"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 is 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.