“For sure.”

“How many?”

“One.”

Bette takes her time, reaching up, fingering one tangerine after another. Casey pushes his suspicions of her as far away from his brain as he can get them. Enjoys a long, beautiful minute during which she has nothing to do with shark-finning, or dognapping, or real estate hustles, or arson, or trying to snake her way into his meager fortune. For that minute, doesn’t even try to derail his attention away from her.

Finally she’s back, sets four perfect tangerines on the table between them, and sits.

“You don’t ask for as much as you should. Because you are polite and thankful. Considerate and shy. And that’s why you need me as manager. To get what you are worth.”

He peels a piece of the fruit, smells that unmistakable, sweet, heavy scent. They’re seedless so he eats it in two bites. His favorite, ever since he was a kid and Grandpa Mike picked him and Brock tangerines off his tree up in Bluebird Canyon. They used to collect and juice them with Jen’s blender, and sell them at the pullout on Laguna Canyon Road where the tourists got traffic-jammed on their way out of town in summer. Set up their card table near Rashad, the Persian rug dealer who sold from his van, and Libby, the Protea girl. Made some good coin.

“Casey? I want you to listen to me now. There is a very large difference between your income and your income potential. You’re tenth overall in the world in men’s surfing. Ninth in big-wave surfing. You’re only twenty-four. You have seven hundred thousand fans on TikTok. Fifty-five thousand followers on Facebook—I mean followers, not just likes. You’re up over forty thousand on Twitter, and forty thousand subscribers to your YouTube content. Subscribers, not hits. Then, the CaseyGrams and blogs on your web page, which gets more traffic every week. And the Surf Nation podcasts. You are an influencer, big time.”

“I know there’s a way to get money for all that, but I’m not sure how. A little confusing.”

“Which is why you need me. Then, there’s the non-social media—your television ads and billboards—your handsome face and perfect body, your magazine covers, everywhere people look, there you are. Casey, you need Seiko, not Locomotive! You need J.Crew, not Dream Coast Clothing. You need Lucky Jeans, not World Statement Denim. You don’t need Ripley’s Organic Bakery, you need Dunkin’ Donuts—life-sized posters of you in every store in your surf trunks drinking coffee! You need to make money on CaseyWear, not lose money. And please, change the name.”

“What’s wrong with CaseyWear?”

“It’s boring and too on the nose.”

He shrugs. Doesn’t really mind the CaseyWear handle at all.

“Look, Casey, I took film and business, and I know people in the industry, so I know how it works. Based on my Books into Film class, you should have gotten five times that advance for your book, twenty times the biopic option. Someone has to make these people feel lucky to pay what you’re worth—and not just in today’s dollars, but tomorrow’s. That someone is me. If you win the Monsters of Mavericks, I will renegotiate your contracts. Bring you to the table with the heavy hitters. It would move you into second place on the World Surf Tour, and first in big-wave riding. Too busy surfing and fishing to manage all this? Too shy? Too cool? I understand. That’s where I come in. I’m good at this kind of thing. Better call Bette. I always get what I want. I’ll get what you deserve, Casey. And I’ll take fifteen percent of everything you earn. Not counting the Barrel, of course.”

Casey’s brain whizzes with all this information, speculation, and what sounds like real opportunity. Makes him want to take a siesta. The five-thousand-dollar biopic option on his unwritten The Legend of Casey Stonebreaker has always seemed kind of low.

“Here,” says Bette.

She draws another document from the briefcase, this a much shorter, stapled Agency Agreement Form from Bette Wu and Associates, an LLC with a Long Beach address that Casey recognizes as that of King Jim Seafood.

“Please do read it. If you have questions, I have answers.”

“No, Bette, I’m not going to sign this.”

“But then I wouldn’t be your agent.”

“I still don’t trust you. Mae. The Barrel. A week ago you were finning sharks and now you want to run my life.”

“I was not finning. I have never finned a shark or been cruel to any animal except the fish I catch for food. I do other things that are illegal, but never cruel. I try to survive. Maybe I’ll explain them to you someday.”

Casey takes a moment to look at Bette Wu, let his thumping heart settle some.

“I’m not going to sign, Bette. I like what you say about me being better at business, and I could use some help. But I don’t want you as a manager. I still don’t trust you all the way, and your family not one bit.”

Bette cups a cool soft hand over his. “I didn’t think you would sign with me. I’m hurt that you don’t trust me or believe that Monterey 9 torched your restaurant and our boats. I don’t blame you. Maybe you’ll believe me when the arrests are made and you see them on the news.”

“Well, maybe then, I guess.”

She gives Mae another salmon-and-pumpkin treat, then collects her papers—including Casey’s copy of Jimmy Wu’s statement against Monterey 9—sets them in the briefcase, and latches it.

Bette gets up from the table and looks down at Casey.

“We could be a great team,” she says. “Maybe someday. Maybe I can earn your trust. Maybe you will be able to see through my bluffs and my acting and fantasies to the brave, good woman inside.”

Casey stands. Walks Bette in silence to his backyard gate nearly invisible in the bougainvillea, takes Mae by her collar, and pushes open the door for Bette Wu.

“Casey, I have planted the seed of truth in you. And you have not seen the last of me.”

“You can’t keep showing up whenever you want.”

She smiles.

He nods and closes the gate.

29

But something more than just Bette Wu is bugging Casey. It’s like a little present in his head, trying to give itself to him.

At his backyard picnic table, he tries to draw the black Sprinter he saw leaving the Barrel as it burned. As he sketches in the van, the unclear logo partially resolves itself in his memory and appears on the paper: a towering, white-capped mountain. Orange script at the bottom.

Nothing to do with seafood or fish.

Meaning what?

Not King Jim?

Not Imperial Fresh?

He’s pretty good with pen and paper, having spent half his K–12 classroom hours sketching waves and little stick boys and girls riding them.

He completes a decent image, based on his night-vision, fire-addled, scared-to-shit memory of that night.

Casey clickety-clacks in his flip-flops down Broadway to Forest, the Laguna Beach cop house a short half mile from his Dodge City cottage, and for the second time this week lucks into Detective Brian Pittman in his cubicle.

“Interesting,” says Pittman. He’s an older guy, tall and slender, with thinning white hair and the suntanned, sun-lined face of a fisherman. Casey’s pretty sure that Detective Pittman grew up here in Laguna. Grandpa Don said he was cool.

“You fish for the Barrel catch-of-the-day specials, don’t you?” Pittman asks.

Casey nods. Studies Detective Pittman’s steady gray eyes as they look down at the Sprinter sketch.

“How far away was it?” he asks.

“Hundred and fifty feet, maybe.”

“Three A.M. But the streetlights there are good.”