from numerous sources, Bobby can provide two- or three-day warnings, and his predictions are so trustworthy that these most demanding of all clients have never complained.
“There.” Bobby pointed to a wave profile on the computer. Orson took a closer look at the screen as Bobby said, “Moonlight Bay, point-break surf. It’s going to be classic Sunday afternoon, evening, all the way until Monday dawn—fully pumping mackers.”
I blinked at the video display. “Am I seeing twelve-footers?”
“Ten to twelve feet, with a possibility of some sets as high as fourteen. They’re hitting Hawaii soon…then us.”
“That’ll be live.”
“Entirely live. Coming off a big, slow-moving storm north of Tahiti. There’s going to be an offshore wind, too, so these monsters are going to give you more dry, insanely hollow barrels than you’ve seen in your dreams.”
“Cool.”
He swiveled in his chair to look up at me. “So what do you want to ride—the Sunday-night surf rolling out of Tahiti or the tsunami pipeline of death rolling out of Wyvern?”
“Both.”
“Kamikaze,” he said scornfully.
“Duck,” I called him, with a smile—which is the same as saying buoy, meaning one who sits in the lineup and never has the guts to take a wave.
Orson turned his head from one of us to the other, back and forth, as if watching a tennis match.
“Geek,” Bobby said.
“Decoy,” I said, which is the same as saying duck.
“Asshole,” he said, which has identical definitions in surfer lingo and standard English.
“I take it you’re not with me on this.”
Getting up from the chair, he said, “You can’t go to the cops. You can’t go to the FBI. They’re all paid by the other side. What can you possibly hope to learn about some way-secret project at Wyvern?”
“I’ve already uncovered a little.”
“Yeah, and the next thing you learn is the thing that’ll get you killed. Listen, Chris, you aren’t Sherlock Holmes or James Bond. At best, you’re Nancy Drew.”
“Nancy Drew had an unreal rate of case closure,” I reminded him. “She nailed one hundred percent of the bastards she went after. I’d be honored to be considered the equal of a kick-ass crime fighter like Ms. Nancy Drew.”
“Kamikaze.”
“Duck.”
“Geek.”
“Decoy.”
Laughing softly, shaking his head, scratching his beard stubble, Bobby said, “You make me sick.”
“Likewise.”
The telephone rang, and Bobby answered it. “Hey, gorgeous, I totally get off on the new format—all Chris Isaak, all the time. Play ‘Dancin’’ for me, okay?” He passed the handset to me. “It’s for you, Nancy.”
I like Sasha’s disc-jockey voice. It’s only subtly different from her real-world voice, marginally deeper and softer and silkier, but the effect is profound. When I hear Sasha the deejay, I want to curl up in bed with her. I want to curl up in bed with her anyway, as often as possible, but when she’s using her radio voice, I want to curl up in bed with her urgently. The voice comes over her from the moment she enters the studio, and it’s with her even when she is off-mike, until she leaves work.
“This tune ends in about a minute, I’ve got to do some patter between cuts,” she told me, “so I’ll be quick. Somebody came around here at the station a little while ago, trying to get in touch with you. Says it’s life or death.”
“Who?”
“I can’t use the name on the phone. Promised I wouldn’t. When I said you were probably at Bobby’s…this person didn’t want to call you there or come there to see you.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know why exactly. But…this person was really nervous, Chris. ‘I have been one acquainted with the night.’ Do you know who I mean?”
I have been one acquainted with the night.
It was a line from a poem by Robert Frost.
My dad had instilled in me his passion for poetry. I had infected Sasha.
“Yes,” I said. “I think I know who you mean.”
“Wants to see you as soon as possible. Says it’s life or death. What’s going on, Chris?”
“Big surf coming in Sunday afternoon,” I said.
“That’s not what I mean.”
“I know. Tell you the rest later.”
“Big surf. Can I handle it?”
“Twelve-footers.”
“I think I’ll just Gidget-out and beach party.”
“Love your voice,” I said.
“Smooth as the bay.”
She hung up, and so did I.
Although he had only heard my half of the conversation, Bobby relied on his uncanny intuition to figure out the tone and intent of Sasha’s call. “What’re you walking into?”
“Just Nancy stuff,” I said. “You wouldn’t be interested.”
As Bobby and I led a still-uneasy Orson onto the front porch, the radio in the kitchen began to swing with “Dancin’”