Barstow awakened O’Reilly at six a.m. by showing up inside the colorful but thorny bougainvillea-covered fence surrounding the beach house and banging on the sliding glass doors of the master bedroom. O’Reilly had the heavy drapes drawn and thought it was still the middle of the night, but the girl he’d brought home last night sat up with a little yelp and said her girlfriends were going to be really worried about her, especially since she had borrowed their car. She ran by Barstow on her way to the Mustang convertible she’d left, roof down, in the driveway. It was raining and in the mid-sixties, a typical winter morning in the isles.
Barstow hadn’t changed much. He even looked the same, about five-eight and wiry as a jockey. O’Reilly had forgotten the guy barely reached his shoulder. He’d forgotten how impatient Barstow was, too. Definite Type A.
Barstow made a beeline for the espresso machine that the posh beach house supplied with other high-end kitchen equipment, and had two frothed and sweetened bowl-sized cups prepared by the time O’Reilly was out of the shower.
Fifteen minutes later, they stood side by side in the sand and watched the rising sun scatter fuchsia and flame sequins across the ocean. O’Reilly shivered in the damp morning air and wished he had another cup. With a little Irish whiskey in it.
“Hey, when did you get that tattoo?” O’Reilly asked.
“You like? It’s my ‛aumakua, the shark.” Barstow picked up his leg to give O’Reilly a better view of the design that encircled his ankle. “I can get you an appointment with the guy who does it. All the locals use him.”
“Nice.” O’Reilly liked it, but it wasn’t really his style. He looked out at the ocean. “You know anyone out there?”
“Yeah. See that tube action? If that guy can keep it up, he can beat the Hawaiian.” Barstow pointed to a short, muscular man with bands of tribal tattoos on his arms and legs.
“Who is he?” O’Reilly asked.
Barstow consulted a pad of paper. “Gabe Watson. He’s seeded second, right behind Nahoa Pi‛ilani.”
“Hey, isn’t Ben in this?” O’Reilly asked.
“Yeah,” Barstow said.
“So what’s his rank?”
“Hell, he’s got to grow up.”
“C’mon, you can brag to an old friend. If I had a son in this, I’d blab it all over the place.” O’Reilly clapped the shorter Barstow on the shoulder. “He’s in this thing, he’s gotta be good.”
Barstow grinned. “Yeah, he’s okay. He’s still in the lineup for tomorrow.”
“All right.” O’Reilly nodded appreciatively. “That means he’s made it through four rounds. He’s within striking distance of a trophy. It’s a good purse, too.”
Barstow shrugged. “We’ll see. You never know till you’re out there, getting your wave. Anything can happen in the water.”
“I’ll bet.” O’Reilly nodded. He followed Barstow’s gaze as three surfers headed out. “Isn’t that Ben?”
“And Nahoa Pi‛ilani. I don’t know the other kid.” Barstow squinted into the light, which was intensifying by the moment. He took an expensive pair of mirrored, wrap-around sunglasses out of his shirt pocket and put them on.
“Don’t you want to go talk to him?”
Barstow shook his head. “Not yet. I don’t want to break his focus.”
O’Reilly knew Barstow’s wife had taken off over a year ago with the kid, though the way Barstow talked about Ben, he was sure the father stayed in touch with his son. He wasn’t sure of the details, though. A hardness had settled on Barstow’s face when he implied he’d wait to talk to his son.
“Hey, you ever heard of the Blue Shorts?” O’Reilly asked, to change the subject.
Barstow looked at him sharply. “Yeah, they used to be a tough North Shore gang.” He shoved his foot into the sand. “Where’d you hear about them?”
“I was talking to some surfer-types.” O’Reilly could see the reflection of clouds drifting across the mirrors of Barstow’s sunglasses. The glasses gave the man the expressionless demeanor of a magnified insect.
“They were bullies.” Barstow’s soft growl belied the impression the glasses left. There was an angry sneer in it, like that of an outcast disparaging a high school clique. “A lot of ’em were lifeguards, supposedly working to protect swimmers and surfers.”
“They wore blue shorts?”
“Yeah, the lifeguards had these blue shorts with red piping and a slash of red and white print.”
“Were you ever a lifeguard?” O’Reilly knew he’d hit a nerve the second the words were out of his mouth.
“Fuck, no. Me? A California boy?” Barstow’s upper lip curled. “I was the type they were trying to get rid of.”
O’Reilly grinned at Barstow. “Hell, I guess you showed ’em, didn’t you? You were a finalist in the ’86 Gerry Lopez Pipeline Masters.”
Barstow let a smile lift one side of his mouth. “I guess so.”
“And married a local girl, too.”
“Yeah,” Barstow said. “But that was a long time ago. Things have changed, people are different.”
O’Reilly let that comment go. He didn’t know whether Barstow was referring to his marriage or the local culture.