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?”
“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.”
