California Fire and Life

by Don Winslow

  103

  She’s sitting up on the examining table.

  She looks exhausted and weak, but she’s alive and Jack is so damn grateful for that he could kiss God on the lips.

  “What happened?” he asks her.

  “I got stupid,” she says. “I went to meet a snitch alone and I wasn’t paying attention and they set me up.”

  “Letty …”

  “I’m all right,” she says.

  “Your arm?”

  “It’s fucked up but they fixed it,” she says. “I’ll be out of here this afternoon.”

  “Stay here,” Jack says. “Take it easy.”

  She looks at him and there are tears in her eyes.

  “One of them’s dead,” she says.

  “You okay with that?”

  “I’m not crazy about it,” Letty says, “but I’m not eating myself up, either.”

  “They have an ID?”

  “No.”

  But Jack sees there’s this weird little look on her face.

  “What?” Jack asks.

  She tells him what the Vietnamese kid told her about Tranh and Do and the Vale house.

  “They’re dead,” Jack says.

  “How do you know?”

  “I don’t, but I do,” Jack says. “Nicky took the real furniture out. Substituted it with cheap fakes. The guy who made the furniture is dead. The kids who dropped it off and picked up the real furniture are dead, too.”

  “And Pam.”

  “And Pam.”

  “Jack, I can reopen now …”

  Voice starting to fade, she’s a few moments from the Enchanted Forest.

  “Okay,” Jack says.

  “You stay out of this now.”

  “Okay.”

  “Promise?” she asks. “Because these are dangerous people …”

  “Promise.”

  “S’good.” She closes her eyes. Murmurs, “Funny thing, Jack. I’m about out, and I hear the other guy? The driver? In the Caddy? He called me a ‘bish.’ Is that weird or what? I guess I am, though, huh? A real ball-busting bish.”

  She’s out.

  Jack squeezes her hand and leaves.

  So angry that it feels like every square inch of his skin is on fire.

  Flashover.

  104

  Jack pulls up across the street from a trashed-out bungalow on a cul-de-sac up in Modjeska Canyon. The house was white once; now it’s a sort of whitish with brown patches where the paint has worn off.

  Place needs a paint job bad, Jack thinks. But he figures it isn’t likely to get one, because there’s garbage strewn all across the rickety front porch, including four biker types drinking beer with their feet up on the porch railing.

  Some freakin’ heavy metal noise some assholes might call rock ’n’ roll blasts from the stereo inside.

  Jack walks up the steps and asks, “Teddy Kuhl here?”

  “It’s his house,” one of the bikers says.

  “I know that,” Jack says. “What I asked is, Is he here?”

  “He’s inside.”

  “Tell him someone wants to see him.”

  “No.”

  “How come?”

  “He’s busy.”

  This gets a big laugh from the other three.

  Jack doesn’t mind playing straight man. “Doing what?”

  “Fucking.”

  A group guffaw. Very male bonding.

  Jack says, “Tell him to take a break. Tell him someone wants to talk to him.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “Yeah, okay. Fuck me.”

  Jack backs off the porch and walks over to the driveway, where a big black Harley hog is parked. Jack checks back out on the street and counts three other Harleys there. So this one would be Teddy’s.

  Teddy Cool’s Bad Hog.

  Jack kicks it over.

  Then kicks in the headlight and stomps on the hand brake until it snaps off.

  Which raises what might be called a commotion among the boys on the porch. It isn’t five seconds before Teddy bursts through the door.

  The twelve years haven’t been kind to him. His hairline’s retreated like a French army, he’s got a couple less teeth and he has a paunch around the middle that’s bouncing around as he tries to zip the fly on his jeans and pull his boots on at the same time.

  He’s getting his left boot on when he hollers, “Who’s the crazy motherfucker fucking with my bike?!”

  Jack smiles and says, “That would be me.”

  Teddy grins and announces, “Hey, it’s Deputy Dawg!”

  “Former Deputy Dawg,” Jack says.

  “Well, you’re in a world of shit, former Deputy Dawg,” Teddy says. He gets his boot on, gestures for his boys to stay where they are and saunters down to the driveway. “I owe you, you cocksucking motherfucker.”

  Jack shakes like a wet dog. “Ooooooh, I’m scared. Can you be the same Teddy Kuhl that rolled over for me once like a little bitch?”

  This sets Teddy off.

  One of Jack’s favorite truisms is that you can always count on stupid to be stupid and this is what he’s counting on. Teddy doesn’t let him down, either, because the stupid thing Teddy does is he reaches into the back waistband of his jeans for his piece.

  While Teddy’s left hand is behind his back, Jack comes over the top of it with a looping left hand that smashes down into the side of Teddy’s nose. You can hear the cartilage crunch over the blasting music.

  So Teddy’s hand is swinging the gun up, but he can’t see because his eyes are watering as Jack steps to the side and swings Teddy’s gun hand up and in so the gun butt smashes into Teddy’s nose.

  Which lights Teddy up like a pinball machine.

  He can’t even feel Jack take the gun out of his hand, he’s in so much pain, but he does feel it when Jack brings the butt down on his nose and the bone breaks in two places.

  So Teddy’s on his knees in the driveway, and his homeboys start down to help him but stop cold when Jack points the pistol at them and says, “Yes?”

  They all like Teddy okay, but not enough to take a bullet for him, and this crazy motherfucker is just crazy enough to shoot them all. So, like, Teddy’s on his own.

  And not doing very well at it, because there’s blood all over the driveway, and a couple of teeth, and a whole lot more blood and snot coming out of Teddy’s nose.

  You can always count on stupid, Jack thinks, because nobody but a truly dumb moke like Teddy gets that close to someone he’s intending to shoot. You’re going to shoot a guy, you shoot him from out of reach. That’s the whole point of having a gun in the first place. But oh well …

  He drags Teddy along the driveway, kicking him in the ribs as they go, punctuating each kick with, “Let me give you some life advice, Teddy. You do not”—kick—“try to hurt”—kick—“people”—kick—“that I love”—kick. “Do”—kick—“you”—kick—“get”—kick—“that?”—kick.

  He drags Teddy until he has his head just inside the garage. Then he reaches up and punches the door button and the door comes down on Teddy’s neck so Jack is pretty much just talking to Teddy’s head.

  Which is having some difficulty getting air.

  Jack’s thinking that the last time he lit up Teddy Kuhl he regretted it for twelve years.

  Oh well, Jack thinks, this’ll give me something to regret for the next twelve.

  105

  “Kind of like old times, huh, Teddy?” Jack says.

  “Fuck you.”

  Jack says, “You went on a job this morning.”

  “No I didn’t.”

  Jack leans on the garage door. Hard. Teddy’s head looks like it might just pop off.

  “All right, I did!” Teddy yells. “But that is not an official confession. I was coerced.”

  Jack lets up on the door.

  “Who sent you?”

  Teddy clamps his mouth shut.

  Jack leans into it. Repeats, “Who sent you?”

  “Coup
le of Russian dudes.”

  “You’re Kazzy’s butt boy. He’s Armenian,” Jack says. “What does he have to do with the Russians?”

  “They own him. They took him over.”

  “Nicky Vale,” Jack says.

  “What about him?”

  “You know him.”

  “Never heard of no Nicky Vale.”

  Jack leans on the door again. “Nicky Vale?”

  “I’ve heard the name,” Teddy says. “I heard that kicked around. Some sort of boss. Boss of bosses. Capo de tutti capi godfather shit. Kazzy said he went away and now he’s back.”

  “Did you set the fire at his house?”

  “No.”

  But Teddy giggles. Much as you can giggle with a two-hundred-pound garage door on your neck.

  “What’s funny, Teddy Cool?”

  Teddy actually laughs. “We been workin’ you, dumbass motherfucker. Cal Fire is our bish.”

  “You’ve been waltzing through my files,” Jack says. “Who you got inside Cal Fire?”

  “Dunno.”

  “Is it Sandra Hansen? SIU?”

  “SIU. M-I-C. K-E-Y. M-O-U-S-E, I dunno.”

  “Tom Casey?”

  “Dunno.”

  Jack leans down on the garage door.

  “I don’t know!” Teddy croaks. “Splatter my brains all over the garage, Deputy Dawg. Sanitation comes and sprays ’em away tonight with a hose, I don’t fucking know. Somebody, because we been working you, humpin’ you. The Armenians, the Russians, they all been humpin’ away at you, Jack.”

  “You set the Scollins fire?” Jack asks.

  “That one I might’ve done,” Teddy says. “But you can’t use any of this. You’ll be in jail before I will.”

  “Same old Teddy Cool,” Jack says. “Toss in a bunch of soaked rags and a match. You never grow, Teddy. You never develop. I mean, here we both are in the same old place. You being a stupid, sloppy asshole and me whaling on your ass.”

  Jack lets up on the door.

  “Who gave the order to kill that old man, Teddy?”

  “What old man?”

  “Porfirio Guzman, twelve years ago.”

  “The old beaner?” Teddy asks. Then looks up and smiles. “Kazzy said his boss told him to. So Kazzy told me to. And you can’t do a thing about it, Deputy Dawg.”

  Problem is, Teddy Cool is right.

  You can’t do shit because you don’t have shit.

  You have a witness to Nicky moving furniture in and out the night of the fire. The same witness puts Nicky on the scene, contrary to his recorded statement.

  But if you use the witness they kill the witness.

  Déjà vu.

  You have the fake remnants.

  Yeah, you have char samples, too. Look what happened with them.

  You have the guy who made the fakes and he’s dead.

  All burned up.

  Okay. You have two missing Vietnamese kids driving the stolen truck that picked up the furniture. And you have an attempted hit on the deputy who was investigating the missing kids.

  And nothing to hook any of it to Nicky Vale.

  Jack looks around the garage, sees a gas can.

  Pours the contents around the floor as Teddy screams.

  Jack pours the rest of the gas over Teddy’s head. Some of it scatters and seeps down through the garage door.

  Jack squats down next to him.

  “What did Nicky do with the furniture?”

  “What furniture?”

  “Shit, where did I put my matches?”

  “I DON’T KNOW NOTHING ABOUT NO FUCKING FURNITURE!”

  Teddy isn’t lying. Teddy is too scared to be lying.

  “Give me something, Teddy,” Jack says. “Something I can use.”

  Teddy’s thinking it over. Jack can see that Teddy’s weighing relative fears. His fear of Nicky Vale against his fear of burning alive. Jack knows he’s going to win because the flame is immediate and the other is still abstract and Teddy doesn’t have a good grasp of the abstract.

  “Westview,” Teddy says.

  “What?”

  “What I got to give you,” Teddy says. “I just hear Kazzy talking about something called Westview. Something he’s got going on with Nicky Vale.”

  Jack pushes the button and the garage door opens.

  Teddy’s boys are standing there with guns pointed. Three shotguns, two pistols and a Glock.

  “Good idea,” Jack says. “Let’s have a blazing gun battle. Barbecue Teddy Cool.”

  “Put ’em down! Put ’em down! Put ’em down!” Teddy screams.

  Jack walks through them to his car. Gets inside, opens the window and says, “He sang like a little girl. What can I say, guys? He’s still my bish.”

  Starts the car and drives away.

  Wondering, what the hell is Westview?

  106

  Nicky looks across the desk at Paul Gordon, who’s sniffing the top of his cappuccino to make sure that it’s nutmeg and not cinnamon.

  That important task done, Gordon looks up at Nicky like, I’m ready for you now.

  For his part, Nicky will be glad to leave the man’s ego behind.

  “Ready?” Nicky asks.

  “I’m all yours.”

  “Tomorrow morning,” Nicky says, “Tom Casey will call to offer $50 million to settle my claim.”

  Gordon freaks. In his wildest imagination he never dreamed that Cal Fire would go for the $50 million. He was counting on them turning it down. What the fuck good is Cal Fire if it suddenly gets smart?

  “Don’t worry,” he says. “I’ll turn it down. I’ll find a pretext.”

  Nicky shakes his head.

  “You’ll accept that offer.”

  Gordon turns white.

  “That’s not the plan.”

  “It is now.”

  “The hell it is,” Gordon says. “I’ve spent years setting up these suits. I’ve got the cops, I’ve got the judges. You can’t bail on me now.”

  Nicky shrugs.

  Gordon’s voice gets shrill. “Nicky, what the fuck are you thinking about?! We can ride Jack Wade for hundreds of millions of dollars! Don’t settle for the short money now!”

  “Jack Wade has played his role,” Nicky says.

  Wade’s on his way out.

  Then Gordon gets it.

  “You son of a bitch,” he says. “You cut your own deal.”

  “Accept the offer,” Nicky says. “You’ll get your fee.”

  “Fuck you,” Gordon says. “We’re taking it to trial. We’re taking all of them to trial.”

  “In that case,” Nicky says, “you’re fired.”

  Gordon laughs. “You can’t fire me, you jumped-up little hood. You need me. Without me, they’ll eat you alive. You think you can stand down Cal Fire and Tom Casey without me?!”

  Actually, yes, Nicky thinks. I think I can.

  In fact, I know it.

  He stands up. Says, “You’re fired.”

  Gordon flips out.

  Follows Nicky down the hallway yelling, “You think you’re the only heavy hitter in town?! You need me, I don’t need you! I’ll have Viktor Tratchev in this office in five minutes! Maybe he has the brains, he has the vision! Or Kazzy Azmekian! He has the balls to see this through! He’s not going to let you crash this, you jumped-up little greasy Eurotrash hood! You can’t fire me!”

  A very tawdry scene, Nicky thinks as he gets in the car. And Gordon should not have played the Tratchev card. Or the Azmekian one. Very self-indulgent. Very uncool.

  Two cards he should have held close to the chest.

  And “jumped-up little greasy Eurotrash hood”? One might be tempted to take that personally.

  Oh, well.

  He leans back into the seat.

  Almost there, he thinks.

  A couple of steps to safety.

  And the turnaround inside one generation.

  Fifty million dollars tomorrow.

  Fifty million dollars of squeaky-
clean money.

  But there’s work to be done first.

  “Ritz-Carlton,” he tells Dani.

  Take the first step.

  Dani waits out in the car while the pakhan has his meeting.

  107

  Uncle Nguyen’s head is throbbing.

  He’s just had to tell Tommy Do’s distraught mother that her idiot son is probably not coming home for dinner.

  Ever.

  So there’s a lot of wailing and sobbing and other irritating noise—this woman has a piercing shriek that goes through Uncle Nguyen’s head. She completely drowns out the Angels game and won’t settle down until Uncle Nguyen promises her vengeance.

  He finally gets rid of her with that promise and goes down into the basement where he has Tony Ky hanging by his wrists, and just to improve his mood he gives Tony a couple of two-handers across the back with a bamboo rod, which elicits a satisfying grunt of pain, and then he says to Tony, “Tell me who these Russians were.”

  And Tony tells him—tall skinny Russian, tall fat Russian.

  He doesn’t know their names so Uncle Nguyen takes a Jim Edmonds swing at his back—like good for a three-bagger in any park in America—and asks him who they were working for.

  “Tratchev,” Tony says.

  Uncle Nguyen has a tough time with this.

  He’s been doing business with Viktor Tratchev for years and it’s always been a good and mutually profitable relationship. So he gets Tratchev on the phone and asks, “What is this shit all about?”

  “What shit?”

  “Two of your people hired two of my boys for an errand and the boys haven’t come back.”

  “Which of my people?”

  Uncle Nguyen describes them.

  Tratchev is very happy to hear this description. The last thing in the world he needs right now is a beef with the Vietnamese. First thing he needs right now is an ally against Nicky Vale, so he says, “You’re talking about Dani and Lev.”

  “You had better send Dani and Lev over for a chat.”

  “They’re not mine.”

  “Whose are they?”

  Tratchev tells him.

  Uncle Nguyen asks, “Do you have a problem if I do what I need to do?”

  Go figure, Tratchev doesn’t have a problem.

  108

  Jack walks back into the office, they’re all looking at him like they’re seeing a ghost.