"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?"
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."