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!”
