California Fire and Life

by Don Winslow

  Due in six weeks.

  No wonder Nicky was in a hurry to start the claim.

  “Did you write this loan, Gary?” Jack asks.

  “Seemed like a good idea at the time,” Gary says.

  “Different times,” Jack says.

  He has this image of cool Gary on Nicky’s boat—blowing coke, getting some chucha, chatting a little business with Nicky. What’s a mil and a half between friends?

  Party on.

  “So what do you think?” Jack asks. “Is he going to make the balloon? I mean, if you were a betting man.”

  Gary laughs. “I am a betting man.”

  “That’s no shit.”

  “Hey, maybe I covered,” Gary says. Eyes getting a little angry, a little Fuck you, now you gotta pay the loan.

  “Yeah, well, before you get too skippy,” Jack says, “consider this—Nicky owes fifty-seven thou to the IRS and the California Department of Revenue.”

  The blood drains from Gary’s face.

  “Liens?” he asks.

  “Oops,” Jack says.

  “You make the drafts out to us,” Gary says.

  “Well, to you and Vale,” Jack says.

  Because that’s what the law says—a draft on a claim gets made out to the homeowner and the mortgagee. Let them work it out. Of course, in this case, they have to deal with each other and the IRS and Sacramento. That’ll be fun.

  “Come on,” Gary whines.

  Jack shrugs. “It’s the law.”

  “Fucking Nicky.”

  “You have a relationship?”

  “Yeah, we have a relationship,” Gary says. “He fucks me.”

  The party’s over.

  Jack asks, “You have other bad paper with him, Gary?”

  Gary wants to tell him. Jack can see it in his eyes.

  Then Gary backs away.

  “Nothing you’re carrying,” he says.

  Meaning nothing he can tell me about, Jack thinks. He has other paper, but because Cal Fire’s not the insurer on the property, he can’t disclose it to me.

  “I have authorization,” Jack says.

  “You have authorization on Nicky Vale,” Gary says. Staring at Jack like Good morning, duhh, get it yet?

  Jack gets it.

  Gary’s carrying paper on a company that Nicky has an interest in.

  “You want to shoot me a couple of copies of this?” Jack asks, handing the loan papers back.

  Gary comes back with the copies, asks, “So how long before you write the draft?”

  “If we issue a check,” Jack says.

  “What do you mean?”

  A genuine sphincter moment.

  “Just that the claims process isn’t finished yet,” Jack says, smiling. He gathers the papers and gets up.

  “Pray for surf,” he says.

  62

  Jack’s at Dana Harbor Boat Brokerage.

  He goes up the stairs of the wooden building—he knows the building well. Like every stick, because he and his old man built it.

  Anyway, he goes into the office of the brokerage and Jeff Wynand’s sitting there where he’s always sitting—at his desk on the phone—looking out the window at the thousands of boats in the marina, about half of which he’s sold over the years.

  He sees Jack and smiles and motions for him to sit down. Jack waits while Jeff gives out the details on a thirty-eight-foot racer. Jeff looks like a yacht broker—he’s dressed in just about the same casual clothes as Gary Miller, but on Jeff it looks good. Not a statement, just his clothes, and it goes with the sailboats and motor launches in the harbor. Jeff’s been wearing the same clothes since Jack was delivering him his newspapers.

  When Jeff hangs up, Jack asks, “Can I buy you lunch?”

  “Chez Marsha?”

  “Sounds good.”

  Chez Marsha is actually a little snack shack down by Baby Beach on the West Harbor. When Jack was a kid, the shack sat out at the end of the pier that stretched way out into the harbor. Jack used to dip a pole in the fishing contests Marsha held for the local kids. Then they built the dock for the brig Pilgrim and built the Orange County Marine Institute and cut the original pier way back, so now Marsha’s sits on the walkway near the base of the truncated old pier.

  The shack’s not on the water so she doesn’t do the fishing contests anymore, but she still has hot dogs with steamed buns and chopped onions, so Jack and Jeff grab a bench at one of the steel picnic tables beside Marsha’s shack.

  Jack goes up to the window.

  “Miss Marsha.”

  “Jack, what’s up?” she asks. “Is that Jeff Wynand with you?”

  “Yup.”

  Marsha’s had the place for thirty-some-odd years, so she knows everyone worth knowing at the harbor. If she’s not too busy, sometimes she sits down with Jack at one of the tables and they discuss the latest idiocies of progress.

  They’re redesigning the harbor. Tearing down the old to make place for the new. Going to build a two-story concrete “parking structure” and push out the old stores and restaurants to bring in the chains. So the harbor will look like everywhere else.

  “Two hot dogs, please,” Jack says. “Mustard, relish and onions on one. Mustard and onions on the other. Two bags of plain chips and two medium Cokes, please.”

  “You got it.” She puts the dogs in the steamer and asks, “So how’s life?”

  “Good. Yours?”

  “Busy,” she says. “Too busy. I don’t want to be this busy. I’d give it up except I don’t know what I’d do for a social life. Is this a business lunch?”

  “Sort of.”

  “I won’t join you, then,” she says. “Seven-fifty, Jack.”

  “Miss Marsha, do you know you have a big plastic owl on your roof?”

  Marsha rolls her eyes. “The county put it there to keep the pigeons off. They take turns sitting on its head.”

  Jack looks up again and, sure enough, there’s a pigeon perched on the owl’s head.

  Jack goes back to the table and sets Jeff’s mustard-relish-and-onions in front of him. Says, “You’re a cheap date.”

  “There’s no better lunch on earth.”

  Jack tends to agree. Sitting there in the sun beside the building that’s been there for a while, with the woman inside who’s been there a while. Looking at the boats, looking at the water.

  You sit long enough at one of these tables you can find out everything that’s going on in Dana Point. Business, politics, real estate, as well as important stuff like what fish are running where and what bait they’re hitting on.

  “So what’s up?” Jeff asks.

  “Nicky Vale.”

  “The Love Boat captain.”

  “Is that right?”

  Jeff laughs, “Let’s just say that Nicky had a lot of second mates on board.”

  “Did you handle his boat, Jeff?”

  “Sold it to him,” Jeff says. “Sold it for him.”

  “I didn’t know he sold it.”

  “I can check on it,” Jeff says, “but I’m going to say it was about six months ago.”

  “Why’d he sell it?” Jack asks. “Did he tell you?”

  “You know what they say,” Jeff says. “The two happiest days of your life are the day you buy your first boat and the day you sell it.”

  “He was sick of it?”

  “Let me put it this way, Jack. Do you own a sixty-foot cabin cruiser?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “For one thing,” Jack says, “I don’t have that kind of money.”

  “There you go.”

  The other thing, Jack thinks, is that if I had the money for a boat I wouldn’t buy that boat. I’d buy a boat you could do some serious fishing with. A boat you could have a shot at making a living with.

  A working boat.

  “You got the impression he needed the money?” Jack asks.

  “I didn’t get the impression,” Jeff says. “He took a bath on it. The boat market i
s slow, Jack. Even slower six months ago. Nicky sold it for about fifty grand less than it was worth. I advised him to wait, but he was in a hurry, insisted I make the sale.”

  Jack notes the frown on his face. Jeff’s been in business a long time. He’s made a ton of money selling boats for what they’re worth. Not a lot more, not a lot less. It’s not the commission, it’s the idea.

  “Boats are expensive,” Jeff says. “It’s not just the cost of the boat. Hell, Nicky bought that boat for cash. But it’s insurance, it’s fuel, it’s maintenance, repairs … The slip fees alone on a boat that size, in this harbor, you’re looking at two and a half a month. And Nicky threw some parties on that boat. So you’re talking booze, food …”

  “Coke?”

  “You hear rumors.”

  “You ever hear that he used to slap his wife around?”

  Jeff blows a long sigh. “You know how to take the fun out of a nice lunch.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Look, kid,” Jeff says, “sometimes you’d hear some arguing from the boat. You know how sound bounces off water. She drank, he had a temper. Once or twice maybe the harbor cops were called. Did he beat her? I don’t know. I know most people around here were pretty happy when he sold the boat. Except maybe the liquor store guys. Why are you here, Jack?”

  “Vale’s house burned down.”

  “And she died in the fire,” Jeff says. “Common knowledge.”

  “I used to love this harbor when I was a kid,” Jack says. “I wish they hadn’t messed with it.”

  “Progress, Jack.”

  “You think?”

  “Nah.”

  “Now they’re going to ruin Dana Strands,” Jack says. “Fucking ‘Great Sunsets.’ ”

  “Well, we stopped it for a while,” Jeff says. Hell of a battle, too. Save the Strands mobilized a lot of the local people, got some councilmen on their side, some environmental groups. Raised money for ads, circulated petitions, even forced the Great Sunsets corporation into court over environmental impact issues, and won. “But they’ll be back. They’ll get better lawyers, a few councilmen … You can’t fight money, Jack.”

  They sit and stare at the boats for a while. Then Jeff balls up his paper wrapper, tosses it into the trash can and says, “So it’s a good thing I got Nicky’s boat sold, huh? Last thing we need is a fire in the marina.”

  “I’m not saying anything, Jeff.”

  “And I hear you, Jack,” he says. “I have to go sell some boats.”

  “Thanks for your time.”

  “Thanks for the lunch.”

  They start to leave but hang out chatting with Marsha for a while.

  Talking about progress.

  63

  Dr. Benton Howard.

  Dr. Howard slides into a red-upholstered banquette at Hamburger Hamblet in Westwood. Already sitting there is a skinny guy with a bad haircut and an equally bad blue suit.

  “I asked for nonsmoking,” Howard says.

  Dani shrugs and sips his iced tea.

  Howard says, “I’m a doctor, after all.”

  Just barely, thinks Dani. He takes another drag of his cigarette and blows it toward the doctor’s face. Howard coughs dramatically and waves his hand through the air.

  “That stinks,” Howard says.

  And you stink, he thinks but doesn’t say. He wants to give Dani the name of his dry cleaner but he’s afraid to. But, Jesus, the suit needs cleaning badly. It smells—no, stinks—of stale sweat and old cigarette smoke and whatever the hell it is that Dani puts on his greasy hair.

  Some sort of Russian bear grease, Howard decides.

  He signals the waitress for an iced tea.

  “I was expecting a different person,” Howard says.

  Viktor Tratchev, who, although somewhat rough, at least has a basic appreciation for personal hygiene.

  “You’ll be meeting with me from now on,” Dani says.

  “Is that all right with Viktor?” Howard asks.

  “Sure,” Dani says.

  Or at least it will be, Dani thinks, when Tratchev finds out about it. And if it isn’t, fuck him anyway.

  “You have money for me?” Dani asks.

  “Fifteen thousand,” Howard whispers. “In the briefcase.”

  Dr. Benton Howard is forty-seven years old and has had a medical career you might charitably describe as undistinguished. Second-to-last in his class on Grenada, he did his residency at a county hospital in Louisiana and then went into private practice in “sports medicine.” Dr. Howard’s practice kept him very busy, mostly in court defending himself against malpractice suits, because unfortunate things tended to happen to Dr. Howard, not to mention his patients. X rays got reversed, for instance, resulting in the removal of cartilage from the wrong knee, or reconstructive surgery on an ankle that was already perfectly constructed. Then there were a couple of unfortunate incidents involving disc surgeries (missed it by that much), and Dr. Howard is that close to delicensing and bankruptcy when the Russians seek him out.

  Howard’s sitting in his office one day dodging subpoena service when the Russian fellow comes in and suggests that Dr. Benton Howard set himself up in a subspecialty.

  Soft tissue injuries.

  The wonderful thing about treating soft tissue injuries, Howard discovers, is that he doesn’t have to actually see any patients, never mind treat them, which is, after all, where all his problems came from in the first place. No, all Dr. Howard has to do is meet Viktor in restaurants, sip iced tea and sign diagnoses, treatment reports and recommendations for chiropractic treatment, massage therapy and rehabilitation therapy.

  Not that the patients don’t come to his office; they do. They come straight from a lawyer’s office to Howard’s office, sit in the lobby and read magazines until the nurse calls their name, then they go into a treatment room and read magazines until Howard comes in and tells them to go home. Or to the chiropractor, masseur or rehabilitation specialist.

  And the money rolls in. And all his problems go away. The malpractice suits are settled or dropped, the bill collectors quit leaning on his doorbell, his wife fires her lawyer and crawls back into his bed.

  All because of soft tissue injuries.

  As long as Howard signs reports that verify that Patient X is suffering from severe pain and moderate to complete disability from a five-mile-per-hour rear-ender fender-bender, the money train makes regular stops at Howard’s station.

  And it’s so easy; because someone else has already written the reports, all Howard has to do is slip into a banquette in a dark restaurant and sign until his wrist gets sore.

  Dr. Benton Howard actually receives honest-to-goodness physical therapy—that actually occurs—for carpal tunnel syndrome from signing so many forms.

  Which is what’s happening today. Dani pulls out a stack of medical reports and Benton starts signing. They have a real system going, a factory. These guys can poop out medical reports like a Xerox machine, they’re that slick.

  In fact, they’re going so fast (Benton is in a hurry to get away from Dani’s offensive odor) that he unwittingly signs treatment reports for seven people who are dead, killed when a fuel tanker slammed into a van on a highway on-ramp.

  Howard doesn’t realize it, of course, neither does Dani, but it’s a potentially ugly fuckup.

  Even Benton Howard would have a tough time explaining why he prescribed three months of neck massages for a man who is not only deceased, but actually incinerated.

  64

  Jack heads over to Laguna Beach.

  The fifteen-minute trip south along the Pacific Coast Highway is one of Jack’s favorite drives. Skirting the edge of the coastal plateau, the PCH is a mild roller coaster that takes you past Dana Strands and Salt Creek Beach and the Ritz-Carlton, past Monarch Bay and then up a hill that eventually drops you again by Aliso Pier—if you walk out onto the concrete structure around dusk you’ll see a spectacular sunset—and Aliso Creek Beach. Then it climbs up another hill into South Laguna, whe
re the hotels and restaurants and art shops really kick in, and you can see the roofs of expensive houses tucked away on the streets that lead down to the ocean.

  A few more minutes of this and you hit Laguna Beach.

  Laguna Beach got its start in life as an artists’ colony.

  Bunch of painters and sculptors fled L.A. back in the ’20s and came down to the then-pristine bay and put up their artists’ bungalows and painted seascapes and carved wooden statues of the fishermen who still lived around there.

  It was a great choice for an artists’ colony, because Laguna Beach is truly beautiful. Shaped around a crescent of coastline which rises to bluffs and cliffs, a narrow plateau where the town sits and then up to the steep, green Laguna hills. The whole thing madly lush with palm trees and bright flowers and an array of aloes, and when you look at it from a height it brings to mind a painter’s palette.

  So the artists settled there.

  And a few tourists would come down and buy a few paintings and sculptures, so the artists set up some open-air markets where they could put up stands and still paint and carve while they waited for the customers to drift in.

  It was a natural step from open-air stands to galleries, from galleries to restaurants, from restaurants to hotels, and after about fifty years the town became a tourist destination. It boomed with everything else in the ’80s, got overbuilt, got perhaps a little yuppie, but never quite lost touch with its bohemian origins.

  When south coast locals think of Laguna Beach they still think of painters and sculptors, coffee shops and bookstores (and, before it got trendy, bookstores with coffee shops), writers and poets, Hare Krishnas and gay men.

  Laguna Beach being the primary locus of gay life on the south coast.

  Which is why—and it is no less true for being stereotypical—the service in the restaurants is so friendly and so good. And the zoning is vicious. And the town has a style you won’t find elsewhere on the south coast.

  Laguna has its own certain sensibility, which is why Jack, like most other old-time locals, treasures the town.

  So it was particularly heartbreaking when the fire swept through it.

  Jack was actually on vacation that day, taking his vacation in October when most of the tourists were gone but the sun was still hot and the weather dry. Too hot and too dry, as it turned out, because the winds blew the fire across the brown brittle grasses on the bare hills above Laguna Canyon.