Desperation Reef

31

Of course, Bette Wu does show up whenever she wants, in this case just after sunrise at Oceanside Harbor where Casey is backing Moondance down the ramp into the bay.

A dockhand aboard Moondance reverses her into deeper water and swings the boat toward the loading docks, where Casey and Mae can board.

Casey punches his truck up the ramp and heads for his parking spot, fully surprised by Bette, the pirate/dognapper/failed extortionist/possible arsonist/amateur actor/wannabe filmmaker and business partner, standing in his usual parking place up by the cleaning sinks and tables.

She’s got a laptop cradled on one hip and a fist balled on the other. Back in her pirate uniform, he sees, the black nylon cargo pants and the windbreaker she was wearing when she boarded Moondance, the yellow gaiter around her neck. No gun. Barefoot again.

Casey honks her out of his way, pulls into his spot, and gets out.

“I doubt you’ve seen this,” she says.

She sets her laptop on the cleaning table and swings open the touch screen. Scrolls down.

“Today’s Los Angeles Times,” she says. “Back in the California section.”

Casey peers at the page as Bette taps a story and it fills the screen.

Casey’s a slow but thorough reader. He glances at Bette, who has come in close to read along, then back down to the article. She taps a long, slender finger on the names Glen Lee and Roy Song.

“Imperial Fresh Seafood — backed by Monterey 9. Just as I said.”

Finishing the article, Casey feels big emotions surging up against each other inside him. Surprise. Doubt. Relief. Suspicion. Joy?

He says, “Woah, this is heavy.”

“I told you we were innocent. My dad. King Jim Seafood. All of us. Me!”

“I still don’t see why these guys would burn up the Barrel.”

“To punish enemies,” says Bette. “The old way of the underworld. Of gangs and tongs and blood feuds.”

She kneels and hugs Mae. “And I would never hurt your dog. And our offer to buy the Barrel was honest and sincere. Low? Yes, low. But we doubled to four million. We negotiate in good faith. Generous terms for your family and all employees. You have us wrong, Casey. One huge mistake.”

She draws a salmon-and-pumpkin treat from her windbreaker pocket and Mae snatches it with a snort.

Bette rises and gives him a frank look. Even barefoot, she’s not a lot shorter than six-two Casey. He wonders if she played basketball for UCLA. In this damp, early morning light, her skin is smooth and moist and her black bangs hang thick above her ebony eyes. Not a scar, Casey thinks. Not a mole or a blemish.

Not that that means what you are inside.

And not a line on her face, until she smiles.

“I thought you’d be happy to know who burned your restaurant.” She brushes a lock of Casey’s thick blond hair off his forehead. “And maybe if I present myself better, you might let me help you with your businesses and finance. Maybe become your partner someday. Maybe become a friend.”

Suddenly, Casey feels... empty.

Because everything he thought about Bette and her pirates, and her father, was wrong. Probably wrong. The pirates were shark finners, for sure. Ugly stuff. But not Bette, right? The pirates shot up his burner phone and scared the shit out of him but Bette never drew her gun, and it was right there on her hip. Yes, Bette tried to leverage Mae into their offer for the Barrel, but she never laid a finger on her. Jimmy tried to buy the Barrel cheap, but he didn’t burn it up.

Empty, when what you think is true is actually not.

But he feels weirdly... filled up, too.

With total positivity. Bette a friend? Who helps me figure out how to increase my “earning potential”?

This woman isn’t really a shark finner, a Mae-napper, a real-estate hustler, or arsonist? Isn’t a major criminal at all? She’s a choice woman who kissed my ear on Sunset and said she thinks I’m smart?

Slam the door on her?

Gulls keen overhead. Mae sits and looks up at them.

Bette has already shown him the LA sheriff’s report filed by her father, accusing rival Imperial Fresh of torching his fleet. She has told him that she believes him, that the Stonebreakers did no such thing. Suspects the Monterey 9 of escalating their attack on the Wu family and King Jim Seafood.

Logical enough, thinks Casey, but the facts weigh heavily on him, and on his morals and honesty. They’re both lying. Two big fudging lies, but can he spill his?

Out of the question, not on the table.

His guts tighten but he’s keeping his secret. For now. He was against the dang King Jim boat attacks anyway but he’s got his family and Brock’s Go Dogs to protect.

“Your words sound good, Bette. You tempt me with how smart and beautiful you are.”

She blushes slightly, a pink undercurrent swelling up beneath her perfect white skin. He wonders if she can do this on cue. The acting classes.

“I don’t want to tempt. I want to help.”

“But I still don’t want a manager now,” he says. “Signing those papers. That whole fifteen percent commission thing. No.”

“Then let the whole thing go!”

“Maybe if, like...”

“Seriously, Casey.”

She spreads her arms, hands balled tightly, then closes her eyes and opens her fists. “I let it go. There it goes. You should, too. Now.”

“Okay.”

Lowers her arms, opens her eyes and studies him. “I didn’t know how you would react to this news. But I’m glad you don’t hate me. The first step toward trust.”

He pulls his phone from his shorts pocket, leaves text messages for Jen and Brock. See the California section in today’s LA Times. Looks like we might have made a mistake.

Mae looks out at Moondance tied to the loading dock.

“I’ll be seeing you, Casey.”

Casey feels a nervy little rush, something forbidden but good, then:

“The bluefin are still in. Interested?”

The swell is steady and the chop is mean but by eleven thirty Casey and Bette have each caught a bluefin tuna weighing eighty-eight and eighty-three pounds, respectively.

“Glad I beat you,” he says, half seriously.

“Mine will taste better,” she says with a quick grin.

They drag the fish to preserve the quality of the best sashimi in the world, and an hour later clean and ice them in the cold well.

Casey watches her all he can without staring; admires her easy work with the rod and line, her strength and balance fighting the powerful fish, her wordless concentration on the task at hand, her swift, efficient knife work. Liked the way she helped him rope his fish in without the gaff, and was happy to help her do the same.

After hers, they sat panting, facing each other across the bait tank.

“You’re strong and coordinated, Bette. You a baller in college?”

“Too busy.”

“Being a pirate and a student?”

“Mostly student. I got bored and dropped out. Dad made me work. He was happy to have me back in the family business.”

“Back?”

“Started at eleven. Cutting bait, mending nets.”

“Were you happy to be back?”

“I like it okay. The ocean and the freedom and the money. Pretty good. I owe almost twenty grand in loans — not to the school, to Dad. He holds me to it. Holds me to a lot of things. But King Jim Seafood, we’re together, you know? Like a family. Kind of. We got different races. Different languages and beliefs. But we work hard and we have each other’s backs.”

“Sounds good.”

“Your hands and clothes get stinky, though. And you don’t stay in bed. I get up in the dark six days a week.”

“That’s tough. Me, only three, maybe four. I just have one restaurant to supply, not a whole coastline full like you guys. I can sleep an hour in the late afternoon, before I bartend.”

Bette gives him an indecipherable look, then a small smile. “You’re a good bartender. I gave you a big tip.”

“You came in because you recognized me?”

“From a magazine ad for CaseyWear. And your socials. I was with friends. You had a lot of customers at your bar that night.”

“For happy hour.”

“Oh come on, you handsome surfer celebrity!” Bette says, smiling. “Be truthful with yourself. And me.”

A few minutes later Casey tucks into a cove on the eastern side of San Clemente Island, at least as close to the island as he can get without getting run out by Navy gunboats. Sometimes the sailors are cool; sometimes they board Moondance and check the hatches and holds and tanks for contraband. Once in a while he’ll see the cannon and mortar shells suddenly booming on the island, or fighter jets bellowing in low, mangling the barren hills with rockets. Now and then he’ll see a herd of wild goats up on the grassy flats, hundreds of chewing faces looking down at him.

Casey shares his lunch with her: two peanut butter and honey sandwiches, two nectarines, a slab of grilled tuna, two chocolate protein drinks.

They sit in the cabin, eating in silence, giving Mae bits of everything. She likes nectarines. Moondance bobs at anchor and the gulls badger them overhead. The fog is long gone and the day is clear, with the westerlies cool from the stern.

“You worried about them seeing you here?” he asks.

“Would not be good.”

Casey sees a shadow cross her face, looks up but the sky is cloudless. “What would they do?”

“My father has a big temper. Lacks control of himself. But tries to control others. Family especially.”

“Violent?”

“Sometimes. My sister no longer speaks to him. Moved to New York City to get away. My mother left him years ago.”

“But not to you?”

Bette shakes her head but says nothing.

When the food is gone Mae heads for a sunny spot on deck, circles it twice, then plops down.

Another silence. Bette has her back to him, facing east toward shore.

Casey divvies up some bread crust and backhands the load to the gulls patrolling his boat. He likes having someone around but not having to talk. Bartending, you just babble for hours at a time. Enough small talk in one shift to last all week. Plus it’s just hard to hear in the Barrel sometimes — anywhere, for that matter — his years in cold water and wind giving him a growing case of surfer’s ear, abnormal bone growth in the ear canal.

“I want to talk to you about something important,” says Bette.

So much for golden silence. “You mean right now?”

“I can help you win the Monsters of Mavericks. Listen. There’s a large swell headed for Half Moon Bay. It’s freaky early for the storm season.”

“I know.”

“I talked with the contest organizers. If the storm stays on course for Half Moon Bay, the Monsters of Mavericks will be held seven days from now. The waves will be very big. I have reserved separate rooms at the Ritz-Carlton. You need to get there days early, to see the waves and the conditions. To do media, write your CaseyGrams, and post your YouTube videos. You need to rest, mingle with the other surfers, but keep your privacy. Not be over-socialized. You need to eat well and mentally prepare. You need to relax and think about surfing and not surfing. Read your Bible. I’ll drive. When we get there, you won’t have to be around me in any way. I’ll give you total privacy. Separate everything. We should leave the day after tomorrow. Take our time and not feel rushed.”

Casey’s first thought is Woah, that sounds really good.

His first thought and a half is of his mom and brother. Bringing Bette to the Monsters would be a major betrayal, even if they fully believed that Monterey 9 was behind the Barrel. Wouldn’t it?

“My family would freak out.”

“Mine, too. Let them. You know this would be good for you. I would simply be your guest, your companion, your driver, your fixer, your protector.”

Casey feels the tingle of sweat on his scalp, like the outrageousness of this idea is heating him up and spilling out.

“Mom and Brock might not believe that article, Bette. They might believe it was Jimmy who did the Barrel. They’ll remember what he said about fire.”

“He’s a show-off and a fool, Casey! You’ve seen him enough to get that!”

At Bette’s rising voice, Mae raises her head and gives them a look. Then hoists herself from the sunny spot, lumbers over, and sits at Casey’s feet.

“Yeah. I get that.”

A beat while Casey tries to find a way that showing up in Half Moon Bay with Bette Wu would not infuriate Jen and Brock. Is he underestimating them? Is it his duty as a man to stand up for someone he’s begun to see as innocent?

“But maybe, Stonebreaker, they’ll see that we are a good combination. Maybe they’ll come to believe that King Jim Seafood had nothing to do with the Barrel — as I have promised on my soul is true. Maybe — with your acceptance of my companionship — they will give me a chance. Maybe the truth will have to be enough for them. Maybe you should trust your judgment above theirs. You can show them a truth they can’t see for themselves. You are twenty-four and a man of intelligence and high moral ambitions. Don’t underestimate yourself.”

Casey tries to think all this over in his plodding, one-fact-at-a-time way. It’s the “ors” that trip him up. And the “ifs” and the “maybes.” It’s always taken him a long time to weigh things and set his course. Brock, it’s always taken him about two seconds.

“I have good feelings for you, Stonebreaker. I know you have good feelings for me.”

He looks at her, feels his blush, nods. Never could keep his emotions off his face.

“Why would you do all that for me?”

“I want you to win. I want you to become, and be recognized as, the best big-wave surfer in the world.”

“I’m barely number ten, Bette.”

“Not if you win the Monsters.”

“I want Brock to win it.”

“Fine. So long as that doesn’t change the way you surf.”

“No, I just surf all out. Everything I have goes into it.”

“That’s why you need calm and peace in Half Moon Bay. The adrenaline alone is enough to tire you. Stay inside yourself. I’ll build an invisible wall around you. Only good thoughts can get in. If you want, I’ll be invisible myself.”

“Sounds cosmic,” he says, thinking it sounds pretty good, too.

“And, Casey? I also want you to win because I’ve bet two thousand dollars on you. I’ll be protecting my investment. You’re paying out four to one. The big money is on the nineteen-year-old from—”

“Tom Tyler. Santa Cruz.” Tyler is the best nineteen-year-old big-wave rider he’s ever seen. Maybe the best, period.

“Woah. Is that BetUS, online?”

“No. It’s a strip mall sports book in the San Gabriel Valley. Nails, massage, too. Don’t ask where.”

Casey pictures his mother’s face when he walks into the restaurant where most of the surfers and their teams and friends and family meet the evening before the contest — Barbara’s Fish Trap.

Walks in with Bette Wu, that is.

Now that’s a painful expression, he thinks.

Brock’s is even worse.

Casey stares long and appraisingly at Bette. She purses her lips, widens her eyes, and turns away like she’s been caught at something. Casey’s long stares have always worried people for as long as he can remember — icy blue eyes that they tell him look cold and removed between blinks, which slow down to almost none.

The cold blue eyes mean he’s thinking, though, his plodding calculations proceeding within.

Bette Wu didn’t dognap Mae to hurt her. Bette and her family didn’t burn up the Barrel.

I want this.

I want her with me for the Monsters.

Mom? Bro?

Believe in me.

“I always stay at the Oceano in Half Moon, with Mom and Brock and Mahina,” he says. “Some of my friends will be there. I leave Mae home.”

“But the Ritz would give you privacy and set you apart as a celebrity surfer, not part of the pack.”

“I want to be part of the pack. Even though some of them think I’m a spoiled Orange County brat.”

“Okay, I’ll book the Oceano instead.”

Casey gives Bette another long, calm, blue-eyed assessment. But this time Bette shows no unease at all, just an equally delivered, analytical return of serve: a nod.

“I’ll profit handsomely if you do what I know you can do. You’ll take home fifty thousand grand-prize dollars if you win. By the way, my gambling instincts have always been very good.”

“I’ll surf good,” he says.

“My father won’t be happy about you and me doing business together,” says Bette. “He’ll hate me, temporarily. I’ve known for a while that I need to break away from him. From King Jim Seafood. From all of what being a part of the Wu family is. You are my harbor, Casey. My berth.”

She reaches over and squeezes Casey’s big warm hand with her own cool and smooth one. He feels a rare, crazy heat inside, spreading from his hand to his heart, then out to everywhere. Who’d have thought that after twenty-plus years in cold oceans his ears could burn this hot? His face? All of him?

“We share a fatal illness, Stonebreaker.”

“Which one? There’s lots of them.”

“Time,” she says.