CHAPTER 31

.31.

The morning light in Malibu was brutal. I could easily imagine that the flat, white glare was making the previous night’s whiskey feel like a series of small, rhythmic hammers inside Jimmy’s skull. He sat at the oak table, eyes hidden behind dark lenses, nursing a cup of black coffee as if it were a holy relic.

“You really want to do this, Jimmy?” I asked, leaning against the sideboard. “The ice, the gin, the Colony crowd… You could just tell Rosen to call it off. Say you’ve got a fever.”

Jimmy didn’t even look up. “There’s no backing out now, Ray. In this town, an invitation is a debt. You cancel, and people start wondering if the checks are going to bounce. I need them to think I’m too distracted to count the change.”

Before I could argue, the telephone in the hallway let out a sharp, persistent trill. It was a cold, demanding sound that didn’t belong in a beach house.

Birdie appeared from the kitchen, wearing a mask of Boston-Irish neutrality. She picked up the receiver, listened for a second, and then turned her gaze toward the table. “It’s Mrs. Karlsen,” she said, her voice dropping slightly. “For you, Mr. Jimmy.”

Jimmy went completely still for a second. He then stood up, let the chair scrape the tiles behind him, and walked toward the hallway like a ghost. He didn’t take the call in the living room. Instead, he disappeared into the small study and shut the door.

Birdie didn’t go back to the kitchen right away. We didn’t speak, though. We just listened to the muffled, jagged cadence of Jimmy’s voice through the wood. When the door finally opened again, Jimmy looked different. The hangover was still there, but it was being pushed aside by a different kind of energy.

“We’re going to lunch,” he said, grabbing his keys from the sideboard.

“Lunch?” I asked.

“Yes. With Mother. She’s invited us both to have lunch at the Strandhus. It’ll be just the three of us. We'll have the place to ourselves. She promised.”

The Strandhus. It sounded like a piece of the Old World that had been dragged across the Atlantic and left to dry in the sun. I had no idea what it meant, but the way he said it made my skin prickle.

Birdie didn’t utter a word as we moved toward the door, but the way she watched us leave told me everything. She was being left behind to manage the crates of bootleg and the bags of ice, a lone sentry guarding a house that was about to be invaded. Her eyes said it wasn't the first time.

We climbed into the Auburn, and Jimmy took the turns of the Roosevelt Highway with a reckless, silent focus. I sat back and watched the coastline flicker by. 

The white foam of the Pacific looked like forlorn lace against the oppressive cliffs. At least, that's how I remember it. 

It was that kind of morning.

I thought we were going to some fancy restaurant in Santa Monica, a place with white tablecloths and waiters who knew when to look away.

I was wrong.