The Surf Guru by Doug Dorst Page A

do.”
    â€œWe can’t steal one.”
    â€œWe’ll get a fixer-upper,” he said. Though neither of us was any good at fixing things. We’d proved that often enough.
    Boom boom boom and clouds choking all the sparkles. It was unbearable, but there wasn’t any point in leaving, either.
    Around us people were talking. “They’re changing the angle. Shooting lower.” “That’s not safe, is it?” “Keep your head down, then, candypants.” Laughs.
    The new angle was no better. Just louder. Now and then I saw pinpoints of colored light leak out of the clouds and shine for an instant before they burned out close to the ground. By the end, the field was a big bowl of smoke. Trace and I would be blowing black snot out of our noses for days.
    Â 
    Â 
    Trace came back to the booth. Somehow he’d gotten the baby to stop crying. He handed the thing to me and went back to the bar to pick up our drinks. I’d never held a baby before. I froze. It wriggled and kicked inside the towel, but its eyes were open and it stared up at me calmly, like it wanted to learn what fear was by watching me. I just held tight and didn’t move until Trace came back. I made him take it out of my hands. He sat down, cradled the baby in both arms, and sucked on his drink through a straw.
    â€œThe bartender doesn’t recognize it,” Trace said. “He said to wait an hour, see if anyone who comes in does. After that, he’ll call the cops.”
    Trace held the baby up to his face and smiled. He rubbed noses with it. If Mo could have seen him like this, she’d never have left him. But it made me nervous.
    â€œSeriously, did you steal it?” I asked.
    â€œCall it by its name,” he said. “Call it Mo.” He unwrapped the beach towel. Underneath it the baby had on an old, faded green sleeper. On the chest was a cartoon duckling in a rain hat and boots, smiling. A happy, happy duck.
    I ran my hand across the tabletop, which was gouged with years of drunken attempts to leave a mark on the world. “Think about this,” I said. “If we kept it, who would watch it while we were working?”
    â€œMo could. Big Mo, I mean.”
    â€œI don’t think Mo is going to move to Alaska,” I said.
    â€œShe might,” he said. The baby slapped at Trace’s glass, but missed. Trace moved the glass away. “Or Little Mo could come on the boat with us,” he said. “Little Mo’s a good-luck charm. I can feel it. Fish will swarm around our boat.”
    â€œFish don’t swarm,” I said. “They school.”
    â€œThat’s not the point.”
    â€œExactly,” I said. “The point is, we have to find the mother.”
    We were almost done with our drinks when Roy the shrapnel guy limped over with a pitcher of beer. He put it on the table. “My treat,” he said. “To make up for the shitty fireworks. You picked the wrong year to get stuck here.” Roy had been pretty nice to us. The other night he’d bought us a scratch-off lottery ticket, but it lost.
    â€œThanks,” I said. You could smell the fireworks smoke on him. I guess it was on all of us.
    He knelt down in front of Trace and the baby as best he could, with his gimp legs and all. The baby gurgled and waved its arms in happy little ovals. “And what have we here?” Roy said.
    â€œIt’s a baby,” I said. “You know whose it is?”
    â€œNo,” Roy said, but he didn’t look at me. He kept his eyes on Trace and the baby. “Is it a boy or a girl?”
    â€œWe don’t know,” Trace said.
    â€œThere’s an easy way to find out,” Roy said.
    â€œGood point,” Trace said. “We should check.” He moved his drink out of the way and laid the baby on the table.
    â€œDon’t,” I said. “Not in the middle of the goddamned bar.”
    â€œWhat’s the