Casey studies her eyes, the black pupils set in garnet orange and bruise purple, like the pendant around his neck. It hurts him just to look at them. How do you let them do this to your own girl?
“And I’ve got a question for you,” he says. “How did you frame Monterey 9 for the Barrel?”
She studies him blankly, finally nods. Takes another drink.
“Early morning, after we set the fire, we broke into an Imperial Fresh Seafood Sprinter in their Monterey Park lot. Loaded in some canisters of gasoline, and the cell signal timers, the wires, batteries, everything. And a detailed plot drawing of the Barrel, small x’s where the bombs had been planted. Fang placed the anonymous tip to LA police, who patrol Monterey, named two of the Imperial Fresh Seafood pirates we’ve been fighting with for decades. We’d put the bomb stuff in their garages. The frame might not have been strong enough to fool a good defense, but it was enough for the cops to make the arrests and get them off our backs.”
“What about the Sierra Sports Sprinter?”
“Our van. Our people. Forged plates. A Sierra Sports emblem one of our people found in a thrift store.”
Casey tries to follow the consequences. Tries to think like Brock would think.
“So, if you hadn’t told Detective Pittman about all that, the two framed suspects might have been convicted. And the people who torched the Barrel would be free.”
“Yes.”
In his mind’s eye, he sees the flames lashing the walls of the Barrel, melting the surfboards, eating the paintings and the furnishings and the hardwood floor.
And the Empress II boiling over with flames. And Bushmaster and Stallion and the panga …
Which is when Casey admits to himself who set Jimmy Wu’s boats on fire.
“Who are the real Barrel fire setters?” he asks.
“Fang and Danilo.”
Casey tries to reconcile their faces with the security camera video. Can’t make firm connections, and wonders how a jury could. Again, it’s Bette who can identify them. Convict them.
“You’ve sacrificed a lot for us. Turned in your father. His business. Your coworkers.”
Your face, he thinks.
She shakes her head and looks up at him, a quizzical smile on that battered face.
“And I did it for me, too, Casey.”
His heart swelling for her, he takes off his surfboard pendant with the orange Mandarin Spessartite garnet embedded on the deck. It’s the orange of his father’s famous big-wave gun, and the orange of his mother’s hair.
Years ago, he hired the aunt of one of the Barrel waiters to make this pendant. She was a well-known Taxco jewelry maker. Sent her pictures, dozens of them, so she could get the shape of the gun right, especially that wicked narrow tail. This was before he had any money. So he borrowed from his mom against his busboy wages: two thousand dollars, because the Mandarin Spessartite was so rare. It took him a year to pay her back.
Bette eyes it. Casey likes that he can’t tell what she’s thinking.
Now he stands before her and spreads the heavy silver chain, setting the necklace over Bette Wu’s head and onto her fine pale neck.
“Thank you,” he says.
She stands and lifts a lock of hair off Casey’s forehead, managing a half smile. Softly runs a finger along his reef-cut scab.
Casey gets that funny little jolt he gets when she touches him.
Mae looks up at him like she’s felt it, too.
The phone buzzes and Bette checks the caller.
“I’ve got something for you, too,” she says.
Accepts the call and walks out of earshot to the sliding glass door. Then raises a stop-sign palm to Casey, turns, and goes into the house. Mae sits and watches.
Bette talks a thousand times a day, quietly, almost always from somewhere Casey can’t quite hear.
Through the slider screen he watches Bette, now heading out the front door. He sidles up to the fence, pokes an opening through the thorny purple bougainvillea, and peers through it as a matte-black Tesla glides to the curb.
Bette gets in, sweeping the belt of his robe inside as she shuts the door.
The car doesn’t move.
Casey doesn’t like this one bit. Knows that Bette is in no shape physically or mentally to defend herself. What is she doing? She’s not running away, is she?
He can’t see inside through the blackout window glass.
A moment later she steps out, holding a Tiffany’s shopping bag with black tissue paper waving out the top.
He strides back to where he was so she won’t catch him spying.
She comes through the house, kneeling a moment to pet Mae’s ear.
She gives Casey a pained half smile and sets the bag on the table. Lifts the tissue paper with a magician’s flourish and Casey looks inside.
At the neat stacks of twenties bundled with bright yellow rubber bands.
“My eight grand from the sportsbook. For betting on you, mister! Half for you, and I’m going to bank the rest and maybe get myself some new clothes.”
“I don’t want half. It’s yours. Buy the stuff you need!”
Which, Casey knows, as an eyewitness, is quite a lot.
A few nights back, he helped pack up her furnished San Gabriel apartment, and was much surprised to see how little she had: a portable turntable and amp with detachable speakers and some vinyl. Some college textbooks and a few novels, a dated collection of DVDs—mostly Chinese action movies. She had bulk Costco toiletries, health and beauty products, cosmetics. Only a few really sweet rags: the black knit suit with the brass buttons she wore the day she bombed into his house in Dodge City, the white linen outfit she wore on Sunset Boulevard. The seafoam-green leather outfit she’d worn to the Barrel months ago and, later, to the Monsters awards banquet, was by then at the Canyon Cleaners in Laguna, where Mr. Kim had told Casey he’d do his best to remove the bloodstains and restore the leather. Bette had a few hats and pairs of shoes. Some jeans, sweatshirts, and T-shirts. Her ocean-going “pirate couture” as she called it was lost in the Empress II fire. As was her pistol, which she confessed to having never once fired. When she stopped a moment to study her framed UCLA diploma—but left it hanging—Casey asked why.
“I didn’t quite graduate,” she’d told him. “Didn’t get the algebra at all, and I liked being a pirate better. That’s a fake I had made, just like the check I gave your mother.”
Now here in Laguna Canyon with her $8,000 on the table, she sits again and takes a long, slow sip of the wine. Sets a hand on Casey’s.
“I’ve been talking to your studio people,” she says. “Introduced myself as a friend and business associate, then called bullshit on their biopic purchase price. Told them this year’s winner of the Monsters of Mavericks will not grant an option renewal next month.”
“But those guys are cool.”
“Yeah, so cool they’re going to up the purchase price by four hundred thousand dollars. More important, they’ve got a writer interested. A-list, Oscar nominee, hot dude—or so they say.”
