The Gentlemen's Hour Page 0,9

the edict. Certain breaks up and down the California coast became virtual “no go” zones—even the surf reports warned “foreigners” to stay clear of those breaks.

What evolved were virtual gangs claiming ocean turf.

It was ridiculous, Boone thought. Stupid. Everything that surfing isn’t. Yeah, but it was. A scar on the body oceanic, even if Boone didn’t want to look at it.

But he never expected to see it in The Sundowner.

The Sundowner is old school. Go in there, you’ll find guys from the Dawn Patrol, from the Gentlemen’s Hour, surfers from the pro tour, out-of-towners on a pilgrimage to a surf mecca. Everyone is welcome at The Sundowner.

Maybe Boone should have seen it coming. The signs were all there, literally, because he started to see them in the windows of other joints in Pacific Beach, reading “No Caps. No Gang Colors.”

Gang colors?!

Freaking gang colors on Garnet Avenue?

Yeah, and it was a problem. The past few years, gangs started to come to PB. Gangs from Barrio Logan and City Heights, but also local gangs, surf gangs—surf freaking gangs—claimed clubs and whole blocks as their partying turf and defended them against other gangs. More and more bars began to hire full-time professional bouncers and security, and the streets of laid-back, surf-happy PB got sketchy at night.

But that couldn’t happen at The Sundowner.

Yeah, except it did.

11

Petra slides into the booth across from Boone.

He pretends to study the menu, which is ridiculous because Boone has had breakfast here almost every morning for the past ten years, and always orders the same thing.

The waitress, Not Sunny, is a tall blonde, leggy and pretty, and Petra wonders if there’s some sort of secret breeding facility in California where they just crank out these creatures, because there seems to be an inexhaustible supply. When the original Sunny left her job at The Sundowner to go off on the professional surfers’ tour, the new tall, blond, and leggy replacement appeared immediately, in a seamless progression of California Girls.

Nobody seems to know her real name, nor does she seem bothered that she has been tabbed Not Sunny, doomed to exist in Sunny’s shadow, as it were. Indeed, Not Sunny is a pale version of her namesake; on the surface as pretty, but lacking Sunny’s depth, intelligence, and genuine warmth.

Now Not Sunny stares at Boone and says, “Eggs machaca with jack cheese, corn and flour tortillas, split the black beans and home fries, coffee with two sugars.”

Boone pretends to study the menu for an alternative, then says, “Just flour.”

“Huh?”

“Just flour tortillas, not corn.”

Not Sunny takes a moment to digest this change in her world, then turns to Petra and asks, “And for you?”

“Do you have iced tea?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“I’ll have an iced tea, please,” Petra says. “Lemon, no sugar.”

“Lemonnnnn . . . no sugar,” Not Sunny says to herself as she walks away to place the order, which, in fact, the cook had thrown on the grill the second he saw Boone come through the door.

“Oh, put the menu down,” Petra says to Boone.

Boone puts the menu down and looks at her. It isn’t a nice look.

“Why are you so angry?” she asks.

“Kelly Kuhio was one of the finest people I ever knew,” Boone answers. “And your piece-of-shit client killed him.”

“He did,” Petra says. “I’m by no means convinced, however, that he’s guilty of first-degree murder.”

Boone shrugs. It’s a slam dunk—if the DA can put Corey on death row, good for her. Mary Lou Baker is a tougher-than-nails veteran prosecutor who doesn’t lose a lot of cases, and she is coming hard on this one.

Hell, yes, she is, because the community is outraged. The killing made the headlines every day for two weeks. Every development in the case makes the paper. And the radio talk show jocks are all over it, demanding the max.

San Diego wants Blasingame in the hole.

“I’ll tell you what I am convinced of, though,” Petra says. “I’m convinced that this city has formed a collective lynch mob for Corey Blasingame because he’s bad for the tourist industry upon which the economy depends. San Diego wants families to come to Pacific Beach and spend money, which they’re not likely to do if the area gets a reputation for violence. So the city is going to make an example of him.”

“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