“What’s with the woman?” Barstow asked. They sat at one end of the crowded bar at Pipeline Pub and Grub. People eyed the two men with curiosity, recognizing them from the well-publicized surf event that had inflated Haleiwa’s population and changed its sleepy ambiance to a star-studded media fest. But their body language and simmering hostility kept admirers at a distance. There were other, more appealing targets: brown-skinned surfers, scantily-clad women, and local celebrities drifted among the bar’s patrons.
O’Reilly knocked back half of his scotch, which he drank neat. “You know women. Break up with ’em and they bear a grudge the size of my dick.”
Barstow didn’t smile. His hands lay flat on the counter. “Who is she?”
He had only drunk about a quarter of his draft, a Gordon Biersch pale ale. O’Reilly considered asking him for some, just to quell the shaky feeling in his gut.
“Her name’s Pua.”
“And?”
“We used to work together.”
“In California? She looks Hawaiian.”
O’Reilly ground his teeth. Barstow was going to find out anyway and the situation would look stranger than it did now. He finished his scotch. “Her brother’s Nahoa Pi‛ilani.”
The muscles in Barstow’s jaw twitched. “When were you going to share that little tidbit with me?”
O’Reilly gestured for the waitress. “I just did.” He pointed to Barstow’s draft. “I’ll have one of those.”
“You knew Nahoa from California?”
O’Reilly shrugged. “I knew who he was, of course.”
“You obviously knew his sister.”
O’Reilly couldn’t help himself from smiling. “Yeah, it was good while it lasted.”
She’d looked more beautiful than ever. Too bad her brother had fucked things up. Alicia DeWitt, the producer’s wife, was a whimsy, a two-or-three-night fling. He would have gone back to Pua and made it up to her.
“Just in case you’d forgotten, Nahoa’s dead,” Barstow snapped. “And the cops don’t think it was an accident. They came by asking me who he hung out with, if he had any enemies. You got anything you want to tell me?”
O’Reilly stared at him. “They haven’t talked to me yet.” He leaned forward. He had a slow fuse, but Barstow was starting to push his buttons. His vision narrowed on his partner’s face like a cold, blue laser. “I’m going to say this once and I don’t want to hear another word about it. They can come talk to me anytime. I’ve got nothing to hide.”
“Right,” Barstow said in a low voice. “The cops said they’d shut down the meet if someone in it had anything to do with Pi‛ilani’s death. I’m here because you asked me, and I’m going to be very pissed if you fuck this up.” His hands clenched into fists. “We’ll never get a chance at surf like this again. You know how lucky we are with the timing of this swell?”
“You’re forgetting who put this together, buddy,” O’Reilly said between clenched teeth.
“No, I’m not. And you’ve done an awesome job with the media coverage. But I got the big names here and that certification—”
“Hey, I forgot to tell you. Two credit card companies came in today.” O’Reilly stretched his cheeks in what he hoped was a big toothy smile. “One of them signed Ben.”
“Good, that’s good.” Barstow’s Adam’s apple rose and fell.
“A half mil, year’s contract.”
Barstow sat very still for a moment. “Thanks.” He whooshed air through his nostrils and made a visible effort to rein in his temper. “We can’t have any negative publicity at this point. None.”
“I get it.”
Barstow stared at the amber in his beer glass as if it were an oracle.
O’Reilly’s hackles still stood on end, but he knew what Barstow said was true. His ale had appeared at some point—he hadn’t noticed—and he now took a slow swallow. Time to change the subject to more practical matters.
“What are you going to do about Goober?”
“It’s out of our hands. The judges gave him a four point six and the doctors told him to stay out of the water for a couple of weeks.” Barstow seemed relieved to be on another topic.
“Kimo’s still got his ride. He could bring up the average.”
“To what, a six?”
“Doesn’t he have another heat?” O’Reilly asked.
“Not at that average.”
“What happens if Kimo is outstanding?”
“There’s no provision for a partner change if one guy bombs his ride. That’s the chance a rider takes. The only way that would happen is if another surfer gets hurt or disqualified and we’ve got an odd number.”
“Well, Goober’s hurt. So who’s going to drive the jet ski?”
“One of the other guys.” Barstow looked around the room. “I might ask Gabe to do it. He owes us.”
O’Reilly nodded. “He’s going to hate it, but what’s he gonna do?”
Barstow grinned at him. “I figure he’ll see it our way.”