million when they pay the claim , plus the value of the contents."
"I could've sold the house for more, easy." Robin sipped he r drink and said, "But what if . . . This is hypothetical, okay? What if a person does actually burn down her house? Sh e owns the property, she can rebuild if she wants. She migh t even tell the insurance company to forget the claim."
"They'd want to know why."
"Because they piss her off acting so suspicious, draggin g their feet, sending out adjusters and investigators instead o f paying the claim. She's above dealing with people with smal l minds."
This was one Canavan hadn't heard before. He said, "Tel l me how she starts the fire."
"She rolls up the Wall Street Journal and lights it with a match. The point I'm making, Joe . . ."
"She starts the fire inside the house or outside?"
"Inside. The point I'm making, they can pay the claim o r not. If they choose to, fine. If they don't, who's out anything?"
"She's already out the Mediterranean villa."
"And doesn't care."
"What makes it Mediterranean, looking down at the Pacific Ocean?"
"Tile roof, big oval windows and doors. The outside wasn' t bad, even though pink's not one of her favorite colors. It's th e inside of the house she can't stand. The decor throughout, th e furniture, the art, floor to ceiling everything's Chinese. An d she doesn't even like Chinese food. Listen, I can roll u s another one if you want."
"Not for me."
"It's local, Malibu Gold, but pretty good, huh?"
Canavan said, "Yeah, great," and asked Robin, "Wh y didn't this hypothetical woman change the decor?"
"Her husband loved it. He knew what everything was an d where it came from. It was like a culture thing with him. H e becomes an expert on something besides picking hits. Incidentally, not one of the artists he represented ever made a record that stiffed."
"He bought all the Chinese stuff?"
"His previous wife, the second one. They redecorated completely after a trip to China."
Canavan said, "You couldn't . . ." caught himself and said , "She couldn't get used to it?"
"Joe, it was like living in a fucking pagoda. Jade figurines , Tang horses and tomb figures, that honey-colored huanghal i furniture, blue-and-white Ming garnitures, they're vases , Ming kesi panels on the walls, ink paintings, opium beds , snuff bottles, ivory carvings, coromandel screens, Quing dynasty court rugs . . ."
"She could've sold it."
"Cloisonne enamel incense burners, Sung dynasty Buddhas. Five years," Robin said, "she lives with all this Chinese shit cluttering up the house. Big, heavy pieces, the tomb figures almost lifesize. Five years, Joe. She begs her husband, 'Please, can't we try something else?' No. 'A Mediterranea n house, why don't we do it Mediterranean?' No. Not 'No, and I d on't want to hear any more about it.' Her husband was a coo l guy for his age, never raised his voice. But, really, it was al l she thought about. She'd smoke a jay and scheme. Like hire a burglar; he takes it out a piece at a time. Or have it done all a t once while they're in Cabo, or Maui."
"Once her husband's gone," Canavan said, "why didn't sh e get an auction house in and sell it?"
"She felt it would be disloyal to his memory and it would be on her conscience."
Canavan thought that was interesting. "But it's okay i f something happens to it."
"Yeah, like an act of God."
"Or a fire, in an area known for its fires. You know who yo u remind me of?"
"Linda Fiorentino."
"You look just like her."
"I know."
"That movie where she goes in the bar . . . ?"
"The Last Seduction. She wants a Manhattan and the bartender won't look at her. So she goes, 'Who does a girl have to suck around here to get a drink?' "
That was it. Not who do you have to blow.
"But as I was saying, when you come right down to it, Joe , who's out? Who's hurt? Who gives a shit outside of this person who owns the house?"
"I'll tell you who," Canavan said, "if you really want t o know. The law. Arson's a second-degree
"I could've sold the house for more, easy." Robin sipped he r drink and said, "But what if . . . This is hypothetical, okay? What if a person does actually burn down her house? Sh e owns the property, she can rebuild if she wants. She migh t even tell the insurance company to forget the claim."
"They'd want to know why."
"Because they piss her off acting so suspicious, draggin g their feet, sending out adjusters and investigators instead o f paying the claim. She's above dealing with people with smal l minds."
This was one Canavan hadn't heard before. He said, "Tel l me how she starts the fire."
"She rolls up the Wall Street Journal and lights it with a match. The point I'm making, Joe . . ."
"She starts the fire inside the house or outside?"
"Inside. The point I'm making, they can pay the claim o r not. If they choose to, fine. If they don't, who's out anything?"
"She's already out the Mediterranean villa."
"And doesn't care."
"What makes it Mediterranean, looking down at the Pacific Ocean?"
"Tile roof, big oval windows and doors. The outside wasn' t bad, even though pink's not one of her favorite colors. It's th e inside of the house she can't stand. The decor throughout, th e furniture, the art, floor to ceiling everything's Chinese. An d she doesn't even like Chinese food. Listen, I can roll u s another one if you want."
"Not for me."
"It's local, Malibu Gold, but pretty good, huh?"
Canavan said, "Yeah, great," and asked Robin, "Wh y didn't this hypothetical woman change the decor?"
"Her husband loved it. He knew what everything was an d where it came from. It was like a culture thing with him. H e becomes an expert on something besides picking hits. Incidentally, not one of the artists he represented ever made a record that stiffed."
"He bought all the Chinese stuff?"
"His previous wife, the second one. They redecorated completely after a trip to China."
Canavan said, "You couldn't . . ." caught himself and said , "She couldn't get used to it?"
"Joe, it was like living in a fucking pagoda. Jade figurines , Tang horses and tomb figures, that honey-colored huanghal i furniture, blue-and-white Ming garnitures, they're vases , Ming kesi panels on the walls, ink paintings, opium beds , snuff bottles, ivory carvings, coromandel screens, Quing dynasty court rugs . . ."
"She could've sold it."
"Cloisonne enamel incense burners, Sung dynasty Buddhas. Five years," Robin said, "she lives with all this Chinese shit cluttering up the house. Big, heavy pieces, the tomb figures almost lifesize. Five years, Joe. She begs her husband, 'Please, can't we try something else?' No. 'A Mediterranea n house, why don't we do it Mediterranean?' No. Not 'No, and I d on't want to hear any more about it.' Her husband was a coo l guy for his age, never raised his voice. But, really, it was al l she thought about. She'd smoke a jay and scheme. Like hire a burglar; he takes it out a piece at a time. Or have it done all a t once while they're in Cabo, or Maui."
"Once her husband's gone," Canavan said, "why didn't sh e get an auction house in and sell it?"
"She felt it would be disloyal to his memory and it would be on her conscience."
Canavan thought that was interesting. "But it's okay i f something happens to it."
"Yeah, like an act of God."
"Or a fire, in an area known for its fires. You know who yo u remind me of?"
"Linda Fiorentino."
"You look just like her."
"I know."
"That movie where she goes in the bar . . . ?"
"The Last Seduction. She wants a Manhattan and the bartender won't look at her. So she goes, 'Who does a girl have to suck around here to get a drink?' "
That was it. Not who do you have to blow.
"But as I was saying, when you come right down to it, Joe , who's out? Who's hurt? Who gives a shit outside of this person who owns the house?"
"I'll tell you who," Canavan said, "if you really want t o know. The law. Arson's a second-degree
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