California Fire and Life (29 page)

A few more minutes of this and you hit Laguna Beach.

Laguna Beach got its start in life as an artists’ colony.

Bunch of painters and sculptors fled L.A. back in the ’20s and came down to the then-pristine bay and put up their artists’ bungalows and painted seascapes and carved wooden statues of the fishermen who still lived around there.

It was a great choice for an artists’ colony, because Laguna Beach is truly beautiful. Shaped around a crescent of coastline which rises to bluffs and cliffs, a narrow plateau where the town sits and then up to the steep, green Laguna hills. The whole thing madly lush with palm trees and bright flowers and an array of aloes, and when you look at it from a height it brings to mind a painter’s palette.

So the artists settled there.

And a few tourists would come down and buy a few paintings and sculptures, so the artists set up some open-air markets where they could put up stands and still paint and carve while they waited for the customers to drift in.

It was a natural step from open-air stands to galleries, from galleries to restaurants, from restaurants to hotels, and after about fifty years the town became a tourist destination. It boomed with everything else in the ’80s, got overbuilt, got perhaps a little yuppie, but never quite lost touch with its bohemian origins.

When south coast locals think of Laguna Beach they still think of painters and sculptors, coffee shops and bookstores (and, before it got trendy, bookstores with coffee shops), writers and poets, Hare Krishnas and gay men.

Laguna Beach being the primary locus of gay life on the south coast.

Which is why—and it is no less true for being stereotypical—the service in the restaurants is so friendly and so good. And the zoning is vicious. And the town has a style you won’t find elsewhere on the south coast.

Laguna has its own certain sensibility, which is why Jack, like most other old-time locals, treasures the town.

So it was particularly heartbreaking when the fire swept through it.

Jack was actually on vacation that day, taking his vacation in October when most of the tourists were gone but the sun was still hot and the weather dry. Too hot and too dry, as it turned out, because the winds blew the fire across the brown brittle grasses on the bare hills above Laguna Canyon.

Jack was out on his board when he saw a thin plume of smoke rise on the hills east of town, and then the wind came up like a giant trying to fan the embers, and the weirdest thing was that he could hear the crackling of the dry grass burning over the crashing of the waves. He saw the orange-yellow flames burst up over the hills, then race down into the canyon, and the fire trucks race up to meet the fire before it could get into the populated canyon below, but Jack could see from his vantage point in the ocean that that wasn’t going to happen, because the fire leaped across the canyon, just jumped Laguna Canyon Road, which runs perpendicular to the ocean and leads into town, and then climbed the opposite slope like it was nothing.

Winds whipping around like a madman.

Wind like God’s temper tantrum, and Jack saw that the fire was moving
up and over the hills parallel to the coast, and right down the canyon toward the heart of town.

And Jack was thinking,
Why Laguna? Of all the crap and schlock and shit they threw up on the coast, why Laguna?!
He paddled in, threw on his clothes and ran to help fight the fire.

By nightfall they were fighting it at the water’s edge.

Then it stopped.

The wind changed and blew the flames back over charred ground already denuded of fuel.

Just like that
, Jack thought. It had us beat and it let up. Had us down and let us up. Like God changing his mind. Like some kind of warning, of
what
? Jack wondered. A glimpse of the apocalypse? A preview of hell? Something about this California fire and life?

Jack stood there in the water wondering this as he watched the fire recede. He was hunched over, sucking for air, along with strangers and guys he surfed with, women he’d gone to school with, German tourists who just happened to have been there that night, black guys who shilled B ball on the public courts of Main Beach, glorious queen headwaiters and their partners, millionaires whose hillside homes were now smoking rubble, and they all stood there like soldiers who have stood before an overwhelming attack watching the enemy give it up and retreat. And there were no cheers or whoops—they were all just too damn tired—but what Jack remembers about that moment was that there was no talk of loss, or defeat, or what-if-this-happens-again. All the talk was about one thing.

Rebuilding.

What people were saying was basically,
We got out safely with the cat/dog, with our pictures, a few of our things—the rest of it is just stuff. It’s just a hassle, that’s all, but shit, no, we’re not leaving. We’ll live in a hotel, in an apartment, in a trailer until we rebuild
.

And Jack remembers thinking, like, Fucking A—nobody who really loves this place would leave. Not for an earthquake, not for a fire, not for anything.

The other thing Jack remembers about that night is Goddamn Billy.

Goddamn Billy leading a veritable convoy of trucks.

Right behind the fire trucks and ambulances and the like comes Billy in the passenger seat of the lead truck. The road is closed to private vehicles, but Billy leans out the window to the cop and shouts, “These ain’t no goddamn private vehicles! I got hoses in here! Face
masks and gloves! I got pumps and generators! I got blankets and pillows and food. I got teddy bears and shit like that for the kids!”

They let Billy through.

Billy comes roaring into Laguna like General Patton.

What happened is that Billy was monitoring the radio early in the afternoon when the fires broke out, and Billy looked at the wind and the weather and figured this could be serious shit, so Billy mobilized his Major Disaster Plan which he’d been working on for years, because, “You just had to know this was gonna happen
sometime
.”

Every dog in Claims was immediately called in from whatever he or she was doing. Every adjuster, maintenance person, lunchroom worker, supervisor, whatever, who wasn’t already fighting the fires. Cal Fire and Life had some trucks of its own, but Billy also emptied every Ryder and U-Haul lot in Costa Mesa, and within a couple of hours, trucks were loaded with supplies and heading toward the fires. Waiting like benign vultures by the sides of the roads until all the fire trucks had arrived, and then Billy gave the order to get in there.

So Jack knows that while a lot of the supplies that went to the shelters and to the people fighting the fire was brought in by the Red Cross and the National Guard that day, a lot of it also came from Cal Fire and Life. And when he was standing on the beach thinking the fire was going to blow them all into the water—or worse—Goddamn Billy was right down there with him, working a pump and grumbling that they better get this goddamn fire out soon so he could light a goddamn cigarette.

You have to love Goddamn Billy, Jack thinks as he pulls into Laguna this particular day. He’s remembering that night because he can’t help remembering that night anytime he comes to Laguna.

It’ll happen again, Jack thinks. Here or somewhere else.

He parks in the public lot behind Fahrenheit 451 bookstore and walks down PCH to Vince Marlowe’s gallery.

The Marlowe Gallery.

Which Jack thinks is a lot better than some cutesy name like Ages Past or Bou-Ant-ique or something.

Vince Marlowe sells furniture. Antique, expensive furniture. Vince furnishes items to the million-dollar homes with ocean views. Jack’s used him maybe twenty times to evaluate losses in the aftermath of the big fire.

Jack walks into the shop, which smells of wood polish.

Place is just jam-packed with old wooden cabinets, desks, tables, chairs, dressers, mirrors …

Vince himself—early sixties, gray hair, a salmon-colored polo over white slacks and sockless penny-loafers—sits behind one of the desks punching numbers into an adding machine.

“Uh-oh,” he says when he sees Jack. “Something burned.”

Voice as smooth as old scotch.

He gestures Jack into a seat at the desk.

“Do you know Nicky Vale?” Jack asks.

“Know him?” Vince says. “I named my pool after him. ‘The Nicky Vale Memorial Swimming Hole.’ Oh God, it’s
not
memorial, is it?”

“His wife, Pamela.”

Vince slumps in his chair. “Pamela?”

“You really hadn’t heard?”

Vince is very wired into the south coast elite.

“I’ve been out of town,” Vince says, as if it needs no explanation. Like, Laguna in August? Please.

“She died in the fire,” Jack says.

“The children?”

“They weren’t there,” Jack says. “Only Pamela.”

“They were having problems,” Vince says. He mimes a glass tilting toward his lips. “How’s Nicky doing?”

“He’s concerned about his furniture.”

Jack hands Vince a copy of Nicky’s inventory and asks, “Could I buy some of your time to take a look at this, tell me if the values are in line?”

Vince scans the pages. Says, “I’ll run it in detail, but I can tell you right now that they’re about right. Hell, Jack, I sold Nicky half of these pieces.”

“So they’re the real thing?”

“Oh, very real,” Vince says. “Nicky knows his stuff. Sometimes I think he spent more time in this shop than I did.”

“Not lately, though.”

“Things have been a little flat all over,” Vince says.

“Did he try to sell you some pieces?”

“Some,” Vince says. “Not the better pieces—he was too attached. But yes, he wanted me to buy some of the lesser works.”

“Did you?”

“No.”

“Consignment?”

Vince shakes his head. “Space is money. It’s a
business
for me. People want to sell when the economy is flat, but of course then no one is
buying. You either have all sellers or all buyers, depending on the times.”

“How are the times now?”

“Picking up, thank you.”

“So you could sell them now.”

“Probably.”

“For these values?” Jack asks, pointing at the inventory.

“I don’t want to harm a customer and a friend,” Vince says.

“Are you talking about me or Nicky?”

“Both.”

“Relax,” Jack says. “If these prices are roughly in line with what he should have paid for them at the time of purchase, we’ll pay those numbers. I’m not interested in playing hardball here.”

“Then assuming I could sell the pieces, the prices would be a little lower,” Vince says. “Call it a market correction.”

“Did he try to sell the bed?”

“Noooo,”
Vince says. “I might have bought that piece for myself. The bed is …”

“Ashes.”

“A real shame.”

“So run these for me, Vince?”

“Of course,” Vince says. “Give me a day or two or three?”

“Whatever you need to do it right.”

“Can I buy you a cappuccino?”

Doesn’t anyone drink just coffee anymore? Jack wonders.

“I have to run,” he says. “Rain check.”

“Keep it in your pocket.”

Jack gets up and shakes his hand. Starts to leave and then asks, “Hey, Vince, you remember the night of the fire?”

Vince actually shudders. “Who could forget?”

“Did you think it was going to be the end of the world?”

“I don’t know about the
whole
world,” Vince says. “I think I thought it was going to be the end of
our
world.”

“Yeah.”

The end of
our
world.

Letty del Rio has a headache.

She has a headache for precisely the reason she knew she was going to have a headache—she’s sitting in Uncle Nguyen’s den talking to Uncle Nguyen.

“From one policeman to another,” Nguyen is saying, “I know how these things are.”

He’s a handsome old dog, she thinks. Full head of silver hair, bright eyes, a glow to the skin. Maybe thirty pounds overweight, but it looks good on him. Nice clothes, too—a plum Calvin Klein polo over a pair of white slacks.

“Then perhaps you can help me,” she says.

“Difficult,” he says. “These cases are difficult.”

“Very difficult.”

She finds it distracting that Nguyen is looking over her shoulder. The Angels are on television. Edmonds is up in the eighth with one out and a man on base.

I’d rather be watching the game, too, she thinks.

“Tranh and Do?” Nguyen asks.

“Tranh and Do.”

For like the seventh friggin’ time.

“Missing?” he asks.

Her head feels like someone’s drawing needles through her ears.

“Missing,” Letty says.

“Who reported them missing?” Nguyen asks.

“Tommy Do’s mother.”

Nguyen watches Edmonds take a called strike, mulls over the call for a while, then says, “Tommy Do’s mother.”

Letty thinks maybe she has a brain hemorrhage. She turns around, lowers the volume on the television and says, “Uncle Nguyen, can we cut through the shit?”

Nguyen smiles. “Two cops? Two cops should be able to cut through the shit.”

“Good,” Letty says. “Then stop jerking my chain. And please stop repeating everything I say. I know you run everything around here. I know that nobody as much as pees in Little Saigon unless they ask you
first if they can unzip their fly. I know this, so you don’t have to prove anything to me. Okay?”

Nguyen nods his head in acknowledgment.

“So I
know
that you have to know
something
about these two boys.”

“They are neighborhood boys.”

“They were connected with a chop shop—”

“Chop shop?”

“Oh, come on,” Letty says. “Look, I arrested five boys this afternoon who pretended they never heard of Tranh and Do when I know damn well that Tranh and Do worked there.”

This is not news to Nguyen, who was informed of the raid before Letty even left the chop shop. Nguyen is royally pissed that one of his shops got busted and that he loses that income
and
has to spring for bail for an entire covey of young incompetents.