CHAPTER 27

.27.

The sun was starting to sink into the Pacific when we pulled into the drive of Stella Maris. Two cars were already there, looking like shiny, misplaced toys against the rugged dunes: a Packard Phaeton and a sleek Stutz Bearcat.

I remembered them from Waikiki. Tommy Rosen and Harry Stern: two friends of Jimmy’s who hadn’t jumped in the water that fateful night.

They were leaning against the Packard, the smoke from their Turkish cigarettes curling into the salt air like miniature ghosts, dressed in the kind of expensive, effortless “casual” wear that shouted old money even if the family fortune was only twenty years deep.

“Look at this,” Rosen said, flicking ash onto the gravel as we stepped out of the Auburn. “The Danish Prince returns. We’ve been out here twenty minutes now, Jimmy. Birdie won’t let us past the mat without a written summons.”

“She’s just doing her job, Tommy,” Jimmy said, his voice flat. He didn’t move to hug them or shake hands. He just stood there, the charcoal suit making him look like a dark pillar in the twilight. “You know the rule. No invitation, no entrance. Not even for the heirs of the Rosen and Stern estates.”

“Terribly sorry about your father, old man,” Stern added, his voice dripping with a rehearsed, breezy sympathy. “A real blow. The king is dead and all that.”

“But civilization marches on,” Rosen interjected, stepping into Jimmy’s personal space. “You’ve been in the weeds for three months, Jimmy. You look like a beachcomber who’s been forced into a suit. You need to remind the world – and your uncle – that you’re still the brightest light in town.”

They moved in then, the “party friends” performing their practiced routine. They sold a party like it was the only cure for a terminal disease. They talked about the “Morale” gathering in the Hills as if it were a funeral for the living.

“Don’t go to their circus, Jimmy,” Stern urged. “Host your own. Saturday night. Right here. Let the IT crowd come to you. Let them see that the Danish Prince isn’t hiding in the surf.”

Jimmy hesitated. I could see the gears turning – the Waikiki stillness fighting with the Hollywood demand for performance. He looked at me, then back at the shadows he’d known since prep school.

“Fine,” Jimmy said, the word sounding like a surrender. “Saturday night. Small. Just the inner circle. And Tommy – keep the gin top-shelf. I don’t want any of that bathtub rot in this house.”

Rosen and Stern exchanged a triumphant look. They finally turned their gaze to me, their eyes sweeping over my University of Hawaii sweater and salt-cracked shoes with a dismissal so sharp it was almost impressive.

“And this is… the personal lifeguard?” Rosen asked, his tone bored. His eyes, however, told me he also remembered what he had failed to do in Waikiki.

“You two remember Ray O’Neill, don’t you? He saved my life,” Jimmy said, his voice taking on a dangerous edge. “He’s a writer. And he’s my guest.”

They gave me a nod that was more about checking a box than acknowledging a human being. But beneath the boredom, I caught a flicker: a quick, calculating look that told me they weren’t just “party friends.” They’d been briefed. They knew exactly who the writer from the islands was, and they were already figuring out how to edit me out of the script.

“Tomorrow night, then!” Stern called out as they climbed back into their cars. “We’ll handle the guest list. You just handle the ice, Jimmy!”

The roar of their engines drowned out the sound of the waves for a moment, leaving a cloud of exhaust and expensive tobacco in the air.

“Do you trust those guys, Jimmy?” I asked as the quiet returned.

“I don’t,” Jimmy whispered, staring at the open front door where Birdie was now visible, watching us with questioning eyes. “But in this town, Ray, you have to invite the wolves to the table if you want to find out what’s on the menu.”

“I think you are, my friend.” That’s what I thought. I didn’t tell Jimmy that.

He knew.