Desperation Reef

11

Casey steers his pickup out of Laguna Canyon toward the toll road, headed south for San Diego, Jen beside him, the cash-stuffed pack on the cab’s back floor.

Over the Pier 32 National City Marina, skies are blue, and a brisk breeze pings the lanyards and halyards of the pleasure yachts.

Empress II sits heavy and workmanlike in slip 41-B, with her fading blue and red paint, well-used outriggers, and her tag lines swaying loosely in the wind. The coiffed motor yachts seem to ignore her.

Casey hoists the pack and strolls toward the vessel, his mother beside him. He’s dressed as he almost always dresses, and it’s perfect for the role of ocean-bound young adventurer that he’s now suggesting: tan corduroy board shorts, flip-flops, a black hoodie with Day-Glo orange draw cords, and wide-temple sunglasses.

Jen’s got on shorts, a T-shirt, a windbreaker, ankle-high trekking shoes, her orange bowl of hair partially contained in a black-and-green paisley bandana.

Casey sees Bette Wu standing atop the hold, phone to her ear. Mae stands beside her, tail wagging, her aging eyes recognizing Casey at this distance. Casey feels his eyes tearing up, feels like his heart is trying to get out and run to her.

Smoker, whom Casey had jettisoned just yesterday, a cigarette in his mouth and a pistol in his waistband, holds open the lower boarding gate with a bored stare. Casey starts up the ramp, Jen behind him. He looks up to see Mae propped up on the gunwale, looking down at him, smiling between barks with that big open smile Labs get.

Now aboard, Casey kneels and gets a mauling from Mae, kissing her forehead and kneading her ear joints. Mae howls emotionally. Jen kneels too and just about gets knocked over.

Bette, dressed in snug black tactical garb and red mid-ankle Air Jordans, leads them down a short steel gangway and into the cigarette-smoke- and incense-infused galley. The ship seems bigger than Casey remembers from his initial search for Mae. There’s a row of portholes along the port and starboard sides, the thick plexiglass bearing the scars of years. Through which Casey sees the gently swaying blue-green bay, a ketch coming into its slip, the marina ships bobbing at dock. Hears the Empress II generators moaning away, their vibrations coming through his flip-flops. Keeping their catch frozen, he thinks, and their lights on.

Seated at the head of a heavily shellacked table is the Kings fan his mother described — Bette’s alleged father. To his right sits a handsome Latino in a trim suit, a leather briefcase open on the table just a short reach away. Casey notes the black grip of a stainless-steel pistol peeking out from under the fastener file folders, and a yellow legal pad bristling with handwriting.

Bette pulls out a chair and sits to the left of her father, who is hatless now, but again clad in black-and-white Kings hockey team warm-ups, with a jungle of gold around his thick neck.

He offers a half smile, nodding to Jen and Casey. “As you know, I am Jimmy Wu, Bette’s father. I have many interests. Such as King Jim Seafood. All the very best seafood, always fresh. I am famous in seafood distribution in Southern California. I have big social following. I have YouTube. I have ads on TV late at night. My colorful trucks are all over the place. This is my attorney, Octavio Benitez. Mergers and acquisitions. Octavio.”

Benitez rises as Jimmy completes the introductions, but sits without shaking Casey’s offered hand. “A pleasure to meet you both.”

They sit and Benitez fixes first Jen, then Casey, with dark, amused eyes.

“I know of your many accomplishments and awards and medals. I saw you, Mrs. Stonebreaker, announcing the Olympic water polo competition on TV not long ago. Very insightful commentary.”

“Why thank you.”

“Mr. Stonebreaker, I’ve followed your big-wave conquests through the streaming coverage of the Monsters of Mavericks... what is it now, canceled three of the last five years?”

“No,” says Casey. “Two of the last ten. They say climate change is making the waves bigger now. The next Monsters could be more like when Dad died. Huge.”

Jen’s heart drops at this, but the lawyer smirks.

“Casey, I saw video of you as a seventeen-year-old, in your first big-wave competition at Mavericks.”

“I didn’t exactly tear it up.”

“But you survived.”

“You don’t get a lot of points for survival,” says Casey, reaching down to pet Mae, who has laid down on his feet. Casey feels her warmth on his skin. “You have to bring more than survival to the ride. You need a special thing to win.”

“Yes!” says Jimmy Wu. “You need style, and cool, and the attitude that you own the wave and it does not own you. If your legs are shaking, or your eyes are wide, you don’t win points!”

Casey remembers his first big waves, not so much the fear itself, but his fear of fear, of choking. He didn’t choke but his legs trembled on the bottom turns and when he looked at the footage the next day he was surprised and embarrassed by his expressions: wide-eyed dread, grim determination, nerve-jangled relief as he flew like a trapeze artist over the tops of the waves, kicking out, then falling down into the marginal safety of a furious ocean between waves.

“And I am also aware of your wonderful Barrel restaurant, Mrs. Stonebreaker,” says the lawyer. “But I get ahead. Mr. Wu, you should count the money.”

“Bette?”

“Danilo!” Bette calls out.

Smoker comes in, takes the backpack from Casey, and sets it on the far end of the table. Zips it open, then retreats to lean against the kitchen bulkhead, one foot up against the peeling white steel, pistol in place behind his waistband.

Bette goes to the pack, unbands and counts each thousand-dollar pack with careful patience, setting the completed stacks aside and apart.

She looks up at Casey after each one. “...nine hundred eighty, eight thousand.”

A few minutes later she announces, “Money’s all here. I didn’t think Stonebreaker would cheat us. He is much too good and innocent.”

Casey breaks eye contact with her for lack of an apt response. He can’t tell if she’s being complimentary or contemptuous. Doesn’t really care. Notes that her father gives Bette a hostile stare.

He stands, looks at the lawyer, then at the briefcase in which the gun waits, then to the table with his and his mom’s $25,000 in it. Lawyers, guns, and money, he thinks. He was singing that song in the shower just a few days ago, scrubbing down with a stiff brush and strong soap, trying to get the smell of bluefin tuna fish off his hands.

Through one of the portholes, Casey sees the green Luhrs and the white Bayliner that corralled him a few days ago now approaching just two hundred feet off the trawler’s starboard flank.

“I’m gonna, like, take my dog and go,” he says. “I’ll be honest. I think you people suck. You broke nature’s law by slaughtering those sharks for their fins. For your dang soups. But you take Mae and threaten to let her drown? Then steal twenty-five thousand of ours for ransom? Even greedy, small-minded people like you should be ashamed of that. But you’re not. You don’t know anything. You are toys in the devil’s hands.”

“You’re not a moron,” says Bette. “You don’t really think we’d hurt your dog, do you?”

“You said you would.”

“You are naïve. That’s ridiculous. To you, we’re just evil Chinese who brought the plague to the world. And communism.”

“You’re pirates who threatened to kill my dog. Come on, Mae. Mom — we’re leaving now.”

“Sit down, Casey,” says Bette. “My father has a very interesting offer for you.”

Danilo steps away from the bulkhead, crossing his hands before him, spreading his feet.

Casey sits and Jen follows suit. Mae stands, tail wagging, looking toward the galley exit.

“An offer for what?” asks Jen.

Jimmy Wu purses his lips and glances at Benitez. Then back at Jen. “Okay, now you listen. Simple offer. We supply restaurants but we want a restaurant where there is much money. We want to buy the Barrel in Laguna. It is, very actually, the best restaurant location in Laguna Beach, and Laguna Beach is the best coastal city in California. This is very true and factual. My partners back home are very wealthy businessmen and hungry to invest in a very championship location. Mr. Benitez expert in dining and hospitality. He is a graduate of Harvard Law School. He has written the contract for you to sell to us. We keep the name the Barrel. You still manage the Barrel. Casey is still the bartender and assistant manager. You both get a big salary from me — more than what we estimate you declared to IRS last year. Very generous.”

Benitez takes a file from his briefcase and opens it, thumbing the metal clasp at the top.

“Ninety-six thousand dollars annually for Jen Stonebreaker. Sixty-eight for Casey, with raises determined by the Wu family. Hourly staff and contractors will get what they’re getting now, and whatever increases they have been promised in writing.”

“How much for my restaurant?” asks Jen.

Jimmy smiles. “It brings me pleasure to offer two million dollars. One half is cash, in the bait tank, fifty feet away from you right now. It is bundled and, of course, we have a good scale. The other half will be wire-transferred from First Taiwan Bank into whatever secure and private account you wish. Swiss, I would suggest, or Grand Cayman. And, if you sign right now, we return to you the twenty-five thousand for your idiot dog. Quite a nice payday for you!”

Jen does not smile back. “Two million? That’s what a small house costs in Laguna. The Barrel lot alone is worth three times that. The structure adds another two million, and the established business even more. My answer is no. And if you came up with ten million dollars I’d still say no. Twenty million I’d say no again. The Barrel is my life. My family. I’d set it on fire before I’d sell it to you.”

“Jen Stonebreaker! We think so much alike!” says Wu with a jolly smile. “Oh, funny, funny, when I say Barrel and you say fire!”

Casey meets the incredulous look on his mother’s face with one of his own.

They stand again, as if helping each other up with their locked eyes. Mae heads for the galley door as before.

Casey looks at the piles of money on the table, thinks about the gun in the lawyer’s briefcase, and Danilo’s gun, and he can’t imagine how he can get his money out of here without getting himself and his mother and maybe Mae shot.

Through a rusty porthole he sees that the Luhrs and the Bayliner have eased closer. Through another he sees two red Cigarette boats, Dragon and Bushmaster. Remembers Lieutenant Tim’s description of the pirate fleet. The speedboats are center consoles, and Casey sees two men in each, standing and focused on Empress II.

Jimmy smiles, as if he’s hearing Casey’s anxious thoughts.

Benitez collects another folder from his briefcase and offers it to Jen.

“You should sign this offer now,” he says pleasantly. “Casey is your witness. I will notarize. The offer is fair and reasonable in this current real estate market. You will not lose the Barrel or your history there. You will still be a part of it, and it of you. You will gain two million dollars and who knows? Retire? Open another restaurant? Somewhere other than Laguna Beach, of course.”

“Go to hell, counselor.”

“Many years from now, I hope. Casey?”

Casey shakes his head and backs toward the door. He senses Danilo’s movement behind him.

“No, thank you. No.”

“Ask your mother to sign this,” says the lawyer. “You can then leave here with good money for an aging restaurant, a wonderful dog, and your twenty-five thousand in ransom — a gift from the Wu family. Bette would also like to give you an additional twelve hundred dollars for a new phone. To replace the one you threw into the ocean.”

“Never,” snaps Jen, striding toward the exit behind Mae and ahead of her son. Stops and turns. “You people don’t scare me one bit. If I see you anywhere near the Barrel I’ll set you on fire.”

Before following his mother out, Casey hesitates and studies Bette Wu. “God forgives you.”

“I don’t care, but thanks for putting in a good word for me.”

Casey can’t tell if Bette is scowling or amused. He senses in her face something beyond the wickedness that surrounded her on Moondance and had just minutes ago seemed so obvious here. Now there’s something more, something alien and difficult to know. Something not him.

“Casey, you are a beautiful, weak man,” says Bette Wu. “Be strong about our offer. You and I would be partners. We can discuss details and I can point out the many benefits of partnership with us.”

“Nothing to discuss or point out,” says Casey.

“You’re missing a great opportunity.”

“To be swindled. I’m not stupid, you know.”

Bette gives him an assessing look. “You’re very smart, in fact. So, two million. Think. And good luck at Mavericks. I think you will win.”

“I think my brother will.”

Suddenly, through the galley door stumbles a small man in white Polo warm-ups, his long black hair wrapped around one of Brock Stonebreaker’s big knuckled, tattooed fists. Brock’s other hand holds a big pistol firmly to the man’s temple. Brock’s dreadlocks sprout from his head, dark little stacks. Casey thinks he looks kind of evil but knows he’s not.

“The lawyer’s got a gun, Brock!” Jen yells.

Danilo draws his pistol but Brock already has his gun trained on the man’s chest. Danilo drops his sidearm and looks at Brock with frank hatred. Then raises his hands.

Polo struggles but Brock clenches the knot of black hair and the man yelps.

A big Asian woman barges in next, hands apparently tied behind her, the even bigger Mahina with the pistol-grip, short-barreled scattergun inches from her back.

Brock and Mahina point their guns deliberately and patiently at Jimmy, Bette, Danilo, and Benitez.

“Be calm, everybody,” says Brock. “Lawyer man, you go for that briefcase, they’ll have to clean your brains off the bulkhead.”

Mahina plunks down her shotgun near the money, gives her captive a baleful glare, then palms big handfuls of cash back into the pack and zips it shut.

“This money is not yours,” she says, Brock covering her, pistol in one hand and Polo’s hair still clenched in the other.

“These people think they can steal the Barrel from us,” says Jen. “For two million dollars.”

“Cute,” says Brock. “Where’s that two million going to come from? Not shark-finning.”

Wu’s smile is gone, replaced by a stony, affronted glare. Casey can tell that Wu wants respect, wants to be seen as dangerous.

Wu raises his hands and gets up from the table. In his Kings warm-ups and heavy gold, he moves purposefully across the galley to the life-jacket stowage cabinets. They’re well-marked with images of life vests, and text in English.

Facing his audience, Wu gestures to the nearest drawer.

“Behind this lock? New precursor for fentanyl, headed to Mexico. Very hard to get. Norfentanyl. Four-AP, and 1-boc-4-AP. Over six million dollars in there. Every cartel wants this. They bid up price.”

“Fresh from China,” says Brock.

“The best,” says Jimmy Wu. “And these.”

He signals another cabinet with his upturned palm. Casts a theatrical frown at Jen and opens it. Fog billows into the dank galley but Casey can’t make out what’s inside.

“Frozen shark fins,” Wu says. “More valuable than lobster or crab. Make happy boys and girls.”

Wu’s frown upshifts to a smile, and he won’t shut up:

“In other boats we have grass for San Francisco, Colombian cocaine for San Diego, NATO seven-six-two and five-five-six ammunition for Los Mochis. We have ghost guns, no serial number, private made in California. We have best bluefin tuna for Los Angeles, and fresh shark fins for the restaurants. And cash! So much you can’t believe. More in LA and San Diego. This is how the money comes to us. We can buy the Barrel easy, you bet! And my partners in Taiwan have much more!”

An odd moment of silence then as Bette Wu stares at Jen, and Polo finally stops struggling.

Casey sees men on the decks of the Luhrs and the Bayliner looking down on them. Same guys who shot up his phone. Guns scare him like a sixty-foot wave never could.

In the middle distance, the Cigarettes lurch like bulls in a chute.

He wonders where his God is right now, why He isn’t down here acting on behalf of the upright against the soldiers of Satan.

“Pirates, smugglers, shark finners, lawyers — you really are a fun crew,” says Brock. “Let’s do this again sometime.”

Brock underhands the backpack to Casey, and marches Polo to the door, followed by Mahina and her captive, then Jen and Casey.

All the while he’s got his gun on Wu, Danilo, or Benitez, alternately. Waits for his family to clear the galley, then releases the hostage and backpedals up the gangway to the deck.

Soon as Casey’s back in his truck and moving, Jen calls 911 and describes what she’s just seen at slip 41-B in the National City Marina.

In the rearview mirror Casey sees Bette, Jimmy, Benitez, and their outmaneuvered crew milling around on the deck of Empress II, apparently without a plan.

Jimmy shakes a fist, gold chains glinting in the bright San Diego sun.

Casey falls in behind his mother’s VW Beetle, top down, and follows it to the freeway, Brock driving and Mahina waving a big brown paw at him, her profuse, black island hair blowing in the wind.