California Fire And Life

124

The sun comes up enough to make out shapes.

That early-morning hour when everything is in shades of gray.

Jack starts up the ravine that cuts into the bluff. He climbs until he comes to the old fence. Ducks under it, just the way he did when he was a kid, and he's in the old trailer park.

Very weird, very strange being here knowing it belongs to Nicky Vale. That Nicky's planning on turning it into a tract of condos and town houses. That he killed his wife by way of raising the capital.

Jack picks his way through the eucalyptus and pine trees. He walks past old trailer pads and then a Dumpster.

He opens the lid of the Dumpster, shines the light in, and jumps back.

Two charred, cracked skulls.

Exploded from the inside out by intense heat.

Tommy Do and Vince Tranh.

Jack closes the lid.

Moves on toward the old, decrepit rec hall he used to run around in. When he was eight it was a fort. When he was ten it was a rock 'n' roll hall. When he was fifteen it was make-out heaven.

The old hall is in bad shape. Some boards ripped out, shingles stripped, but the two wide old doors are still intact.

And there's a shiny new padlock on them.

A combination lock.

Jack finds a rock and smashes the hasp.

The door swings open like it's been an exhausting effort to stay shut.

First thing Jack sees is the bed.

He pulls up a dustcover and there it is.

The Robert Adam four-poster canopied bed with the castle on top. Incredibly beautiful with its silk and fabrics and intricately carved coat of arms. The video didn't do it justice.

The freaking room is filled with furniture. All draped in cloth dust covers, they look like monuments, like ghosts. Jack goes around turning back the covers.

The George III writing desk, the Hepplewhite chair, the Matthias Lock rococo console table.

" It's all here," Jack says to himself.

The mahogany armless chairs, the silent valet, the Kent mirror, the side table, the gilt chairs, the card table – Jack's looking at it but what he sees in his mind is Pamela Vale walking him through. Like she's there in the old rec hall pointing to each piece as Nicky holds the camera.

This is one of our real treasures. A rare bombe-based red-lacquered and japanned bureau-cabinet from about 1730. It has clawed and hairy paw feet. Also, serpentine-shaped corners with attenuated acanthus leaves. A very rare piece.

It's all here.

Nicky's precious furniture. Over half a million dollars' worth.

Times two. Once for the insurance settlement, twice when he sells it again.

It's more than that, though. It's his identity, his ego, his freaking shifting cloud.

What he killed his wife to hold on to.

His wife, the two Vietnamese kids, George Scollins, God only knows who else. For a pile of old wood. For a bunch of fucking things. Even though he stood to make $50 million and it would have been safer to burn this stuff, Nicky couldn't stand to do it.

And now it's going to cost him fifty mil.

And his claim.

And everything else, if Jack has his way.