Finishing the article, Casey feels big emotions surging up against each other inside him. Surprise. Doubt. Relief. Suspicion. Joy?
He says, “Woah, this is heavy.”
“I told you we were innocent. My dad. King Jim Seafood. All of us. Me!”
“I still don’t see why these guys would burn up the Barrel.”
“To punish enemies,” says Bette. “The old way of the underworld. Of gangs and tongs and blood feuds.”
She kneels and hugs Mae. “And I would never hurt your dog. And our offer to buy the Barrel was honest and sincere. Low? Yes, low. But we doubled to four million. We negotiate in good faith. Generous terms for your family and all employees. You have us wrong, Casey. One huge mistake.”
She draws a salmon-and-pumpkin treat from her windbreaker pocket and Mae snatches it with a snort.
Bette rises and gives him a frank look. Even barefoot, she’s not a lot shorter than six-two Casey. He wonders if she played basketball for UCLA. In this damp, early morning light, her skin is smooth and moist and her black bangs hang thick above her ebony eyes. Not a scar, Casey thinks. Not a mole or a blemish.
Not that that means what you are inside.
And not a line on her face, until she smiles.
“I thought you’d be happy to know who burned your restaurant.” She brushes a lock of Casey’s thick blond hair off his forehead. “And maybe if I present myself better, you might let me help you with your businesses and finance. Maybe become your partner someday. Maybe become a friend.”
Suddenly, Casey feels … empty.
Because everything he thought about Bette and her pirates, and her father, was wrong. Probably wrong. The pirates were shark finners, for sure. Ugly stuff. But not Bette, right? The pirates shot up his burner phone and scared the shit out of him but Bette never drew her gun, and it was right there on her hip. Yes, Bette tried to leverage Mae into their offer for the Barrel, but she never laid a finger on her. Jimmy tried to buy the Barrel cheap, but he didn’t burn it up.
Empty, when what you think is true is actually not.
But he feels weirdly … filled up, too.
With total positivity. Bette a friend? Who helps me figure out how to increase my “earning potential”?
This woman isn’t really a shark finner, a Mae-napper, a real-estate hustler, or arsonist? Isn’t a major criminal at all? She’s a choice woman who kissed my ear on Sunset and said she thinks I’m smart?
Slam the door on her?
Gulls keen overhead. Mae sits and looks up at them.
Bette has already shown him the LA sheriff’s report filed by her father, accusing rival Imperial Fresh of torching his fleet. She has told him that she believes him, that the Stonebreakers did no such thing. Suspects the Monterey 9 of escalating their attack on the Wu family and King Jim Seafood.
Logical enough, thinks Casey, but the facts weigh heavily on him, and on his morals and honesty. They’re both lying. Two big fudging lies, but can he spill his?
Out of the question, not on the table.
His guts tighten but he’s keeping his secret. For now. He was against the dang King Jim boat attacks anyway but he’s got his family and Brock’s Go Dogs to protect.
“Your words sound good, Bette. You tempt me with how smart and beautiful you are.”
She blushes slightly, a pink undercurrent swelling up beneath her perfect white skin. He wonders if she can do this on cue. The acting classes.
“I don’t want to tempt. I want to help.”
“But I still don’t want a manager now,” he says. “Signing those papers. That whole fifteen percent commission thing. No.”
“Then let the whole thing go!”
“Maybe if, like…”
“Seriously, Casey.”
She spreads her arms, hands balled tightly, then closes her eyes and opens her fists. “I let it go. There it goes. You should, too. Now.”
“Okay.”
Lowers her arms, opens her eyes and studies him. “I didn’t know how you would react to this news. But I’m glad you don’t hate me. The first step toward trust.”
He pulls his phone from his shorts pocket, leaves text messages for Jen and Brock. See the California section in today’s LA Times. Looks like we might have made a mistake.
Mae looks out at Moondance tied to the loading dock.
“I’ll be seeing you, Casey.”
Casey feels a nervy little rush, something forbidden but good, then:
“The bluefin are still in. Interested?”
The swell is steady and the chop is mean but by eleven thirty Casey and Bette have each caught a bluefin tuna weighing eighty-eight and eighty-three pounds, respectively.
“Glad I beat you,” he says, half seriously.
