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
feelings—like if you’re looking at photos of your grandchildren—but you can never acknowledge them, and showing them is
over the line.
Boone says, “I’ll look into it.”
“Money is no object,” Dan says, then adds, “Jesus, did I really say that?”
“Stress,” Boone says. “Listen, this is awkward, but do you have . . . I mean, is there anyone . . . a guy . . . you suspect?”
“Nobody,” Dan says. “I thought you might tail her. You know, put her under surveillance. Is that the way to go?”
“That’s one way to go,” Boone says. “Let’s go an easier way first. I assume she has a cell phone.”
“iPhone.”
“iPhone, sure,” Boone says. “Can you access the records without her knowing it?”
“Yeah.”
“Do that,” Boone says. “We’ll see if any unexplained number keeps coming up.”
It’s kooky, but cheaters are amazingly careless about calling their lovers on the cellies, like they can’t stay off them. They call them, text them, and then there’s e-mail. Modern techno has made adulterers stupid. “Check her computer, too.”
“Got it, that’s good.”
No, it’s not good, Boone thinks, it reeks. But it’s better than putting her under surveillance. And with any luck, the phone records and e-mails will come up clean and he can pull Dan off this nasty wave.
“I’m going out of town on business in a couple of days,” Dan says. “I think that’s when she . . .”
He lets it trail off.
They paddle in.
The Gentlemen’s Hour is about over anyway.
5
In the middle of August, on a ferociously hot day, the man wears a seersucker suit, white shirt, and tie. His one concession to the potentially harmful effects of the strong sun on his pale skin is a straw hat.
Jones just believes that is how a gentleman dresses.
He strolls the boardwalk along Pacific Beach and watches as two surfers walk in, their boards tucked under their arms alongside their hips.
But Jones’s mind is not on them, it is on pleasure.
He’s reveling in a memory from the previous day, of gently, slowly, and repeatedly swinging a bamboo stick into a man’s shins. The man was suspended by the wrists from a ceiling pipe, and he swayed slightly with each blow.
A less subtle interrogator might have swung the stick harder, shattering bone, but Jones prides himself on his subtlety, patience, and creativity. A broken shin is agonizing but hurts only once, albeit for quite some time. The repetitive taps grew increasingly painful and the anticipation of the ensuing tap was mentally excruciating.
The man, an accountant, told Jones everything that he knew after a mere twenty strokes.
The next three hundred blows were for pleasure—Jones’s, not the accountant’s—and to express their common employer’s displeasure at the state of business. Don Iglesias, patron of the Baja Cartel, does not like to lose money, especially on foolishness, and he hired Jones to find out the real cause of said loss and to punish those responsible.
It will be many months before the accountant walks without a wince. And Don Iglesias now knows that the origin of his losses is not in Tijuana, where the beating took place, but here in sunny San Diego.
Jones goes in search of an ice cream, which sounds very pleasant.
6
AK-47 rounds shatter the window.
Cruz Iglesias dives for the floor. Shards of glass and hunks of plaster cover him as he reaches back for his 9mm and starts to fire onto the street. He might as well not bother; the machine-gun fire from his own gunmen dwarfs his efforts.
One of his men throws himself on top of his boss.
“Get off me,
He rolls out from under the sweaty
Within the hour he’s concluded that Tijuana is just too dangerous during his turf war with the Ortegas over the lucrative drug market. Times are hard—the pie is shrinking, and there’s no room for compromise, especially with his recent losses. Three hours later he’s in a car crossing into the U.S.A. at San Ysidro. It’s not a problem; Iglesias has dual citizenship.
The car takes him to one of his safe houses.
Actually, it’s not too bad a thing to be in San Diego—if you can tolerate the inferior cuisine. He has business there that needs his attention.
7
Boone walks to the office, upstairs from the Pacific Surf Shop where Hang Twelve is pretty busy renting boogie boards and fins to tourists. Hang has a family of five on his hands, the kids arguing about which color board they’re going to get. Hang looks real happy, not. Speaking of unhappiness, he warns, “Cheerful’s up there.”
Ben Carruthers, aka Cheerful, is Boone’s friend, a miserable, saturnine millionaire who would qualify for the Gentlemen’s Hour if he didn’t actually loathe the water. He’s lived in Pacific Beach for thirty years and has never actually been to the beach or the Pacific.
“What do you have against the beach?” Boone asked him once.
“It’s sandy.”
“The beach
“Exactly,” Cheerful answered. “And I don’t like water either.”
Which pretty much does it, beachwise.
Cheerful is, to say the least, eccentric, and one of his weirder things is a quixotic crusade to stabilize Boone’s finances. The utter futility of this exercise makes him blissfully unhappy, hence the sobriquet. Right now he has his tall frame slouched over an old-style adding machine. His slate-gray hair, styled in a high crew cut, looks like brushed steel.
