The Gentlemen's Hour by Don Winslow Page A

lake,” Tide says.
    â€œLakes don’t have salt,” Hang says, still pouting over Boone’s suggestion of replacing Sunny. “There’s no such thing as a big salt lake.”
    The other surfers look at each other for a second, then Johnny says, “No. Don’t bother.”
    They don’t. They don’t bother to educate Hang about Utah, they don’t bother to launch into another topic of conversation, the ocean doesn’t bother to come up with waves. Boone is grateful when the Dawn Patrol drags to an end and the guys start to paddle in.
    â€œYou coming?” Dave asks him.
    â€œNah, I’m going to hang.”
    He looks toward the shore, where the veteran denizens of the Gentlemen’sHour are already gathering, pointing at nonexistent waves, sipping coffee, and sucking cigarettes, doubtless talking about flat Augusts past.
    And Dan Nichols is paddling out.

30
    Boone tells him that he didn’t find anything suspicious in the phone records or e-mail files.
    Dan looks almost disappointed.
    â€œCould she have a phone I don’t know about?” he asks.
    Boone shrugs. “I dunno. Could she? Wouldn’t the billing come to you?”
    â€œYeah,” Dan says. “I’m going out of town tomorrow. That would be a good time to . . .”
    He doesn’t say to what.
    Boone’s always thought that if you don’t want to say something, it’s a pretty good indication that you shouldn’t do the something, so he says, “Dan, are you sure, man? Are you sure you shouldn’t just, like, talk to her? Upfront, ask her what’s up?”
    â€œWhat if she says nothing is?”
    â€œGood.”
    â€œBut what if she’s lying?”
    That’s kind of that, Boone thinks. He knows now that he’s going to have to follow Donna Nichols and hope like hell the route doesn’t lead to some other man’s bed. It would be a very skippy result, to come back to Dan and tell him he’s a paranoid jerk, go buy some flowers, and stop being dumb and insecure.
    â€œOkay,” Boone says. “I’m on it.”
    â€œYou’re a gentleman and a scholar.”
    I’m neither, Boone thinks, but whatever. “I’ll have to pick up some equipment.”
    â€œWhatever you need.”
    What he’s going to need is a little unit that will fit under the bumper of Donna’s car.
    â€œWhat does Donna usually drive?” Boone asks. “A white Lexus SUV,” Dan said. “Birthday present.”
    Nice, Boone thinks. For his last birthday he got some sex wax from Hang, some two-fer coupons for Jeff’s Burger from Tide, and a card from Dave expressing the sentiment “Go Fuck Yourself.”
    â€œWho’s the car registered to?” Boone asks.
    â€œMe,” Dan answers. “Well, the corporation.”
    â€œNatch.”
    Tax stuff, Boone thinks. People with corporations don’t buy anything personally if they can help it. Anything that even tangentially touches the business is a write-off. But your wife’s birthday present?
    Dan says, “Donna’s an officer.”
    Doesn’t matter, Boone thinks—it would still be perfectly kosher for Dan to put a tracking device on a car his corporation owns, and he wouldn’t have to disclose it to Donna, even if she were an officer. Boone describes the little tracker device that’s attached to a small but powerful magnet. “You just put it under the rear bumper.”
    â€œWithout her seeing me,” Dan says.
    â€œThat would be better, yeah.”
    And the tracking device would be better than following her because this could be a long job, and it would be too easy to get made.
    â€œI’ll pick up the stuff and meet you somewhere to hand it over,” Boone says.
    â€œCool.”
    No, uncool, Boone thinks, already feeling like a sleaze.
    Very uncool.
    They paddle in.
    Boone skips The Sundowner because he’s