“I’d like a second opinion on that.”

“From who?”

She laughs softly. “No, silly. Is me being too young some weird sexual deal you have?”

“It doesn’t feel weird.”

“Is something else about me not right?”

“No, but you don’t know me. What if I was like, fully aggro, or a chick hater?”

“Casey—it’s obvious that you’re not. So far as age—women are just more mature than men. Every guy I know at school thinks I’m hot. You wouldn’t believe the expressions they get, the things they say. Such goofy boys. Maybe you think I’d turn out to be a rotten tomato.”

“No, really, no. You’ve always been real sweet.”

“You’ve hardly looked at me. Over a lot of years!”

Casey feels cornered. Like he’s being checked by a better chess player.

“I’m looking at you now,” he says. “And I can see you’re a high-quality girl.”

Which of course doesn’t come out like he wanted; makes things worse. What if Lance or Teresa had heard that from the hallway? Fudge, they could call the police, couldn’t they?

Casey’s afraid he’s about to do something stupid, then realizes he already has by letting her close the door and get onto his bed.

The next few seconds of silence seem like an hour.

“So,” she says, standing.

Casey feels relief as her weight lifts, then quick fear that she’ll come over and kiss him or something.

“I’m really sorry if I made you uncomfortable,” she says. “You’re a dream I always wanted to have.”

“I’m sorry if I let you down.”

“Night then, Casey Stonebreaker.”

“Good night, Alyssa.”

“You’re the most beautiful man and surfer I know.”

Casey’s trying to form a polite and humble reply when the weak hall light sections into the room, then is gone.

At sunrise, Casey and Brock are back in the lineup at Cojo Point at Hollister Ranch.

The silver-gray waves are head-high and smooth as glass.

The locals aren’t as welcoming as they were the day before. No nods or words, no problem dropping in late on the brothers, forcing them off the waves.

Casey is sitting outside between sets, chewing on an errant fingernail, when Brock paddles over and climbs astride his board.

“I had a dream last night,” he says. “It was weird and when I woke up I’d learned something from it.”

“Maybe it was all that good weed.”

“It was me as a lion in a big room. Like a banquet room in a hotel. And there were people there, too, wearing animal skins. Giraffes and buffalo and zebras. But mostly it was other lions, like me. They all had black tails but mine was red. I knew it was up to me to get justice for my pride. Some of these other lions had set a fire in our cave. Burned everything we had. They were watching me at the big table, loading up a plate of meat.

“Then you walked in. A white tiger. Bigger and stronger than any of us lions. They started circling you and we started circling them and they fully outnumbered us. One of them snapped at you but I saw he was afraid to touch you. He backed away, then slunk to an exit door. Bumped into a tray of empty plates and glasses on a stand, knocked it over and dodged out. The other lions snarled at you but backed away, too. Headed for the exits. End of dream. I woke up in a sweat. Realized you were right about the pirates who burned out the Barrel. I’m not going after them, Casey. I’m not going proactive, which is my nature. I’m going reactive, which is yours. I’m going to turn this stubbly cheek of mine the other way. Wait to see what they do next. If anything. I think they’ll be like the lions in the dream. I’ll let vengeance be the Lord’s. As you suggest.”

Casey wonders if he’s hearing right. Can’t remember a time when he’s had a disagreement with Brock and Brock has come around to his point of view. Trusted his judgment. Believed in him.

“Cool, Brock. I think you’re doing the right thing.”

“Thanks for being my big brother sometimes.”

“You make me feel smart.”

Brock is smiling, his dark face dripping seawater, his stubby locs catching the early light.

23

Jen stands in the reeking lobby of the Barrel, Mae sitting at her feet.

She’s looking at a $400,000 replacement rebuild, of which $150,000 is covered by insurance. She hasn’t upped her policy since remodeling the Barrel eighteen years ago. Her bank is considering the loan. Her annual personal income is $10,000 from freelance magazine and newspaper writing, and occasional consulting work for television.

She’s got $75,000 in her savings account.

She draws a $75,000 yearly salary from the Barrel.

There’s a lot of demo to be done. Jen’s remodel was conventional construction—wood frame, Sheetrock, and expensive redwood siding. The wood flooring, walnut dark and streaked with blond—Jen always loved how it greeted her in the morning, buffed up clean the night before—has been destroyed. The raised foundation is still good.

Adding to those costs is the fact that the furniture, art, lighting, plumbing, electrical, sound system, ovens, stoves, warmers, and appliances were all high-grade commercial and expensive. Much of it has been damaged thoroughly by flame and smoke, some of it irreplaceable. The surfboard collection is almost totaled. The paintings are ruined. The high-end projection screens on which the surf videos played are now melted around the edges.

Laguna Beach fire trucks had gotten there less than twelve minutes after Casey’s first 911 call. But four crude fire bombs—casually staged as deliveries just outside the lobby, the back door, the side kitchen entrance, and the upstairs apartment deck—had already exploded, accelerant and high winds spreading the flames rapidly. Remote fuses, the arson investigator said.

His team found a fifth bomb under the north floor of the dining room—placed through a crawl space under the raised foundation. The access screen had been snipped off. No north-wall security cameras because of the inaccessible sandstone drop-off and chain-link fence heavy with mandevilla. The flames ate up through the framing timbers and into the room, swiftly.

According to Jen’s contractor, she’s looking at spring of next year. Which means a five-month wait, if the City of Laguna Planning and Building Department and the California Coastal Commission sign off promptly, and the supply chains hold. He says the price of his materials have doubled in two years and the union wages he pays are out of sight.

Mae follows her into the dining room where Jen kneels and touches one of the classic Hawaiian redwood surfboards that caught flame and finally came crashing down from its ceiling mounts. It’s a hundred years old and badly burned. Most of the other boards were made of foam and fiberglass, which of course ignites viciously and melts when swarmed by flames. Some are John’s. Some belonged to the greats: Kahanamoku, Noll, Weber, Dora, Young, Nuuhiwa, Lopez, Andersen, Tomson, Irons, Slater, Clark, Bethany, Parsons, Laird, McNamara. There are twenty-six of them, Jen knows—one for each year of John’s life. Some of which, blackened and disfigured, are still hanging on the walls.

She stands, pats Mae’s soft round head, feels like crying or kicking Jimmy Wu hard as she can in the nuts, but she’s not much of a crier and Jimmy’s a bit out of range.

Since the Barrel burned up and cooled down Jen has thrown herself into the cleanup—and into her training for the Monsters of Mavericks—with her usual ferocious energy.

And now, with a $175,000 shortfall for rebuilding her love and livelihood, she’s even more inspired to win the Monsters.

Which is a long shot, she knows, at forty-six, and not having ridden big waves in twenty-five years, according to the Surfline.com rankings and the surf contest handicappers on BetUS Sportsbook.