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.
12
Looking Back—
WHO WAS JOHN STONEBREAKER AND WHAT WENT WRONG AT MAVERICKS?
A big-wave surfing contest left one of the world’s premier professional surfers dead. Who was he and why did he die?
BY JEN STONEBREAKER
Part two of a special series for Surf Tribe Magazine
No more little surfer-girl crushes on John Stonebreaker. No more “Beach Blanket Bingo.”
No more gazing at him from five houses away at Top of the World, no more spying on him in the hippie van.
John Stonebreaker pulled me into his world that day at Imperial Beach like a riptide that has you before you know it, and you can’t really fight it until it lets you go.
