Jake, looking fairly relaxed for someone who was as wired as the phone company, was stretched out in his butter-colored leather armchair in front of the giant fireplace, in which Casey had built a very businesslike fire as a hedge against the house’s air-conditioning. From time to time, she abandoned Lawrence of Arabia, which Jake had cued up for her in his screening room, to bring in more wood. In jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt with vertical yellow stripes, she looked even taller. “You had it appraised,” I said. “At a guess, you needed the money.” He gave me a look I could only describe as grave. “I had three appraised. I’ve never had to sell one before.” “And I can see why, considering how you got them.” “Oh, there’s a market,” he said. He smiled, but it wasn’t the kind of smile that improves a face. “If anyone should know that, Junior, it’s you.” “Were the others straight?”
