The Green Room

by Deborah Turrell Atkinson

  He handed the binocs back to Robbie. “There, it looks like Nahoa Pi'ilani is taking off.”

  Storm swallowed hard and unclenched her fists. The green room. That’s what people called the underwater space where either a wave shoved a surfer or where she dived to escape the crush of tons of churning water. Storm had been there; she’d been buffeted in the tumult like a dead fish, disoriented to the point that she couldn’t tell up from down. Even with her eyes open, there was no sensation of direction. Everything was green.

  A roar from the crowd brought Storm’s awareness back to the surfer on his rocketing board. The wave was huge, and its thunder dwarfed the excited hum of the spectators. Red and white shorts plunged into a steep takeoff, hung for a moment in a gravity-defying stall, then cut back up the face of the wave. Nahoa launched himself into an aerial and the crowd gasped again in mute admiration, then broke into a throaty cheer. Nahoa landed in a deep crouch and plummeted down the face, leaned way out, and spun his board in a one-eighty. Lifting his body in a move worthy of a ballet dancer, he shot back to the top of the wave and faced the rising curl of the monster. There, he hovered for a breathtaking second, and crouched.

  The crowd hushed. This was the move that the last surfer had blown. Fifteen feet above him, opalescent blue water curved in a fat wall. With a purpose that Storm would have sworn bordered on suicidal lunacy, Nahoa headed into a tunnel that moved with the velocity and mass of a freight train.

  Seconds passed, and no one moved. For Storm, time stood still. Her lungs burned and her eyes teared with the effort of searching for a tiny speck of a person, either against a wall of water or in the acres of white foam on the heaving horizon. She recalled Ken Matsumoto, the surfer who had recently died, and for whom this meet had been postponed.

  Suddenly, a tiny figure in red and white shorts squirted from under a blue curtain on the shoulder of the wave. The spectators went crazy. Storm and Robbie threw their arms around each other, and it was a few moments before they realized that their friend with the binoculars was hugging them, too.

  “What’d I tell ya? He does what he has to,” the young man shouted. “He’s the best.”

  Storm wanted to sit down in relief. Her legs were weak, and she looked over her shoulder to see if she could find Hamlin and Leila in the surge of people. It was a comfort to see Hamlin standing only about six feet behind her.

  He looked around at the surging tumult of surf enthusiasts, who cheered with the elation of watching a fellow human cheat a haughty and all-powerful Mother Nature of possible death. “Was that an amazing ride or what?”

  “Totally,” Robbie said.

  “Absolutely,” Storm said, and her voice shook a little.

  “Leila and I found a spot down the beach a bit, but we have a pretty good view,” Hamlin said. “We weren’t sure you’d find us in this crowd, so I came after you.”

  He led them back by walking parallel to the water, near the clusters of camera operators and media announcers. A fellow with hair that didn’t move in the breeze, though his expensive silk aloha shirt billowed around him, smiled into a camera.

  “Nahoa Pi'ilani leads the finalists!” The reporter’s voice was filled with the jubilation of an announcer at a football game after a touchdown. “A combination of innovative and radical maneuvers in the most critical sections of the rides Pi'ilani selected showed the style, power, and speed this surfer is known for. Ben Barstow and Gabe Watson are neck and neck, though they are probably competing for second place. It’s doubtful that anyone can overtake Pi'ilani, though up-and-comer Kimo Hitashi, in third place, could still upset Barstow or Watson for the second spot.”

  The announcer’s face glistened in the sun, and he held up his hand to stop the camera, then waved over a young woman in very tight, very low white jeans and a tube top that showed a wide expanse of brown midriff and a slew of belly-button rings. She dusted him with a big, puffy makeup brush. Two seconds later, he gave the cameraman a nod and continued with the commentary.

  “The rising tide is changing the shape of the waves, so be with us at eight o’clock tomorrow morning, when some of the best surfers in the world face off at one of the toughest breaks on the planet.”

  He broke off and turned to a couple of casually dressed men who hung in the background. They each pumped his hand.

  Storm watched the three interact for a moment, as the two talking to the announcer were certainly VIPs, maybe the meet directors. They looked like aging beach boys, though one was tall and had a paunch while the other was short and wiry and wore wrap-around mirrored shades. The tall one shook the announcer’s hand again, and gave off an aura of relief.

  Hamlin led them away from the media groupies, back into the shade of trees that lined the beach. The roofs of expensive beachfront homes peeked above the palms, and people drifted from the hot sand to the shelter of the exclusive refuges.

  Leila waved from under a cluster of ironwood trees. “Too bad we can’t stay for the finals. Nahoa was terrific, wasn’t he?”

  “Ben, too,” Robbie said. “Can’t we stay, Mom, please?”

  “No, dear. Tomorrow’s Monday. You’ve got school and I’ve got work.”

  “I’ve got an eight o’clock deposition,” Hamlin said.

  “And I’ve got…well, I’ve got to see what I’ve got,” Storm said.

  “You have a client and you’ve only been open a week,” Hamlin said. “That’s not bad.”

  “More people will be coming in this week,” Leila said.

  “I need to look into some things for Stephanie Barstow,” Storm said. “It’ll give me a great excuse to call her tomorrow and find out how Ben and Nahoa did in the finals.”

  Hamlin drove back into town, and all four spent the hour and a half talking about whether Ben or Gabe Watson would come in second and claim the $13,000 purse. They were certain that Nahoa had the $25,000 first place in his pocket, and Storm sat back and contemplated how happy Rochelle must be for her adventuresome son. It came with a price, though. She’d seen the worry on Stephanie’s face.

  Chapter Eight

  “Your TV guy says we need a hundred fifty thousand purse,” Barstow said. He drained the bottle of Beck’s, burped, and put his feet up on the deck rail.

  “He doesn’t have a clue,” O’Reilly answered. He got up, went into the kitchen, and came out with a couple more beers. “He figures if the purse is six figures, his pay will be, too. Fat chance.”

  “Whaddya pay these guys, anyway?”

  “It’s gone up since I was in the business, but not a hundred G’s, I guarantee.” He burped, too, longer and louder than Barstow’s.

  Gordon will always try for the big bucks, O’Reilly thought. He’d known him for years, and he knew when Gordon was trolling. Hell, he was campaigning.

  “Maybe twenty grand. For a few hours’ work, that’s pretty damn good.” He took another swallow. “But we’ll offer him twelve to start. He wants this job. He’ll get a lot of exposure.”

  “What’d he make today?” Barstow asked.

  O’Reilly shrugged. “The meet promoters were a bit evasive about that, but I’d guess around six or eight. Maybe less. Ours is gonna be more spectacular. A tow-in, with minimum twenty foot surf.”

  “The Eddie Aikau looks for the same conditions. We don’t want to compete with those guys—they’re legendary.” Barstow’s eyes slid over to O’Reilly. “Have they started their holding period?”

  “Not yet.” O’Reilly took a long swallow. “That’s why I need you to talk to the guys that make these things happen. I’ve had feelers out for months, but it’s nothing like talking to the local people.”

  “Yeah, especially around here, where who you know is the bottom line. We’ve got to make sure we don’t step on any toes.”

  O’Reilly made a rumbling noise in his chest that might have been a chuckle. “At least not the toes that matter.”

  “We better sprinkle some gin on ti leaves, too. For goo
d fortune.” Barstow smiled. “Stephanie always did it when there was some kind of event. She went nuts for our wedding.”

  O’Reilly looked at Barstow out of the corner of his eyes. He didn’t know yet how much to tell him about the steps he’d already taken. The man’s gaze was out to sea, where stars were beginning to appear in the night sky. Barstow had always been intense, but he seemed touchier than he used to be. Probably because of his marriage problems. As far as O’Reilly could tell, he’d only talked with his son for about two minutes after he’d done so well in the contest this morning, and this was the first mention he’d made of his wife in a long time.

  O’Reilly knew that he, too, was different than he’d been during their college days, and he wasn’t any more willing than Barstow to talk about it. One thing he knew for sure was that he needed this surf contest to be successful. Barstow, however, didn’t look like he needed the money. He just wanted to be part of the surf scene again.

  He wondered if he should tell Barstow that after they left the meet this afternoon, he’d gone back to the Tubin’ Tanker. After all, Barstow’s kuleana (O’Reilly had learned this term from Mo'o Lanipuni just today) was the surfing. He was supposed to use his contacts to get sponsors and to make sure that the local, uninvited surfers didn’t get their noses so far out of joint they made trouble.

  O’Reilly’s business was getting the media contacts and the big names, so Barstow might get a little hinky if he knew O’Reilly was asking questions about the surf part of things. O’Reilly’s visit had been a spur of the moment thing. He’d been driving by Mo'o’s just as the shaper was opening up shop. He’d apparently closed during the semi-finals. Passing by at that moment had seemed like good timing, and the visit turned out to be productive. Mo'o had given him a few tips for getting beach and marine permits.

  As he left, O’Reilly asked if there was anyone he should talk to about which jet skis to use for the tow-in contest, and whether any of the manufacturers would donate machines to the event. Mo'o had spent a few moments putting tubes of sunscreen in a display case before he answered. “Try see Gabe Watson,” he said.

  O’Reilly, of course, recognized the name as that of one of the morning’s finalists, but something kept him from revealing this to Mo'o, mostly because he didn’t want to appear like a know-it-all. O’Reilly remembered Mo'o’s conversation with the skinny guy and knew that he might fit Mo'o’s definition of a fuckin’ malihini to a tee.

  But he wasn’t, not at all. He was asking locals’ opinions about this deal. And he wasn’t malihini, either. A long time ago, he’d spent two years in Hawai'i when his dad was in the Air Force.

  O’Reilly popped open another Beck’s. “Marty, you ever hear of Gabe Watson before this weekend’s meet?”

  He could sense, rather than see, Barstow’s head turn toward him.

  “Don’t think so, why?”

  “Cuz someone told me he knew about tow-in contests.”

  Barstow took his time finishing his beer. “Most of these guys have jobs other than surfing. They have to. You know where he works?”

  “No.”

  “I’ll ask around,” Barstow said. “You still got media lined up for next few weeks?”

  “The guy who owns the Tubin’ Tanker gave me some contacts for the beach permits.” O’Reilly watched Barstow for signs of annoyance, but Marty seemed to perk up a bit. “He said there’s a big swell predicted, and he thinks we could get a holding period starting next week.”

  “As in Monday?” Barstow set his beer bottle down with thunk. “What’s the surf prediction?”

  “Big storm in Alaska. The NOAA buoys are pinging already. It could be huge by Thursday or Friday.”

  “Give me those names and I’ll call tomorrow.” Barstow picked up his beer again and leaned back in his chair with a smile. “It’s really gonna happen, isn’t it? I tell you, I’ve had my doubts.”

  “I know what you mean,” O’Reilly said. It was a good thing, too. He couldn’t afford this beach house much longer, and he certainly couldn’t afford to go back to the mainland empty-handed.

  He swung his feet down from the porch railing. “We’ve got a lot of work to do, though. Gordon’s got to start doing TV spots for us in the next day or two. I’ve got four other networks coming in by the middle of the week. What’s the response from the surfers we discussed on the phone?”

  “So far, I’ve got eighteen out of the twenty teams you wanted. They’ve been waiting to see if the swell comes in. Some of the Australians and Europeans will leave in the next day or two if we give ’em a green light.”

  “You just made my week, man.” In the light that filtered from the kitchen, O’Reilly could see Barstow return his grin.

  “What’s your time frame?” Barstow asked.

  “If the surf’s good, we could start the first round Thursday. Friday, we do two more. Surf prediction is for twenty-five foot faces and rising. Saturday, we’ll have quarters and semis, and on Sunday, we’ll do the finals. If we need, we can spill over to Monday.”

  He looked over at Barstow. “What sponsors you got so far?”

  “It’s lookin’ good. Wait’ll I show you. Not only equipment for the meets, but I’ve got some huge names—sports drinks, suntan lotion, clothing. Some of the surfers have their own sponsors, in addition.” Barstow looked thoughtful. “What’s the meet going to cost us to run?”

  “About seven hundred fifty thou.”

  “Cheaper than football, I bet.”

  “No shit.” O’Reilly chuckled.

  “What will the winner’s purse be?”

  “I’m thinking of a hundred twenty thousand, which is bigger than any of the other contests. Plus, we’ve got sponsorship guarantees for the top three finalists that amount to multiples of that number. Right now, the winner could make up to two-fifty, three hundred with sponsorships. Minimum.”

  “Yeah?” Barstow squinted over his drink. “You’ve got something up your sleeve, don’t you?”

  “I was savin’ it till I was sure, but one of the credit card companies is talking about a contract for the winner.”

  “You’re makin’ my day. How much we talking?”

  “Seven figures. It’s a first for a surfer.”

  Barstow nodded. He was looking happier by the minute, and O’Reilly felt good about that. If his old friend was going through a hard time on a personal level, it was nice O’Reilly could help out in a business sense.

  “You haven’t asked what we’re going to clear.” O’Reilly handed him a fresh beer.

  “Okay, what are we gonna make?”

  O’Reilly threw back his head and laughed. The ocean breezes ruffled his thinning hair. “Don’t quote me yet, but we should each clear a half mil. And that’s just for this year. This is the beginning of a wonderful new tradition.”

  Chapter Nine

  Storm got two calls from the Public Defender’s Office on Monday morning. One of her new clients came to the office in handcuffs with an HPD escort, and the other came in with her distraught mother, who insisted her daughter couldn’t possibly have shoplifted the bathing suit she wore under her clothing when she left an exclusive teen boutique. Ink blots from the store sensor still spotted the kid’s leg. It was eleven o’clock before Storm had a chance to call Stephanie Barstow.

  “Hello,” Stephanie shouted over a lot of background noise.

  “Can you hear me? It’s Storm.”

  “Barely.” Her voice crackled with radio interference.

  “How’s Ben doing in the meet?”

  “He came in second.” Stephanie’s voice broke, and Storm thought it was due to excitement, rather than the bad connection.

  “All right,” Storm shouted. “He beat out Gabe.”

  “Yeah, Gabe came in fourth.” Stephanie laughed. “Couldn’t happen to a nicer guy.”

  Storm had to grin. “What about Nahoa? And who came in third?”

  “Nahoa won. The crowd loves him—I h
ope Ben is as strong when he’s Nahoa’s age. Kimo Hitashi came in third. It was a real upset, and Gabe was madder than a wet cat.” Stephanie sounded downright gleeful. “Kimo dates Gabe’s ex-girlfriend. They hate each other. Gabe wouldn’t talk to reporters or anything.”

  “I’m thrilled for Ben. That’s wonderful!” Storm said. “I also called about your case. I’d like to get together sometime this week. Will you be coming into town?”

  “No, I’ve taken too much time off already. Any chance you’ll be on the North Shore?”

  “Um, I might be able to manage that.” Storm knew that the two clients from the PD’s office wouldn’t need her until their arraignments, which would be at least a week away. She’d also had a call from one of Uncle Miles’ former clients, an elderly woman who wanted to revise her will. Mrs. Shirome lived in Waialua, near Haleiwa. She would love the personal visit. It was the kind of thing Uncle Miles used to do.

  “I’ll pay for your driving time. I really need to talk to you,” Stephanie said.

  “No need. I have another client out that direction to visit, too.” Storm reflected how good it felt to say that.

  “Thanks, Storm.” Stephanie sounded relieved, but Storm wasn’t sure if it was because she’d said she’d come out or whether it was because she wouldn’t bill her for the hour and a half drive.

  “How’s Wednesday, around lunchtime?” Storm asked. It would give her time to set court dates for the two people who’d visited this morning and catch up on some other office work.

  “You mind coming to the restaurant where I work?”

  “No problem. Congratulate Ben for me, okay?”

  Storm got a few more phone calls from potential clients, transferred by Grace, who whooped enthusiastically before she connected them to Storm’s line. Storm began to feel as if she might be able to make a living in her own law practice.

  By Tuesday afternoon, though, she was rearranging her storage closet, which was pretty damned desperate, as her home closets were all a cluttered mess. Another of Uncle Miles’ former clients called with questions about his estate, but Storm found that she still had plenty of time on her hands. She even went home early to do two days’ worth of dirty dishes and feed Fang, the one-time skinny stray cat who now weighed fifteen pounds. Fang purred like a lawnmower and did figure-eights against Storm’s legs to show her appreciation.