Desperation Reef

Back at the Barrel he preps the bar for happy hour. His two barbacks, Dylan and Diego, are already there, tending to the bottles and glasses, coolers, ice machines, building the garnishes from tiny umbrellas, nasturtium petals, and cubed melon.

Phone in his pocket, ring tone and vibrate turned up high, he chats with some local regulars — Janice, Aurora, Gaye, and Tessie. They’re pretty, reliably thirsty, cheerful. Not his type for a relationship but he likes them, and their attention.

Tessie recently bought one of his signature model surfboards at Hobie Sports here in town and he feels guilty for avoiding a promised lesson on the lavishly beautiful, expensive tri-fin. He feels her sincere, happy interest in him but he’s never been one to take something offered without genuine reciprocity, which he does not feel — has rarely felt — in a woman.

He can hardly keep up the small talk, waiting on word about Mae from Bette Wu.

Who walks into the bar just before happy hour with two male associates, hangs a silver clutch on the back of the barstool, and sits down in front of Casey.

At least he thinks it’s her.

This Bette is dressed in a seafoam-green leather pantsuit and matching rhinestone-studded sneakers. No blouse required. No pistol on her hip. Pearls around her neck. Hair up and lipstick on.

The men wear dark suits, solid-colored shirts and ties, and take stools on either side of her. They frown.

Casey’s locals have gone silent, four faces trained down the bar on Bette with full attention.

Jen passes by, menus clutched to her chest, followed by two customers. A sharp look at Bette Wu, then a questioning glance at Casey.

“Stonebreaker, make me a French 75,” Bette says. “Then we’ll talk. Beers for my crew. Kingstar if you have it. Tsingtao if you don’t.”

“You’re talking different now,” says Casey.

A look from her, possibly dismissive.

He makes and serves her the drink, Tsingtao for the men. Glances at Tessie and friends, isn’t sure what expression to offer. Bette lifts her drink to them, and sips.

One of the cocktail waitresses down the bar hoists a Scorpion-loaded tray to her shoulder, spikes Casey another order to fill near the far cash register.

Bette Wu relocates to a stool in front of it and sets down her drink.

Casey looks at her, not certain that this Bette was the Bette on Empress II.

“I want Mae back and twelve hundred for a phone,” he says.

“I don’t have Mae.”

“People at Oceanside Harbor saw you with her.”

“But I can tell you where she is when you take the videos down.”

“They’re down.”

“Good. But I will only direct you to her and the money when I see the proof. You post a lot. And all those YouTubes. I want it down. All of it. Every pixel.”

“I just told you they’re down. You better not hurt her.”

“I don’t have her.”

“God loves Mae and He’ll protect her.”

“I think that’s funny.”

“Some people think everything’s funny.”

Bette Wu drinks half of her French 75, sets the glass down, and fixes her skeptical brown eyes on Casey.

“You look like Bette from the Empress II,” he says. “But you don’t talk like her.”

“I’m Bette Wu. A fisher, actor, businesswoman, and graduate of UCLA. Business, with a minor in film.”

“I think that’s funny.”

“I was brought up on Hong Kong crime and action movies. Now I play my heroines in real life. Helps beat the boredom on the boat. I will make a pirate movie someday. A big hit. Have you seen the Chinese film The Pirate?”

He shakes his head. “I want my dog.”

“I’ll check your platforms and see if you’re lying or not. And when I’m satisfied, I will call.”

She smiles at Casey, then strides out of the bar, trailed by her escorts, who drop money on the counter and hustle to catch up.

Casey gets his mom and his barback to handle the rest of happy hour, and races up the outside stairs to the third-floor Barrel apartment/office to double ensure all his shark-finning posts and pictures and videos are in fact down. He can’t lose Mae on a technicality.

Five minutes later, he’s back on duty on the bar.

When his phone rings he almost fumbles a Lapu-Lapu on its way to a customer, then yanks out the device — vibrating ecstatically and playing the first notes of a Jack Johnson song.

“We have small wrinkle,” says Bette.

When he hears her pirate talk his heart speeds up in a bad way.

“There better not be!” blurts Casey, as adrenaline and anger burst through him. “It’s all down. Every clip, picture, post, and word.”

“We ask twenty-five thousand dollars to give back Mae. Twenty. Five. Thousand. Jacksons only. If you call police, Mae goes overboard at sea. Or maybe smuggle to a buyer far away.”

Casey feels his deepest fear for Mae landing on him like an avalanche. “I’ll get the money.”

“Call me tomorrow at this number at noon exactly. From your home in Laguna Beach. If you don’t, your dog will disappear.”

She gives him a number, which he writes on a Barrel napkin and slips into his wallet.