Desperation Reef

“I’ll tell you exactly who set the Barrel on fire. The same people who burned our boats. Monterey 9 — a criminal tong spin-off settled in Los Angeles County. They’ve been enemies of the Wus going back fifty years. They were ruthless then and ruthless now. We were just fishermen and — women. One of their businesses is Imperial Fresh Seafood. They knew of our offer to buy the Barrel. They want rich Orange County to themselves. So, destroying our fleet was the next logical step toward ruining us completely. Luckily, we have a paid informant in Monterey 9.”

Casey less than half believes this story, but wonders if it could be true. Remembers the black Sprinter with the logo speeding off from the Barrel. Why not Monterey 9, destroying Jimmy Wu’s future assets? And maybe — just maybe — Brock and Mahina and the Go Dogs declined to torch the Wu family fleet after all. Just as Brock had said he would.

“Excuse me,” he says to Bette, as he googles “Imperial Fresh Seafood” and finds pictures of their delivery fleet. Yep, he sees: Sprinters. The same as Laguna Detective Brian Pittman’s, gray, not black, and their logo is a smiling great white shark wearing a red robe, dancing on the ocean on its tail. Like Imperial Fresh is trying to out-logo King Jim, Casey thinks. What kooks.

But it’s not much like the logo he saw that night.

Which he tells Bette and shows her his screen. She shrugs and fixes him with a who-gives-a-shit look.

Casey remembers the pirates that first day, bloody knives and dying sharks, their rusty guns and eagerness to use them. Like, if they’d do that, why wouldn’t their enemies do likewise? Destroy assets? Like a chess game but the moves are sudden and violent, and there’s lots of money at stake.

“See?” Bette says. “Mae likes me. She’s forgiven my little prank. I hope you do.”

“Get lost, Ms. Wu.”

“Where are your manners?”

“They’ve left the building. So you leave, too. I get nothing but bad actions and bad karma from you.”

“Not so fast, Casey. I have gifts for you and Mae. Who I would never hurt in any way.”

“Yeah, well, what about throwing her overboard or smuggling her somewhere far away?”

“A joke. An ugly little joke. I apologize. And Casey?”

Again she leans into seated Casey, face to face. Up this close her eyes look like black lakes and within the scents of plumeria and tangerine he smells that smell from Sunset.

“Do not blame my family for the Barrel,” says Bette. “Do not blame me.”

Knowing Bette Wu as he thinks he does, everything she says sounds like a threat. Or an excuse.

But what if she’s telling the truth?

She sits across from him at the bistro table. Gives him a softened expression, then looks down.

“What are you doing here?” he asks. “What do you want?”

“An Arnold Palmer, thank you.”

“I’m asking you to go. Mae is asking you to go.”

“But why?”

“We don’t trust you.”

“Someday you will.”

Bette gets into her Halliburton, pulls out a colorful foil pouch, and hands a salmon-and-pumpkin treat to Mae. One of her favorites from a boutique pet store.

“I have some ideas for you,” says Bette. “Please make me that drink. I’m very thirsty.”

Arnold Palmers are one of Casey’s favorite drinks, and fun to make. Here at home, he uses mint from his garden and lemons from his tree.

Through his kitchen window he watches Bette and Mae in the backyard, Bette giving his dog another treat from the briefcase, Mae sitting at attention with her usual food lust. Feels wrong to leave them together and alone. So he keeps an eye on both of them.

He cuts the lemons and dices the mint, his emotions writhing inside like eels. Bette Wu is his enemy. She’s kidnapped his dog, tried to swindle his family, and almost certainly helped burn down his mother’s restaurant. He has never felt hatred for another person but Bette Wu is near the top of his don’t-like list. Maybe even at the top, considering the Barrel, which he swears he can smell now, gutted by fire, stronger than the mint he’s using.

But part of him is attracted to her, fully against his will, but attractions don’t wait for invites — they just barge in. He’s especially attracted to her non-pirate side. He likes her general attitude, energy, and her blunt language. Her manner. Her poise, her clothes, her sophistication and looks. She’s really pretty. And let’s face it, he thinks: I like the way she kissed my ear on Sunset Boulevard. He thinks her mystery might be the best part of Bette Wu. Like, how can a shark-finning pirate sit out there in my backyard in a suit and feed my dog treats from a Halliburton? Who, really, actually, is this chick, anyway?

He has a brief thought of being in bed with her, or better yet, on a beach blanket just after dark in a private cove he knows near Sunset on Oahu. Such notions he has rarely followed up. When he has, they’ve proven disappointing, and screwed up friendships, and led to misunderstandings and frustrations.

Right now, frankly, his desires aren’t bothering him, though other things are: