The Gentlemen's Hour by Don Winslow Page B

murder being “merely coincidental,” but keeps the thought to himself. “So we need to find out if the Rockpile Crew was involved in anything other than the violent defense of its turf—say, drug dealing or something like that.”
    â€œPrecisely,” she says. “Although I suppose it would be prudent to find out if any of these gangs of ‘locies’—is that what you call them?—”
    â€œOkay.”
    â€œâ€”derive any financial profit from the defense of said turf,” she says. “For instance, if they’re practicing extortion, or charging ‘taxes’ for the use of the water, that would constitute a ‘gang’ under the legal interpretation.”
    So, Boone thinks, if the Rockpile Crew says “You can’t surf here” and enforce it, they’re not a gang. If they say, “You can’t surf here unless you give us twenty bucks” and enforce that, they are. You gotta love the law.
    What about the big five-star hotel chains that are buying up the coastline, and do everything they can to keep the public from getting access to “their” beaches? Are they a gang under the law?
    Oughta be.
    Bet they’re not.
    He asks, “What does Corey say about it?”
    â€œI don’t know,” she says. “Let’s go ask him.”
    To meet Corey is to take an instant dislike to him.
    In the interest of efficiency.
    Clad in an orange jumpsuit, he slumps in a chair in the interview room and refuses to look at either Boone or Petra. He’s thin and pale, but his shoulders and biceps are big, his head shaven, and he maintains a sullen, antisocial expression.
    â€œCorey,” Petra says, “this is Mr. Daniels. He’s here to help on your case.”
    Corey shrugs. “I have nothing to say.”
    Boone shrugs. Sure, now you have nothing to say. Bad timing on your part going Marcel Marceau now.
    â€œSince writing his statement, that’s all he’s ever said,” Petra remarks to Boone. She turns back to Corey. “There’s tremendous variation in what you could be convicted of, Corey. From involuntary manslaughter, in which case you’d be released for time served, all the way to murder with special circumstances, in which case you’re looking at life without parole.”
    Corey sighs. Like he’s bored out of his mind, like he could give a rat’s ass, like he’s so gang, so down, so tough, that killing someone is No Big Deal. “I have nothing to say.”
    â€œPlease help us to help you,” Petra says.
    Corey shrugs again.
    â€œForget it,” Boone says to her. “Let him slide.”
    A lot of people have drowned, he thinks, trying to save a drowning swimmer. And this one isn’t even worthy of saving. Let him go.
    Petra doesn’t. “Your father retained us to—”
    Which seems to spark a small flame, anyway. “Hey,” Corey says, “you want to make my dad happy so he pays your bill, knock yourselves out. It has nothing to do with me.”
    â€œIt has everything to do with—”
    â€œNo,” Corey says. “Trust me—it doesn’t.”
    He gets up.
    â€œSit down,” Boone says.
    â€œYou gonna make me?”
    â€œMaybe.”
    Corey sighs again but he sits down and stares at the floor.
    â€œTell me about the Rockpile Crew,” Boone says.
    â€œNothing to say,” Corey says. Except he goes ahead and says it. “We surf, we party, we brawl. S’bout it.”
    Kid sounds like a bad hip-hop lyric, Boone thinks. “You deal?”
    â€œNah.”
    â€œWhat about the juice?”
    â€œSay again?”
    â€œDon’t jack me around, I’m not in the mood,” Boone says. “The steroids—you sell, or you just use?”
    â€œI just use,” Corey says.
    â€œWhere do you get them?”
    â€œI have nothing to say.” Corey smiles. He looks up from the floor and