Through his kitchen window he watches Bette and Mae in the backyard, Bette giving his dog another treat from the briefcase, Mae sitting at attention with her usual food lust. Feels wrong to leave them together and alone. So he keeps an eye on both of them.
He cuts the lemons and dices the mint, his emotions writhing inside like eels. Bette Wu is his enemy. She’s kidnapped his dog, tried to swindle his family, and almost certainly helped burn down his mother’s restaurant. He has never felt hatred for another person but Bette Wu is near the top of his don’t-like list. Maybe even at the top, considering the Barrel, which he swears he can smell now, gutted by fire, stronger than the mint he’s using.
But part of him is attracted to her, fully against his will, but attractions don’t wait for invites—they just barge in. He’s especially attracted to her non-pirate side. He likes her general attitude, energy, and her blunt language. Her manner. Her poise, her clothes, her sophistication and looks. She’s really pretty. And let’s face it, he thinks: I like the way she kissed my ear on Sunset Boulevard. He thinks her mystery might be the best part of Bette Wu. Like, how can a shark-finning pirate sit out there in my backyard in a suit and feed my dog treats from a Halliburton? Who, really, actually, is this chick, anyway?
He has a brief thought of being in bed with her, or better yet, on a beach blanket just after dark in a private cove he knows near Sunset on Oahu. Such notions he has rarely followed up. When he has, they’ve proven disappointing, and screwed up friendships, and led to misunderstandings and frustrations.
Right now, frankly, his desires aren’t bothering him, though other things are:
Such as betraying his mother with a woman whose family probably destroyed her restaurant.
Such as Mae, whom Bette has threatened to dump overboard at sea. Jokingly?
And the $25,000 she tried to get in ransom.
The eels writhe as he looks at her through the window.
It’s hard not to be attracted to a pretty woman who has given him probably the most bitchin’ compliment he’s ever received from anyone except from his mom and Grandpa Don: Bette called him smart.
Still at the kitchen window, he chops and drops the mint leaves, quickly and deftly as he would in the Barrel, his domain since he was a thirteen-year-old dishwasher. He takes a bartender’s pride in his drinks.
Be very careful, Casey thinks.
He sets down the glasses and sits across from her.
“This is like the Garden of Eden,” says Bette. “The flowers and the smells. The tree of the knowledge of good and evil would be the tangerine. Right?”
“It’s not like the Garden of Eden,” says Casey. He’s always thought his yard is his Eden. Always took extra good care of it to make it perfect and sinless. Tangerine juice is his favorite thing to drink in the whole world, and he’s had gallons of it, right from this tree. Hard to attribute any evil to it at all.
“I was raised Christian,” says Bette. “My dad is an atheist but Mom was converted by LA Methodists. So, every Sunday off to church. Bible school in summer. Such terrible boredom. At church school I tried to read Dad’s action comics, but they took them away. So I’d look out the window and imagine scenes from the Chinese action movies he always watched. I loved the boat and ocean scenes the most. Casey, I think you understand more about what you see than you let on.”
Casey shrugs and looks away. Lets that observation sit warmly inside. Wonders if she’s just stroking him now. And why.
“Just hours ago, my father retracted his statement against you and your brother and his wife, accusing you of destroying our boats,” she says. “He knows you didn’t do it, but he’s still furious at you for the postings. Humiliated.”
“I removed them.”
“But the world saw his pirates finning sharks.”
“Well, that’s what they were doing.”
Bette sighs, cuts Casey a hard look. “Monterey 9 are violent people. Make us look like Girl Scouts. The cops are familiar with them. We’ve talked to Los Angeles County investigators and filed this new report.”
“Well, we didn’t burn your boats,” says Casey, feeling the flush of truth on his cheeks. “We did not.”
He’s inwardly proud that this is at least partially because of him. Causing Brock’s dream of him as a tiger by not condoning his brother’s violence. By turning his other cheek—and Brock’s, too.
“I know you didn’t!” says Bette. “I know, Casey. From now on, let’s believe each other. Maybe even trust each other, even if only a little, so we can proceed honestly.”
Bette pulls a set of stapled papers from the briefcase. Smiles at Mae and gives her another dog treat. Hands the papers to Casey.
“This is a copy of our statement regarding Monterey 9, to the San Diego and Los Angeles County Sheriffs. Jimmy has admitted his misguided assumptions about who did what to our ships. It’s a peace pipe, Casey. So the Stonebreakers and the Wus can work together, not against each other.”
“I doubt that, Bette,” he says quietly.
She looks disappointed. “That’s the first time you’ve used my name.”
Casey wonders again if she’s just stroking him. Thinks of the manipulating women he’s known, or known of.
“I always thought Bette Davis was scary,” he says. “Those old movies where she’s the insane bad woman.”
“My dad’s kind of woman,” says Bette. “He asked me to apologize to you for him falsely accusing you and Brock and Mahina. Do you accept?”
Casey considers this. Sees that it might well be an apology based on a convenience.
“An apology? Okay, I guess.”
“Thank goodness! You can keep this copy, as a reminder, you know. Something in writing.”
Casey leafs through it. Lots of names, companies, addresses, excerpted courtroom documents, police reports, several newspaper accounts focusing on a tong offshoot called Monterey 9. Also a Los Angeles Times story on the competitive world of fish and seafood fishermen supplying high-end Southern California restaurants. A smiling Jimmy Wu is pictured, wearing a Kings windbreaker at what appears to be a Kings game.
“I’d like to have something comparable from you, of course.”
“You mean something written?”
“Yes, just saying you don’t think we burned down the Barrel. Because, Casey—we did not.”
“I’d have to talk to Mom and Brock.”
“I’m asking you because you’re the most reasonable.”
“But they would have to agree.”
“Will you try, Casey?”
“Why do you ask for this? Are the Laguna cops closing in on you for the Barrel?”
“Do not say that! Absolutely not. They’ve been respectful. Maybe a little frustrated that there’s not one speck of evidence against us. Everything points to the Monterey 9 and Imperial Fresh Seafoods.”
Casey takes a long moment to consider. Bette’s tale of the Monterey 9 sounds possibly believable.
Laguna PD detective Pittman has asked about them, indicated that they are of interest to his investigation of the Barrel arson. He’s already sent Casey a useless photograph of an Imperial Fresh delivery van with the dancing shark on it.
Pittman has also asked Casey about the infamous Laguna arsonist Timothy Stanton Orchard, who Casey’s mom wrote an article about years ago. Shown him pictures.
But Casey hasn’t even thought about—let alone seen this weirdo—in years.
“I’ll talk to my family is all I can say. About something written.”
