Read Online California Fire and Life by Don Winslow - Free Book Online
Authors: Don Winslow
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the lookout for a large rodent carrying spoons. Suspect is approximately five feet tall with large circular ears and white gloves
.
“I need you to pay me for my spoons,” Olivia says.
“Your spoons have been paid for thirteen times.”
She thinks she has him. “But they have been stolen
fourteen
times.”
“Mrs. Hathaway,” Jack says. “Are you asking me to accept that on thirteen prior occasions the spoon thieves have returned your spoons to you? And that they’ve been stolen again … and again and again and again … No, please don’t haul out the cookies.”
But she does.
She always does.
She always sits there looking lovely, smiling, speaking softly, never raising her voice, and she always brings a Ziploc bag of sugar cookies.
“I know how you like these, Jack.”
“I can’t take any cookies, Mrs. Hathaway.”
“Now,” she says, reaching into her handbag and coming out with a stack of photographs, “little Billy has gone to junior college to study computer programming …”
Jack lowers his head and thumps it repeatedly on the table as Olivia continues her recitation of the daily lives and personal development of each and every child, grandchild, great-grandchild and their spouses.
“… Kimmy is living—
in sin
—with a motorcycle repairman from Downey …”
Thump … thump …
“Jack, are you listening?”
“No.”
“Now, Jack, you’ve neglected to pay me for my spoons.”
“I didn’t
neglect
to pay you for your spoons; your spoons were not stolen.”
“Of course they were, dear.”
“Right, they were stolen fourteen—I thought Kimmy was living with an electrician.”
“That was
last
month.”
“Oh.”
“Cookie?”
“No thank you.”
“Now, about my spoons …”
It’s forty-five more agonizing minutes of the Olivia Hathaway Water Torture (drip … about my spoons … drip … about my spoons … drip …) before he can get rid of her and head out to Vale’s mother’s house in Monarch Bay.
18
Monarch Bay.
Aptly named.
Absolutely primo real estate location on the south coast.
Monarch Bay sits on the border between the towns of Laguna Niguel and Dana Point and went through Bosnia-esque civil strife as to which town it would belong to. To most people’s surprise, the residents chose Dana Point over the more tony Laguna Niguel, even though Dana Point in those days was just the harbor and a bunch of fast food joints, surf shops and cheap motels on a strip of the PCH.
The Dana Point that Jack loved.
The choice pissed a lot of people off, especially the owners of the Ritz-Carlton/Laguna Niguel just down the beach, who never changed the resort’s name, even though it’s technically in Dana Point and not Laguna Niguel.
This is fine with Jack, who doesn’t particularly want to be associated with the beautiful resort people. As far as Jack’s concerned, the resort is basically a place for the young surf bums to work as waiters and supplement their meager incomes by screwing the rich wives that they’ve otherwise serviced at lunch. More than a few of whom live in the exclusive gated community of Monarch Bay.
You roll up to the gates of Monarch Bay in a Ford Taurus, you’d better be there to clean something. You’d better have some ammonia and rags in the backseat.
Otherwise, this is a gate for Mercedes and Jags and Rollses.
Jack does feel a little uncool in the Taurus, but he switched to a company car because somehow it just didn’t feel right to go to a house where people have lost a loved one and show up in a ’66 Mustang with a Hobie on top.
Feels disrespectful.
Getting the company car was a hassle.
To get a company car, you have to go to Edna.
Edna has those glasses with the little metal-bead chain hanging around her neck.
Jack says, “Edna, I need a car.”
“Are you asking or telling?”
“Asking.”
“We don’t have any with surfboard racks on them.” Jack smiles.
“It was my last call of the day. Three Arch
.
“I need you to pay me for my spoons,” Olivia says.
“Your spoons have been paid for thirteen times.”
She thinks she has him. “But they have been stolen
fourteen
times.”
“Mrs. Hathaway,” Jack says. “Are you asking me to accept that on thirteen prior occasions the spoon thieves have returned your spoons to you? And that they’ve been stolen again … and again and again and again … No, please don’t haul out the cookies.”
But she does.
She always does.
She always sits there looking lovely, smiling, speaking softly, never raising her voice, and she always brings a Ziploc bag of sugar cookies.
“I know how you like these, Jack.”
“I can’t take any cookies, Mrs. Hathaway.”
“Now,” she says, reaching into her handbag and coming out with a stack of photographs, “little Billy has gone to junior college to study computer programming …”
Jack lowers his head and thumps it repeatedly on the table as Olivia continues her recitation of the daily lives and personal development of each and every child, grandchild, great-grandchild and their spouses.
“… Kimmy is living—
in sin
—with a motorcycle repairman from Downey …”
Thump … thump …
“Jack, are you listening?”
“No.”
“Now, Jack, you’ve neglected to pay me for my spoons.”
“I didn’t
neglect
to pay you for your spoons; your spoons were not stolen.”
“Of course they were, dear.”
“Right, they were stolen fourteen—I thought Kimmy was living with an electrician.”
“That was
last
month.”
“Oh.”
“Cookie?”
“No thank you.”
“Now, about my spoons …”
It’s forty-five more agonizing minutes of the Olivia Hathaway Water Torture (drip … about my spoons … drip … about my spoons … drip …) before he can get rid of her and head out to Vale’s mother’s house in Monarch Bay.
18
Monarch Bay.
Aptly named.
Absolutely primo real estate location on the south coast.
Monarch Bay sits on the border between the towns of Laguna Niguel and Dana Point and went through Bosnia-esque civil strife as to which town it would belong to. To most people’s surprise, the residents chose Dana Point over the more tony Laguna Niguel, even though Dana Point in those days was just the harbor and a bunch of fast food joints, surf shops and cheap motels on a strip of the PCH.
The Dana Point that Jack loved.
The choice pissed a lot of people off, especially the owners of the Ritz-Carlton/Laguna Niguel just down the beach, who never changed the resort’s name, even though it’s technically in Dana Point and not Laguna Niguel.
This is fine with Jack, who doesn’t particularly want to be associated with the beautiful resort people. As far as Jack’s concerned, the resort is basically a place for the young surf bums to work as waiters and supplement their meager incomes by screwing the rich wives that they’ve otherwise serviced at lunch. More than a few of whom live in the exclusive gated community of Monarch Bay.
You roll up to the gates of Monarch Bay in a Ford Taurus, you’d better be there to clean something. You’d better have some ammonia and rags in the backseat.
Otherwise, this is a gate for Mercedes and Jags and Rollses.
Jack does feel a little uncool in the Taurus, but he switched to a company car because somehow it just didn’t feel right to go to a house where people have lost a loved one and show up in a ’66 Mustang with a Hobie on top.
Feels disrespectful.
Getting the company car was a hassle.
To get a company car, you have to go to Edna.
Edna has those glasses with the little metal-bead chain hanging around her neck.
Jack says, “Edna, I need a car.”
“Are you asking or telling?”
“Asking.”
“We don’t have any with surfboard racks on them.” Jack smiles.
“It was my last call of the day. Three Arch
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