CHAPTER 18

.18.

I’d barely cleared the heavy oak doors of the study when Jimmy appeared from the shadows of the hallway. He looked like a man who’d just seen his own execution and realized the hangman was a relative.

“Let’s get out of this house!” he hissed.

I didn’t ask questions. I grabbed my suitcase – the one heavy with my "Stingray" swimsuit and my silent typewriter – and followed him to the garage. He went straight for a 1929 Auburn 8-90 Speedster. It was a scream of Vermilion Red in the dim light, a boat-tailed bullet designed for the kind of speed that makes the law look like a suggestion.

“Where are we going, Jimmy?” I asked as he jammed the key in.

The engine roared to life, a guttural snarl that echoed off the stone walls. He didn't answer. He just dropped the clutch, and the Auburn lunged out of the garage like a predator hitting the open brush.

The next hour was a sixty-minute fever dream. We tore down the winding throat of Mulholland, the tires screaming on every curve. The landscape changed in a desperate, blurry montage: the exclusive green of the Hills faded into the dusty basin, and then we hit the long, flat stretch of Santa Monica. Jimmy drove like a madman, weaving through the 1929 traffic as if he were trying to leave his own skin behind.

“Slow down!” I yelled over the rush of the wind. “And tell me where we’re headed!”

He didn't even blink. He just gripped the wheel harder, his knuckles white against the red dash. We hit the Roosevelt Highway – the new Pacific Coast Highway – and the air changed. The smell of exhaust was replaced by the sudden, sharp intake of salt air. It should have been a relief, but in that car, it felt like a warning.

It took a solid hour of white-knuckled driving before he finally stood on the brakes at the Malibu Inn. The Auburn skidded into the gravel parking lot, kicking up a cloud of dust that tasted of sea salt and grit. The engine ticked as it cooled, a metallic heartbeat in the sudden quiet. Jimmy didn't get out. He just sat there, his hands still fused to the steering wheel, staring at the grey horizon.

“They’re getting married,” he said. The words were quiet, but they had the weight of a lead pipe.

I felt a cold dread settle in my gut. “Who’s getting married, Jimmy? Some sweetheart from before the boat?”

He turned to me then, and the look in his eyes was older than the mountains behind us. “Mother and Uncle Ole. She told me herself. They’re getting married this month. Before the ash in that urn is even cold.”

Then came the expletives – a long, jagged string of words I didn't know a millionaire’s son was allowed to use. It wasn't just anger; it was a verbal bloodletting.

“Let’s go back, Jimmy,” I said. “To Waikiki. We came for your father’s funeral and we missed the show. There’s nothing for you here anymore, right? Let’s get on the next Matson boat.”

Jimmy shook his head. The fury had hardened into something colder, something that reminded me of the "Wolf" back in the study. “No. I’m not letting them win. I’m not letting him take the business, the house, and my father’s wife while I’m hiding in the surf.”

Suddenly, he forced a smile. It was a terrifying, theatrical thing – a "Hollywood" smile, all lips and no gaze. “Let’s have lunch!” he said, his voice bright and brittle. “The Shrimp Boat in this place is to die for! And I could kill for a drink.”