course. There are a few thousand deeply cynical relationships on the Southern California marital merry-go-round—men acquire trophy wives until the sell-by date does them part; women marry rich men to achieve financial independence via the alimony route; young guys wed older women for room, board, and credit-card rights while they bang waitresses and models. If you absolutely, positively have to do matrimonial, these are the cases you want, because there’s very little genuine emotion involved.

But “love”?

Ouch.

As has been overly documented, love hurts.

It’s sure laying a beat-down on Dan Nichols. He looks like he might actually cry, which would violate an important addendum to the rules of the Gentlemen’s Hour: there’s no crying, ever. These guys are old school—they think Oprah’s a mispronunciation of music they’d never listen to. It’s okay to have feelings—like if you’re looking at photos of your grandchildren—but you can