“Wonderful, Casey. Totally rad, as you might say.”

She pats the back of his hand lightly with hers. Which pricks his burns but also sends a zing of pleasure through him. Same as when she kissed his ear on Sunset.

“I brought something to make you respect me more,” she says.

Bette gives Mae another treat, then pulls a small trophy from the Halliburton and hands it to Casey. It’s a brass surfer girl on a wooden stand, a brass wave behind her. Nice little two-footer, Casey sees.

“I got third in the under-twelves at Huntington one year,” she says. “The waves were big, and Bethany Hamilton gave this trophy to me.”

“Sweet,” says Casey.

“You can have it to put with yours.”

“No, you should keep it.”

He sets it back in the briefcase and he sees the hurt on her face. Remembers that Bette told him she was an actor and film school graduate, too. Out here in the cool autumn sun, Bette’s face looks pale and luminescent as a pearl. And her hair black and shiny as obsidian.

“I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings,” says Casey.

“You can’t. The other reason I came is because I want to talk to you about a business arrangement. I want to help manage you.”

“Manage me?”

“Your business, your money, your happiness, your life.”

“But I’m already doing that.”

“Casey? Let me be honest and caring. You’re not doing a very good job of it.”

“In exactly what way?”

“Hear me out.”

28

She gives him a hard, matter-of-fact look. He can’t exactly hear her wheels turning, but he’s sure they are.

From the Halliburton she gives Mae another treat, then hands Casey a sheaf of papers with a fastener at the top. It looks like the purchase offer for the Barrel that the lawyer had in his briefcase, not quite hiding his gun.

He’s expecting some kind of proposal about management, but as he scans through the pages he sees copies of his contracts with sponsors and contest organizers, endorsement deals, pay schedules for modeling contracts, commission agreements with an agent for the book he’s writing, a Hollywood studio option for his life’s story, even his first surfboard endorsement with a small Laguna Beach surfboard maker when Casey was fourteen: Lagunatic Surfboards.

Deep in the pages, Casey sees offers and proposals he hasn’t had time to deal with. Or, usually, has had the time, but not the energy. Business makes him sleepy.

“These are some of my deals,” he says. “How did you get all this?”

“Public records, Internet searches. A good private investigator is a friend, and a sharp LA lawyer is a Wu. By marriage.”

“Well, now you know what I’m worth.”

“That’s right, and it isn’t much.”

“I’d say eight thousand bucks for fourth at the Pipe Masters is pretty sweet. And the twelve grand from the Locomotive Watch company for three photo shoots. And the dough from Dream Coast Clothes and World Statement Denim and Ripley’s Organic Bakery isn’t bad.”

“But it’s not good, Casey. Your non-Barrel income adds up to an average annual twenty-five thousand dollars for the last three years. Your own CaseyWear clothing line actually loses money. Without your paycheck and tips from the Barrel, you couldn’t afford to surf the world. You could barely afford to live.”

“No, I’m living fine. See?”

“Have you been audited?”

Casey’s not-so-dormant suspicions of Bette Wu sting him like a bee. Everything a threat. She wouldn’t rat him to the IRS, would she?

“Bartenders never declare all their tips. Do you?”

Casey has always been uneasy about this, but Jen and the Barrel managers and the other waitstaff have all told him that he should only declare ten percent of his tips. Max. The Feds expect it. Tips that he works hard for, in his opinion.

“You should answer me.”

“Half.”

“Oh, Casey. That’s so like you.”

He shrugs, feels dumb. “It still keeps me in a low tax bracket. I hardly pay any taxes. I get refunds sometimes.”

“Who negotiates these deals for you?”

“I do. The companies like dealing with the actual surfers.”

“You bet they do!”

Casey sets the financial history of his life on the table.

“Do you own this place, Casey?”

“I rent. The owner’s cool so it’s two grand a month, plus utilities. My truck’s paid for.”

“How many miles, driving that pickup truck from here to Oceanside three mornings a week to hunt down the catch of the day?”

“Two hundred forty thousand, but I change the oil every three. Those Toyotas last forever. I told them I’d love to pitch their trucks on TV or something but they never got back.”

“Who did you talk to? Some guy at a dealership?”

“The sales manager.”

Bette Wu clears her throat. Then slips out from the table bench and walks over to the centerpiece tangerine tree, loaded with late October fruit. “May I?” she asks, hand raised.

“Go for it.”

“You, too?”