Don Winslow - California Fire And Life

"You're an asshole."

"Or should I go over to the guys there," Jack says, nudging his chin at Roger's golf partners, "and tell them that by all means they should buy their insurance from you now — today — while you still have your license."

"A real fucking asshole."

"Just give me a name," Jack says. "Someone I can talk to. I don't give a damn about the money, Roger."

"Yeah, you do," Roger says. "All you Joe Lunchbuckets from Claims, you're jealous. How much do you clear, Jack? Thirty-five? Forty-five? Maybe fifty? I shake that much off my dick at the urinal, Jack."

"Good for you, Roger."

But it's true, Jack thinks. All us Joe Lunchbuckets from Claims, we are jealous about the money.

"Bill Reynolds," Roger whispers.

"A black guy?"

"Black guys don't need money?" Roger says. "I kicked him a grand."

"How can you make-?"

"I don't make on the endorsements. I make on the home, on the life, on the cars…"

"See, this is why you're rich, Roger."

Roger says, "I had to write the endorsements or Vale wouldn't give me his business on all the other shit. You know what those commissions stack up to, year after year? Plus Vale owns three apartment buildings. I get the policies on those, plus I get to solicit the tenants on their renter's insurance and their auto. You know how much money that is?"

"I don't want to know," Jack says. "I'd only get jealous."

"It's serious money."

Jack looks down on the green. Roger's partners are standing there looking back at the tee. I guess they found their balls, Jack thinks. He asks, "Are you and Nicky like buddies or something?"

"Screw buddies," Roger says. "I don't have time for buddies. Maybe we have a drink now and then. Lunch… Okay, maybe once or twice I go out on his boat with him for some blow and some babes. Don't look at me like that, Jack."

"I think your buddy killed his wife, Rog," Jack says. "For the insurance benefits. And he burned his house. For the insurance benefits. So fuck his boat and his blow and his babes. And Roger, don't you be making any more calls to my boss or your boss or anybody's fucking boss to get this claim paid."

"Just keep me out of this, Jack."

Yeah, you make the bucks and now you want out of it. When there's the mess and the dead bodies and the hell to pay.

"Then you just stay out of it, Rog," Jack says. "You stick your dick in Claims again I'll see that it gets cut off."

So shake that.

Jack drops in at Pacific Coast Mortgage and Finance.

Two-room office shares a building with a swimwear store and an erotic novelty shop on Del Prado in Dana Point. Big glossy photographs of ocean scenes dominate the walls. Handsome guys and sleek girls windsurfing, flecks of ocean spray flying off their bodies, glistening in the sun. Big beautiful sloops cutting through eight-foot swells. A gang of surfer dudes and wahinis carrying their boards against the background of a fiery sunset.

Like, life is beautiful.

Life is short.

Borrow money and get yourself a taste of it before you croak.

Guy sitting behind the desk is a young cool dude with Pat Riley slicked-back hair, a pink polo shirt and a blue blazer. It's like one of those finance-can-be-cool deals — you know, let's get the paperwork over with and go surfing, dude. Nameplate on the desk reads GARY MILLER.

Jack introduces himself and shows him the authorization form that Nicky had signed.

Jack asks, "You're carrying the paper on the Vale house?"

Which is just pro forma — the name of the mortgage company is on the declaration page of the policy and the loss report — but Jack wanted to say it to see if Gary's eyes lit up.

They do.

You can see right in those inane baby blues that the boy is carrying a ton of paper on the Vale house and the payments haven't been coming in. Guy is sphincter-gripping on the paper and now he sees a shot that the insurance company might ride into town and save his ass, man.

Like God bless California Fire and Life.

"Something happen?" he asks, trying to keep the hopeful note out of his voice.

"It burned down," Jack says.

"No shit?"

"And Mrs. Vale was killed," Jack adds.

"What a shame," Gary says.

He's not an evil guy. He does feel bad about Pamela Vale, who seemed very nice and was one of the most completely righteous babes he had ever seen. On the other hand, it does seem like Nicky Vale is tapped out and California Fire and Life has some deep pockets.

"Yeah," Jack says. "A shame."

"What happened?" Gary asks. He doesn't want to come right out and ask the, sorry, burning question he has on his mind: Was it a total loss?

Please let it be a total, he thinks.

A total loss would pay off the whole loan.

Jack says, "The official report is that Mrs. Vale was smoking in bed."

Gary shakes his head. "A nasty habit."

"Very uncool," Jack agrees. "Would you show me the paper, please?"

"Oh, yeah. Sure."

The paper is heavy.

This is not paper you would like to carry across, say, Death Valley.

But Nicky was carrying it. What Nicky had done was he originally bought the house for cash. Who the hell, Jack thinks, has $2 million in cash? Turns out Nicky really didn't, because six years later he mortgages the house with Pacific for $1.5 million. He's carrying a six-K-a-month payment.

"He's missed, uh, three payments," Gary volunteers.

He just can't help himself. Somewhere inside burns the ember of a hope that Jack is just going to whip out the old checkbook and say, "Oh, well, here?'

If the Vale loan goes down the shitter Gary goes down after it.

"Three payments?" Jack asks. "We looking at foreclosure?"

"It's a consideration," Gary says. "I mean, you know, we don't want to."

"No."

"But what are you going to do?"

You're going to try to carry the guy, Jack thinks. At least until the real estate market improves. Otherwise you eat the loan and you have a house you maybe can't sell. And even if you can, you're going to take a bath on it.

Jack asks, "Six K is a little light, for that kind of balance, isn't it?"

"Read on."

Jack reads on.

Doesn't take long before he sees what he's looking for.

Prima facie motive for arson.

A $600,000 balloon payment.

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?"