Read Online California Fire and Life by Don Winslow - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Don Winslow
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feeling right now, or even what I
do
feel. All I know is that I need to to putmy children’s lives in order, because they have been in chaos for quite some time, all the more so this morning.”
“I wasn’t—”
Nicky smiles and says, “You weren’t saying anything, Jack, you are too polite. But inside you are offended by my apparent lack of grief. I grew up as a Jew in what your news readers like to call ‘the former Soviet Union.’ I learned to watch men’s eyes more than their mouths. I’ll bet that in your world, Jack, people lie to you all the time, don’t they?”
“I hear some lies.”
“More than
some,”
Nicky says. “People can get money from you and so they lie to get it. Even otherwise honest people will exaggerate their loss just to cover the deductible, am I right?”
Jack nods.
“And I will probably try to do the same,” Nicky laughs. “Big deal—I’ll come up with a number, then you’ll come up with a number, and we’ll negotiate. We’ll make a deal.”
“I don’t make deals,” Jack says. “I just carry out the policy.”
“Everyone makes deals, Jack.”
“Not everyone.”
Nicky puts his arm around Jack’s shoulders.
“I think we can work together, Jack Wade,” he says. “I think we can do business.”
Nicky invites him in.
“I don’t want to intrude,” Jack says.
“I’m afraid you’ll have to,” Nicky says. He gives Jack a smile that makes him a co-conspirator. “Mother made tea.”
Well, Jack thinks, if Mother made tea …
19
Mother is beautiful.
A small, perfect gem.
Sable hair pulled back tight against the whitest skin Jack’s ever seen. She has Nicky’s blue eyes, only darker. The color of deeper water.
Head up, spine sergeant major straight.
No, not sergeant major, Jack corrects himself, ballet instructor.
She’s wearing August-appropriate white. A midlength summer dress edged in gold. She doesn’t shop in Laguna, Jack thinks—too funky and too many gays—but in Newport Beach. Come Labor Day, no matter how hot, she’ll lose the whites and go to beige and khaki. The first of November she’ll switch to black.
Jack starts, “Mrs. Vale—”
“Valeshin.”
“Mrs.
Valeshin
,” Jack says. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
“I understand that she was smoking in bed,” Mother says. She has more of an accent and there’s this slight edge, like Pamela
deserved
to choke to death in the dark, Jack thinks. Like she had it coming.
“That’s the preliminary finding,” Jack says.
“And
drinking?” Mother adds.
“There’s some indication that she might have been drinking,” Jack says.
“Won’t you come in?” she asks.
Now that I’ve paid admission, Jack thinks.
The inside of the house is a museum.
No DO NOT TOUCH signs, Jack thinks, but they’re not needed. You just
know
, like, DO NOT TOUCH . The place is immaculate. The floors and furniture shine. No dust would dare settle.
Dark, too, like a museum.
Dark-stained hardwood floors with Persian carpets. Oak doors, moldings and window frames.
Big old dark fireplace.
In contrast, the living room furniture is white.
White sofa, white wingback chairs.
White like a
challenge
white. White like nobody spills here, or dribbles, or drops. White, like a statement that life can be clean if everyone just maintains discipline and pays attention and tries.
Furniture, Jack thinks, as ethic.
Nicky motions for Jack to sit down on the sofa.
Jack tries to sit without leaving an indentation.
“You have a beautiful home,” Jack says.
“My son bought it for me,” she says.
“You’ve been to the house?” Nicky says.
“Just for a preliminary look.”
“Is it a total loss?” Nicky asks.
“Most of the structure is still there,” Jack says, “although there’s a lotof smoke and water damage. I’m afraid the west wing is going to have to be torn down.”
“Since the coroner called,” Nicky says, “I’ve been trying to steel my nerves to go over there and see … And
do
feel. All I know is that I need to to putmy children’s lives in order, because they have been in chaos for quite some time, all the more so this morning.”
“I wasn’t—”
Nicky smiles and says, “You weren’t saying anything, Jack, you are too polite. But inside you are offended by my apparent lack of grief. I grew up as a Jew in what your news readers like to call ‘the former Soviet Union.’ I learned to watch men’s eyes more than their mouths. I’ll bet that in your world, Jack, people lie to you all the time, don’t they?”
“I hear some lies.”
“More than
some,”
Nicky says. “People can get money from you and so they lie to get it. Even otherwise honest people will exaggerate their loss just to cover the deductible, am I right?”
Jack nods.
“And I will probably try to do the same,” Nicky laughs. “Big deal—I’ll come up with a number, then you’ll come up with a number, and we’ll negotiate. We’ll make a deal.”
“I don’t make deals,” Jack says. “I just carry out the policy.”
“Everyone makes deals, Jack.”
“Not everyone.”
Nicky puts his arm around Jack’s shoulders.
“I think we can work together, Jack Wade,” he says. “I think we can do business.”
Nicky invites him in.
“I don’t want to intrude,” Jack says.
“I’m afraid you’ll have to,” Nicky says. He gives Jack a smile that makes him a co-conspirator. “Mother made tea.”
Well, Jack thinks, if Mother made tea …
19
Mother is beautiful.
A small, perfect gem.
Sable hair pulled back tight against the whitest skin Jack’s ever seen. She has Nicky’s blue eyes, only darker. The color of deeper water.
Head up, spine sergeant major straight.
No, not sergeant major, Jack corrects himself, ballet instructor.
She’s wearing August-appropriate white. A midlength summer dress edged in gold. She doesn’t shop in Laguna, Jack thinks—too funky and too many gays—but in Newport Beach. Come Labor Day, no matter how hot, she’ll lose the whites and go to beige and khaki. The first of November she’ll switch to black.
Jack starts, “Mrs. Vale—”
“Valeshin.”
“Mrs.
Valeshin
,” Jack says. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
“I understand that she was smoking in bed,” Mother says. She has more of an accent and there’s this slight edge, like Pamela
deserved
to choke to death in the dark, Jack thinks. Like she had it coming.
“That’s the preliminary finding,” Jack says.
“And
drinking?” Mother adds.
“There’s some indication that she might have been drinking,” Jack says.
“Won’t you come in?” she asks.
Now that I’ve paid admission, Jack thinks.
The inside of the house is a museum.
No DO NOT TOUCH signs, Jack thinks, but they’re not needed. You just
know
, like, DO NOT TOUCH . The place is immaculate. The floors and furniture shine. No dust would dare settle.
Dark, too, like a museum.
Dark-stained hardwood floors with Persian carpets. Oak doors, moldings and window frames.
Big old dark fireplace.
In contrast, the living room furniture is white.
White sofa, white wingback chairs.
White like a
challenge
white. White like nobody spills here, or dribbles, or drops. White, like a statement that life can be clean if everyone just maintains discipline and pays attention and tries.
Furniture, Jack thinks, as ethic.
Nicky motions for Jack to sit down on the sofa.
Jack tries to sit without leaving an indentation.
“You have a beautiful home,” Jack says.
“My son bought it for me,” she says.
“You’ve been to the house?” Nicky says.
“Just for a preliminary look.”
“Is it a total loss?” Nicky asks.
“Most of the structure is still there,” Jack says, “although there’s a lotof smoke and water damage. I’m afraid the west wing is going to have to be torn down.”
“Since the coroner called,” Nicky says, “I’ve been trying to steel my nerves to go over there and see … And
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