Desperation Reef

Tim Kopf gives him a look. “She’ll turn up. Try the beach again, around the trash containers. And FYI — San Diego County Sheriffs did us some background on two of Bette Wu’s associates. One for felony assault, the other for smuggling marijuana out of Mexico and guns in. Ask for Detective Bob Temple and tell him we talked.”

Casey uses the good Tamarack Wi-Fi to post pictures of Mae on all his socials, describing her disappearance from Oceanside Harbor.

Sees that his shark-finning videos are collecting lots of hits. Pushing viral. Subscriptions up.

Casey walks the harbor again, calling for Mae, sweeping through wide vistas with the Leicas. The docks, the restaurants, the parking lots. Another pass along the beach and the San Luis Rey River. He’s getting hoarse and angry.

There’s plenty of dogs: another chocolate Labrador down by the river, which from this distance looks almost like Mae, sending a futile bolt of hope through him; a big German shepherd practically dragging a young woman along the river path; two flouncy Lhasa apsos crisscrossing in front of their heavyset human; a Parsons terrier with his leash trailing, shrieking and tearing after a gull that hops twice, then climbs the onshore breeze on bright white wings.

Mae’s just flat-out gone.

Gol’-dang.

God, help me find her.

Back at his truck Casey calls the Oceanside Animal Shelter, which directs him to a link on the county website, which has no female brown Labs. He finally gets a body at the shelter, but no dogs have been admitted today. He sends pictures of Mae to the shelter, the Oceanside Police, San Diego Sheriffs, his buddy Craig at California Fish and Wildlife, Lieutenant Tim at the Coast Guard, and posts another round to his tens of thousands of friends, surfers, followers, critics, and visitors to his platforms. In return Casey’s getting lots of false sightings that don’t help a bit, and lots of speculation that maybe Mae’s disappearance from Oceanside Harbor has something to do with the shark finners Casey has shamed.

Detective Bob Temple of San Diego Sheriffs recognizes Casey and calls back that he loves how Casey surfs those big ones. Admits that he started surfing San Onofre when he was eight, with his dad and mom and sister. Still surfing, he says, although at fifty-two he’s kind of slowing down.

He listens to Casey’s missing-dog story, tells Casey that Bette Wu and her crew are fish pirates, raiding coastal San Diego and Orange County fisheries with a fleet of older vessels and a couple of sleek red Cigarettes. They ignore limits and size and seasonal restrictions. Sell to restaurants from Imperial Beach all the way to San Francisco. They’ve been caught with dope and guns. Their mother ship is Empress II.

“I know,” Casey says impatiently, “but where can I find Bette Wu and Empress II?”

A beat then, while Bob Temple decides whether or not to give up Sheriff Department information to a Laguna surfer who’s a virtual stranger.

“Slip 41-B, Pier 32 Marina, National City.”

9

Casey glasses Empress II at her slip at the National City Marina. Through the Leicas, he sees a man half reclining on a chaise lounge, smoking. Casey thinks he was one of the gunners aboard the Luhrs that day, but he’s not sure. Empress II’s tables and nets have been stowed, but she’s still just a peeling blue-and-red commercial trawler berthed way out at the end of a crowded landing, as if trying to hide within the gleaming motor yachts and elegant sailboats. Her boarding ramp is down.

Casey wonders how Bette Wu and her multinational, occasionally felonious crew can afford this big vessel, its slip fee here in National City, and the green Luhrs, the white Bayliner, and the swanky Dragon his mom told him about, all by supplying fish and shark fins to Southern California restaurants.

Just not feelin’ it, he thinks. Maybe they’re in some other business, too?

He stops at the ramp gate and the smoking man stands up. He’s short, with ropy arms and a scrawny torso. Filipino, Casey guesses.

“I came to get my dog,” says Casey.

“No dog.”

“Everybody at the harbor saw Bette stealing her.”

“No Bette. Not here.”

“Where, then?”

Smoker flips his cigarette butt into the bay and shakes his head.

“Fine, then,” says Casey. “Permission to come aboard requested. So I can look for Mae.”

“No. No dog here. No Bette here. Out selling to restaurants. All legal and good money so you go now.”

Casey throws the latch and knees open the ramp gate and Smoker meets him halfway up, crouching into a boxer’s stance, fists up. Casey — six feet, two inches tall, two hundred and twenty pounds of youthful muscle, plus years of immense waves pounding him around like a pool toy, years of gym workouts, and some truly evil Hapkido training with Brock — springs in and pushes Smoker hard, but not too hard, over the railing and into the bay.

“Sorry, sir. I’ll be just a minute!”