“You think I should get the eight foot or the nine-six?”
O’Reilly had pulled two surfboards from the racks at the Tubin’ Tanker and had them lined up for Barstow’s opinion. “I’ve had my eye on these two.”
Barstow squinted at the boards, then over at O’Reilly. “Depends. You weigh about 200? You want to do some turns, but still cruise, right?” He walked down the rack of vertical boards.
O’Reilly moseyed along with him, reveling in his feeling of well-being, which was due to the fact that he’d passed up the Strip and Go Nakeds last night. He could hardly believe the two words that had escaped his lips when those three hot babes offered him tastes. No Thanks. Jesus. The chicks were practically naked, too. He really was getting older. But wiser.
He knew his nerves would ultimately be what was naked if he imbibed in those radioactive concoctions, and this meet was too damned important. True, the cocktails would have helped him get to sleep, but he’d be awake again at three, wrestling with some of the steps he needed to take to make this meet a success. Even telling himself that some of them were necessary to triumph (ask any politician), he fretted.
It was good to unwind like this with Barstow, though that guy had nerves of titanium steel. Had to in order to surf like he used to, and they also served him well in business. The two of ’em were a good team.
“Here’s a nine foot. You look at this one?”
“I hate purple.”
Barstow rolled his eyes, then glanced toward the door. O’Reilly followed his gaze. All right, now. That was a beautiful woman, if you like them a little on the strong side. Tall and curvy, substantial. He’d like to let that dark, wavy hair out of that conservative French braid. It was trying to spring its bonds already, and yeah, he’d bet that dame was like her hair looked—a real handful.
She went right up to Mo‛o, who’d been ignoring customers while he traipsed in and out of a back room, wearing a painter’s mask and a resinous cloud that blossomed around him like an overwhleming cologne. She stuck out her hand and introduced herself, which was when Barstow nearly dropped the purple surfboard.
“Hey.” Shit, he didn’t want to have to buy that one.
“Sorry,” Barstow muttered, looking over his shoulder.
“You know her?”
Barstow’s poisonous glare cut him short. It sounded as if someone had said Nahoa’s name, but O’Reilly hadn’t quite caught the words. Maybe Barstow had, though, because he planted the surboard against the wall and jerked his head toward the door. O’Reilly followed him out to the street. The early afternoon sun glared from the passing cars. Both men put on sunglasses.
“Who’s that?”
“Stephanie’s lawyer. I recognized her name.”
“You’re shitting me.” O’Reilly grinned. “Introduce me.”
“Grow up, O’Reilly.”
“C’mon, I could be your spy.”
“Like we need another spy.”
“Jesus, what’s with you? A major sponsor bag out on you?”
Barstow’s reflective sunglasses shot a laser of light so intense that O’Reilly shifted. Barstow let his insect eyes rove up and down the street as if he were expecting a gunslinger to step out of one of the stores. “Let’s go get something to eat,” he growled. “Someplace we won’t run into the Harridan. Or my kid, for that matter.”
They found a nice, dark place. Like a cave from the blistering sun, ripe with the aroma of good beer on tap and something frying. Barstow didn’t want to sit at the bar, so they took a table in a corner. O’Reilly ordered a bacon cheeseburger with a side of onion rings without even looking at a menu. Barstow seemed as tense as a violin string, and he ran his eyes up and down both sides of the page, then finally decided on a teriyaki chicken sandwich. And lemonade. O’Reilly figured he’d better get lemonade, too.
Barstow didn’t say anything until the drinks came, just kind of let his eyes run around the room as if his mind was so busy he didn’t want to distract it with words. When a teenaged waiter set the lemonades before them, he took a couple big swallows, and sat back in his chair.
“I’m worried the death of this second surfer is going to hurt us.”
O’Reilly nodded. “I thought of that, too. But surfing’s dangerous—it’s part of the appeal. Like race car driving, you gotta have risk to have glory.”
“Maybe.” The cords in Barstow’s neck seemed to slacken. “It’ll depend on the spin the media puts on it. You talked to Gordon lately?”
“I’ve left a coupla messages, but I know he’s busy. He’s in touch with KZXM on a daily basis. They’re planning a ‘History of Hawaiian Surfing’ docudrama for Thursday evening.” O’Reilly waved to the waiter for a lemonade refill. “I’ll talk to him before that. Don’t worry.”
“I asked Goober to be his liaison to local surfers,” Barstow said.
“Goober? Please.” O’Reilly’s lips curled in a sneer. “Who’s gonna talk to that loser?”
“You wanted me to handle the local surfers, didn’t you?” Barstow’s voice was calm, but cold. There was a line of white around his lips, which barely moved as he spoke.
O’Reilly took a deep swallow of his lemonade, nodded wordlessly, and felt the trail of icy liquid pass through his chest. Easy, now.
The nearness of the event and the tensions of making it happen were making them both short-tempered. Antsy. And of course, Barstow still liked to think of himself as a surfer. With local connections, like in the old days, though he hadn’t been around for decades. He didn’t even have the Hawaiian wife anymore.
O’Reilly looked Barstow in the eye. “What’s he doing for us?”
“It’s no big deal. He’s keeping tabs on things. He can blend in.”
“Okay, but let’s not ask Gordon to interview him. He’s barely articulate. At least Nahoa Pi‛ilani could talk.”
“C’mon, he’s a good surfer. He’s out there on the big waves.”
“He doesn’t have respect.”
“He does. You know how arbitrary one contest is.”
O’Reilly could see Barstow’s left eyelid twitch. A bad sign. Now, if he could get Barstow off this topic. “You’re right about that,” he said.
Usually, a rant on the preconceived ratings of the judges did the trick. Barstow was convinced that judges got caught up in the popularity and charisma of certain surfers and ignored others’ skills. “I meant he’s a bit young, that’s all. The judges will start to notice him soon.”
It worked. Barstow set down his lemonade with a crack. “Judging is a crock. There are these gods of the moment, like—”
The waiter appeared with their plates and set them down. O’Reilly lunged for his burger. He chewed, grateful to exercise the jaw muscles that had been hard knots all morning. He hoped the good food would improve Barstow’s ill humor. The guy was high-strung, but that’s what also made him good for the job. O’Reilly reminded himself that he needed to stroke his partner a bit more. This would all soon culminate in a wonderful contest that would benefit everyone involved. Well, almost everyone.