It was a warm, dazzlingly bright morning and the kitchen was abuzz with activity. Maritza, who today wore a dental hygienist’s uniform of pale pink, was marinating flank steaks in garlic, jalapenos, cumin and lime juice. Monette and Danielle were hard at work on Joey’s birthday cake, Monette measuring and sifting the dry ingredients while Danielle melted chunks of bittersweet chocolate and butter in a double boiler. Danielle wore a white bikini under a man’s unbuttoned lavender oxford-cloth shirt with sleeves that came down to her knuckles, which was a popular look among preppy teenaged girls that season. Boyfriend shirts, they called them. She was a small-breasted girl whose legs were uncommonly long and well muscled. A runner’s legs. Monette wore a long-sleeved blue chambray shirt over a jade green tank top and white linen pants. There was no mistaking the cake bakers for mother and daughter. Not only because they were both tall, slender and blonde but because they wore the same exact expression on their faces. Grim.
“Is Reggie up?” I asked Monette after I’d said good morning.
“She is,” Monette answered distractedly as she powered up her KitchenAid mixer. “She’s . . . somewhere.”
Lulu and I wandered off to find her, Lulu’s nails clacketing on the oak-plank floors. We found her seated on the conservatory floor in the lotus position facing the morning sun. She was not naked, in case you were wondering. She wore a T-shirt and shorts. She was, however, sobbing.
Lulu climbed into her lap, tail thumping, and got busy licking her nose, which has been known to stem the flow of tears in no time. Or start them.
“What’s wrong, Stinker?”
“Not a thing,” she sniffled, patting Lulu. “When I emptied my mind of willful thoughts and let the chi flow through me I just started crying, that’s all. I think it’s being around family again. These people are my only living relatives. Other than Dad, I mean. I was thinking about that all night. Couldn’t sleep.”
“You should have visited me.”
“I did.” She squinted up at me in that way of hers. “But you already had company. You and Monette were sitting by the pool sipping brandy.”
“Single malt Scotch. And you could have joined us.”
“No, she wouldn’t have liked that. Trust me.”
Elliot Schein and Boyd Samuels were the first to arrive, in Boyd’s rented black Lincoln Town Car. Elliot resembled two overstuffed marshmallows in magenta Nike warm-up gear today. Boyd had swapped his official HWA black suit for the unofficial Hollywood pool party ensemble that had been popularized several years earlier by Grant Tinker, the Babe Paley of the power set—a pastel pink sweater thrown over his shoulders and knotted loosely at the throat, a sky blue polo shirt, cream-colored slacks and loafers. Each man clutched a mobile phone in one hand and a small gift-wrapped box for the birthday boy in the other.
“Are you two serious about each other or is this just a weekend fling?” I asked as we stood together on the patio under the grape arbor, where a washtub had been filled with ice cubes and bottles of beer, soda and mineral water.
“I’m not following you, Hoag,” Elliot replied, wheezing.
“You left together last evening and now here you are, showing up together. Believe me, this is how gossip starts.”
“We just came from a brunch meeting with the HWA television team,” Boyd explained. “Besides, it’ll be easier to cut out early this way. We can say we have another meeting to get to.”
Elliot nodded his frizzy red head. “Bright boy’s right. I, for one, do not relish spending a minute longer with Patrick Van Pelt than I have to.” He excused himself and went inside to say hello to Monette.
Boyd stayed on the patio with me, his jaw tensing. “I don’t suppose anything came by express mail from Richard Aintree this morning, did it?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Damn, this project better not go up in smoke,” he muttered fretfully. “You know what’ll happen to me if it does? I’ll end up with a job where two, three hundred times a day I say the words ‘Would you like fries with that, sir?’ Seriously, amigo, I will disappear.” Boyd peered around at the lush green hills that surrounded us. “Hey, what if Richard’s already here? What if he’s been here all along and arranged to have those express mail letters sent from New Jersey?”
“Why would he do that?”
“Because he’s nutso, that’s why. Richard Aintree is out of his mind. We know that for a fact. Hell, for all we know, he could be standing right outside the gate at this very minute masquerading as a tabloid photographer.”
“No offense, Boyd, but this town is having a bad influence on you.”
“You got that right. It’s Crazy Town out here. The only way I’ve ever been able to cope was to go with the flow. I’ve never been here straight before. The HWA gang went out club hopping last night and there were mountains of coke everywhere. It took a ton of willpower to say no. Man, I sure . . .” He broke off, breathing raggedly. “I could really go for a few lines right now.”
“Do you have somebody whom you should call?”
He shifted his pastel-covered shoulders uncomfortably. “I thought I might find a meeting to go to later.”
“Want me to come with you?”
“You’d do that for me?”
“Of course.”
“But you don’t like me.”
“Doesn’t matter. What matters is that you’ve put your life back together and you want to keep it together. Which reminds me, steer clear of Patrick and Lou when they get here.”
“Why?”
“Just take my word for it.”
By now Monette and Danielle had put the cake in the oven and Maritza was dumping a load of charcoal into the outdoor grill to get the fire started. Reggie and Danielle joined us under the grape arbor. And, somehow, Monette managed to persuade a highly reluctant Joey to come downstairs from his room to open the presents that Elliot and Boyd had brought him.
First he opened Elliot’s, which was nestled inside a plush, hinged case. It was a black fountain pen with two gold bands. Mighty nice one, too.
“That there’s a Waterman, kid,” Elliot pointed out, beaming at him.
“Yes, I can see that,” Joey said as he stood there miserably in his rumpled plaid flannel shirt, Nirvana T-shirt and torn jeans.
“If you’re going to be a famous writer, then you got to write in style.”
“That’s a very thoughtful gift, Elliot,” Monette said. “Isn’t it, Joey?”
“Yes, it is.” Joey’s eyes never left the ground. “Thank you.”
Boyd’s gift also came nestled inside of a small, hinged case. It was a pair of sunglasses. Joey peered at them, somewhat mystified.
“Those, my young friend, are Ray-Ban Wayfarers,” Boyd informed him. “The one and only James Dean himself wore a pair just like those.”
“Thank you very much,” Joey said woodenly.
“What else did you get for your birthday, kid?” Elliot asked.
Danielle said, “Mom and I found him this really great fringed buckskin jacket at a clothing store in Venice. It’s totally Joey.”
The decibel level of the paparazzi outside of the gate suddenly shot way up. There was major, major yelling. And I could hear a couple of car engines revving out there. Then the front gate swung open and the no-longer man of the house, Patrick Van Pelt, came roaring up the old cobbled drive in a shiny, bright red Jeep Wrangler that had a roll bar in lieu of a top. It also had oversized tires and an even more oversized sound system that was blasting “All She Wants to Do Is Dance,” by the singularly annoying Don Henley.
Patrick pulled up beside Boyd’s Town Car and jumped out wearing a Hawaiian shirt, cargo shorts and leather flip-flops, looking every inch the tanned, chiseled leading man that the American viewing public knew and loved. He flashed his bright white smile at us and waved. He appeared to be incredibly happy to be back home again. He also appeared to be incredibly bombed. He swayed more than a little as he took a gulp from the fifth of Jose Cuervo Gold tequila he was toting.
Lou Riggio, the flesh-colored Incredible Hulk, roared up the driveway behind him in a gunmetal gray mid-sixties GTO, parked it behind the Jeep and got out, looming there in a tank top, gym shorts and sneakers, a Tootsie Pop stuck in his mouth.
“Here we go . . . ,” Monette murmured under her breath.
Danielle reached for her mother’s hand and gripped it. “Here we go . . .”
“Hey-hey, it’s a party!” Patrick called out as he started up the stone path toward us, staggering slightly. “I need me a wedge of lime, a shaker of salt and my birthday boy! Where’s my boy?” He peered around. “There he is! How are you, son?”
“I’m fine, Dad,” Joey answered uncomfortably.
Patrick approached Monette, who didn’t blink, didn’t breathe. Just glared at him. He grinned at her. “Hello, Queenie.”
“How dare you show up here drunk?” she demanded angrily.
“Didn’t think I could pull this off sober, did you? Hey, Princess!” he exclaimed as his gaze fell on Danielle, who seemed thoroughly mortified by her father’s state of sobriety, or total lack thereof. “I swear, you’re turning into a long drink of water just like your mom. Have you gotten taller on me?”
“I don’t know, Dad,” she said in a pained voice.
Patrick’s gaze fell upon me next. “So you’re still here.”
“I told you that I would be.”
“Big mistake, dude.”
“My whole life is one big mistake. I try to stay consistent.”
He frowned at me in bewilderment, as if I’d just spoken to him in a foreign tongue, before he said, “Oh, hey, you all remember Lou, don’t you?”
Lou stood there in silence like a granite boulder, sucking on his grape Tootsie Pop, his shaved head gleaming in the sunlight. In his left hand he clutched that same little blue nylon zippered bag he’d had with him in Patrick’s trailer.
Patrick grinned at Joey and said, “Hey, birthday boy, you see that red Wrangler in the driveway? It’s all yours!” He tossed Joey the keys. Joey made no effort to catch them. They landed on the bluestone three feet away from him with a clatter. “Lou helped me pick it out, and Lou knows his wheels. It’s a total rocket. Got the six-cylinder, 180-horsepower engine. Right, Lou?”
“Right, Pats,” Lou confirmed in his sandpapery voice.
Joey let out a pained sigh. “I don’t drive, Dad.”
“Well, now you have a good reason to learn how to.”
“No, you don’t understand. I don’t believe in cars.”
“What’s not to believe in? They’re real. Go over and touch it if you don’t believe me. And let me tell you something else. That Wrangler right there? That is a solid, proven chick magnet. Trust me, when you show up at school behind the wheel of that thang, you’ll have to fight off the girls with a Louisville Slugger. Why, they’ll be all . . .” Patrick broke off suddenly, tilting his head at me with a perplexed look on his face. “Didn’t you have a kind of short, four-legged sidekick yesterday?”
“Still do.”
“Where is she?”
“Guarding the keys to the Jeep.”
He spotted her now, crouched on the pavement next to the keys. “Why’s she doing that?”
“Force of habit. I used to lose mine a lot. Lulu was my spotter.”
“Awful handy to have around,” he said approvingly as he took a swig of his tequila, noticing Reggie for the first time. Couldn’t help it. She was standing right in front of him, the better to peer at him. He peered back at her. “So you’re the twisted sister.”
She nodded. “I’m the twisted sister.”
“I didn’t realize you were so short.”
“And I didn’t realize you were a shit-faced drunk,” she said, wrinkling her nose. “You smell like you started two days ago and never stopped.”
He let out a laugh. “I’ll tell you something, twisted sis. I don’t usually go for mouthy little spinners, but in your case I’m prepared to make an exception.”
“Wow, I am so flattered right now,” Reggie responded sweetly.
Patrick took another swig of tequila, paying no attention to Elliot or Boyd. He had zero interest in either of them. “Where’s my lime?” he demanded. “Where’s my salt? Where’s Maritza, damn it?”
Maritza came out the French doors from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dish towel. “Yes, Senor Patrick?” she said in a quiet voice, her face drawn tight.
He smiled at her hugely. “How are you, hon?”
“I am fine, Senor Patrick.”
“Yes, you are. Plenty fine. Get me a setup for my tequila, will you? One of those double shot glasses from my bar. A wedge of lime, shaker of salt and an ice-cold Corona. Comprende?”
“Yes, Senor Patrick.”
“And a Corona for my man Lou,” he added, eyeballing Maritza’s butt as she went inside to fetch what he’d asked for. Like son, like father. Although Patrick didn’t sneak furtive glances the way Joey did. He just flat out stared.
And Monette watched him stare, glowering.
“I need to make a phone call,” Elliot said abruptly.
“So do I,” said Boyd.
The two of them retreated to opposite ends of the swimming pool and were soon busy barking into their mobile phones.
Reggie watched them, greatly amused. “Aren’t they cute, Stewie?”
“As buttons.”
“You don’t suppose they’re talking to each other, do you?”
“I like to think they are.”
Maritza returned with Patrick’s double shot glass and set it on the wrought iron table for him along with a saltshaker and a bowl of lime wedges. She pulled two long-neck bottles of Corona from one of the tubs of ice, opened them and set them on the table.
Patrick didn’t bother to thank her. Just splashed some Cuervo from the bottle into the glass, shook some salt onto the back of his left hand, licked it off and downed the Cuervo in one gulp. Then he squeezed the juice from a lime wedge into his mouth and took a long gulp of Corona, groaning contentedly.
Lou did thank her as he reached for his beer and took a long, thirsty drink, not bothering to remove the grape Tootsie Pop from the side of his mouth while he drank. The big man had style, I had to give him that.
“Oh, hey,” Patrick said to Maritza. “Is Hector around today?”
“It is Saturday, Senor Patrick.”
“He doesn’t work on Saturdays?”
“Not usually. Maybe sometimes.”
“Well, if he shows up, tell him I want to see him, okay?”
“Yes, Senor Patrick.”
There was another commotion outside the front gate. Shouting. A huge roar of voices. Then someone out there buzzed the house.
Maritza went inside to answer it, returning to the patio to announce, “Senorita Kat has arrived.”
“Now we can have us a real party!” Patrick whooped. “You’re going to love her, Queenie. And she’s been dying to see the house.”
“I’ll just bet she has,” Monette said between gritted teeth.
A black BMW convertible with its top down came zipping up the driveway with Public Enemy’s “Shut ’Em Down” blaring from its sound system, because absolutely nothing says young, privileged white TV starlet like gangsta rap. Kat Zachry’s half-brother, Kyle, was behind the wheel. Kat rode shotgun. A third person was sprawled across the back seat. Kyle parked behind Lou’s GTO. The three of them got out and started up the path toward us.
Kat wore an oversized number-thirty-two Magic Johnson Lakers jersey over a baggy pair of gym shorts. She looked incredibly childlike to me. She was only two years older than Joey, after all. She gave Patrick a naughty grin and a hug before she extended her hand to Joey and said, “Hey, I’m Kat. Happy birthday.”
“I don’t believe in shaking hands,” he informed her coldly.
Patrick glared at him. “Hey, what have I told you about that goddamned mouth of yours?”
“No prob, I’ll just give it a smooch.” Kat kissed Joey smack on his mouth.
He immediately turned bright red.
“Queenie, allow me to introduce Miss Kat Zachry,” Patrick said with exaggerated formality as he stood there, swaying more than slightly.
“Very nice to meet you, Kat,” Monette said with chilly politeness.
“Nice to meet you, too,” Kat said to Monette with that same naughty grin on her face. She was genuinely enjoying this incredibly awkward social encounter. “Oh, hey, everybody, this is my big brother, Kyle.”
Kat’s pudgy loser of a half-brother nodded to everyone but didn’t bother to say anything or shake hands with anyone. Didn’t budge from Kat’s side at all. Just stood there, looking like a nervous weasel.
“And we brought our cousin Trish,” Kat added. “Hope you don’t mind.”
“Of course not,” Monette said with still more chilly politeness.
Cousin Trish was in her early twenties and wore a cropped, sleeveless gray sweatshirt over a white bikini. She was tall and slender with long blond hair, long legs and a tight little bottom. But she shared none of her famous cousin’s fine-featured beauty. Her eyes were set too close together. Her nose was too broad. She had a thin-lipped mouth and not enough chin. Trish wasn’t unattractive. She was simply ordinary-looking. Every woman on the planet seemed ordinary-looking if she happened to be standing next to Kat Zachry.
Patrick peered at her with keen interest. “Have we met before, cousin Trish? You look awful damned familiar.”
“Trish had a bit in the beach party scene last week, babe,” Kat reminded him. “She rode around on Kirk’s shoulders until he threw her in the water.”
“I came up sputtering and called him a meathead,” Trish said.
Patrick nodded his shaggy blond head. “Sure, that’s it.”
Elliot and Boyd rejoined us, both of them acting extremely guarded now that the Pat ’n’ Kat tabloid freak show was unfolding right before their eyes.
“Did you get some bitchen birthday presents?” Kat asked Joey.
“Elliot gave him a very fine Waterman fountain pen,” Monette informed her. “Boyd got him a lovely pair of sunglasses. And Danielle and I found him a truly special buckskin jacket.”
“That reminds me . . .” Kat turned her bedroom eyes on me. “I still want that leather jacket of yours.”
“Dream on.”
“And don’t forget the world-class wheels his old man got him,” Patrick said, splashing some more Cuervo into his bar glass.
“You are one lucky dude, Joey,” Kat said as she stood there gazing up at the weathered brick enormity of Aintree Manor, tilting her pretty head this way and that, inspecting it as if she intended to move in there very soon. Possibly she did. Possibly Patrick had made her a boatload of promises. Nothing would surprise me. “I love your house,” she said to Monette. “It’s really classical.”
“Thank you,” Monette said curtly.
“Kind of old-timey for my taste,” Kyle said. “Me, I like new stuff.”
“Kyle, sweetie, your taste isn’t something you should talk about out loud,” Kat said to him. “You haven’t got any.”
“I know what I like,” he said defensively.
“Would you care to take a tour of the downstairs?” Monette asked her.
Kat’s eyes widened eagerly. “You kidding me? Come on, Trish, we’re getting a tour of the mansion.”
She and her leggy blonde cousin followed Monette inside through the French doors. Kyle stayed put, helping himself to a bottle of Corona.
Danielle and Joey stayed put, too. Joey had developed a healthy interest in the guacamole that Maritza had set out on the table.
And Danielle wanted a word with Reggie. “Why do we have to be nice to her?” she asked in a voice that was barely more than a whisper.
“You don’t,” Reggie answered. “Your mom’s just trying to get through the next few minutes without going completely insane. Want to swim?”
Danielle nodded her head. The two of them started for the pool, Danielle shrugging out of the boyfriend shirt she wore over her white bikini. Reggie peeled off her T-shirt and shorts. She had on the yellow bikini that she’d borrowed from Danielle yesterday. They dove right in but didn’t swim. Just hung out in the shallow end talking. Lulu stayed by my side, keeping a watchful eye on them.
“So, listen up, Trish isn’t really our cousin,” Kyle told Joey as he helped himself to some of the guacamole. “She’s your birthday present, bro. From me and Kat to you. Knock yourself out.”
Joey frowned at him. “I don’t think I understand.”
Kyle let out a laugh. “She’s here to pop your cherry, okay?”
“I—I thought she was an actress,” Joey stammered, totally flustered.
“Did you hear me say she wasn’t?”
Patrick and Lou stood across the table from them listening with keen interest. So did Elliot and Boyd.
“Just go upstairs to your room, okay?” Kyle told him. “She’ll join you up there in a few minutes. You can do anything you want to her. Anything you’ve ever dreamed of doing when you’re lying in bed at night spanking your monkey. Her awesome bod is all yours. Greatest birthday present ever, right?”
Joey gaped at Kyle in horrified amazement. “That’s disgusting. You’re disgusting!”
“Hey, what did I just tell you about that mouth of yours?” Patrick snarled, moving toward Joey with his fists clenched.
Joey gulped in fright. So much fright that I had no doubt Patrick was in the habit of knocking him around. “That I—I shouldn’t be rude.”
“Right, that you shouldn’t be rude. Do we need to have ourselves a conversation?”
“No, sir. May I please go up to my room and read now?” Joey asked, his voice quavering.
“Yeah, go on,” Patrick said disgustedly as Joey fled inside. Patrick sampled the guacamole, munching on a blue corn chip thoughtfully. “I still say that boy’s a faggot.”
“Nope, don’t think so,” I said.
“Well, hell,” Kyle said. “If he doesn’t want to tap Trish then I may have a go. That tight little ass of hers rocks me.”
“Me, too.” Lou smacked his lips. “A party’s a party, right?”
“A party’s a party,” Kyle agreed. “Help yourself.”
“Hey, who are you to be giving him permission, dickwad!” Patrick hollered at Kyle. “This is my fucking house, not yours! If Lou wants her he can have her. And so can I!”
“Whatever you say, Patrick.” Kyle held his hands out palms up, a gesture of appeasement. “You’re the man.”
“Damned straight,” Patrick said, suddenly peering at Kyle with a mystified expression on his chiseled face. “Do I know you?”
“Kind of. I’m Kyle, Kat’s brother, remember?”
“Oh, right, right. Thought you looked familiar,” he said, wavering very unsteadily. He had to plant his hand on the table to keep from toppling over. “Lou, everything’s starting to spin around . . .”
“No prob, Pats.” Lou promptly produced a prescription bottle and razor blade from his little blue nylon bag. Opened the bottle and dumped a generous heap of coke onto the glass surface of the table. He began cutting it into lines with the razor blade.
“Hey, take that somewhere else,” Elliot said to them disapprovingly.
“Mind your own fucking business, bozo,” Patrick shot back.
“I am minding my business. I happen to manage Monette’s career. This is a family affair. There are kids here.”
Boyd, meanwhile, stared goggle-eyed at the four, five, six lines of coke on the table.
“All set, Pats,” Lou said. “Anyone got some folding scratch?”
Kyle pulled a five-dollar bill from the pocket of his shorts. Lou took it from him, rolled it into a tight little straw and handed it to Patrick, who bent over and snorted up two lines. Boyd watched him, looking extremely uneasy.
But not as uneasy as Maritza, who’d come out onto the patio to lay a dozen ears of corn on the grill.
Patrick grinned at her. “You want some of this, hon?”
“No, Senor Patrick.” She dumped the corn hurriedly onto the grill and scurried back into the kitchen.
“This is very inappropriate behavior, Patrick,” Elliot said insistently.
“I just told you, fat man—butt out.” He swiped at his nose, sniffling. “Help yourself, Lou. You, too, Kyle.”
“Thanks, don’t mind if I do,” Kyle said, waiting for Lou to snort up two lines and pass him the rolled-up bill. Then he finished off the last two lines.
“I think I’ll go wash up for lunch,” Boyd said hoarsely. He went inside, walking very rapidly.
“Will you please put that damned stuff away before you-know-who comes back?” Elliot pleaded. “Because, I am telling you, she will hit the roof.”
“Keep your shirt on.” Patrick wiped the last traces of coke from the table with his finger and rubbed his gums with it.
Lou returned the pill bottle to his zippered bag, then handed Patrick two capsules of those so-called mineral supplements. Patrick washed them down with a gulp of tequila.
By then you-know-who had returned from her Aintree Manor house tour with Kat and Trish, who were chattering like excited schoolgirls about how totally amazing the house was.
“What’s wrong, Elliot?” Monette demanded, noticing at once how uncomfortable he appeared.
“Not a thing,” Elliot said, chuckling nervously.
She spotted Danielle and Reggie in the pool together, then glanced around, frowning. “Where’s Joey?”
“Went up to his room,” Patrick said. “He’s turning into a goddamned hermit. Ought to do something about that, Queenie.”
“Is that right?” she responded testily. “Exactly what do you suggest?”
“I want to see the house, too,” Kyle said, his eyes gleaming at Trish. “Will you show me around?”
Trish looked at him with eyes that were suddenly very old and tired. “Sure, whatever.”
She led him inside, Kyle staring hungrily at her tight butt in that little white bikini she had on.
Lou was staring at it, too. “Okay if I join the tour, Pats?”
“Knock yourself out, Lou. Just stay downstairs, okay? Upstairs is for family only.”
Lou started inside, squeezing his way past Kat in the kitchen doorway, where she was talking quietly and purposefully to Boyd, who was listening to her and nodding his head. A moment later, she and Boyd slipped away to stroll the estate’s grounds together, Kat still talking, Boyd still listening.
Elliot yanked a white linen hankie from the pocket of his magenta warm-up pants and dabbed at his forehead, which was damp with perspiration. Then he puffed out his cheeks and plopped himself down in a chair at the table.
“I have to take a humongous piss,” Patrick announced to no one in particular.
“Thank you for sharing that with us,” Monette said. “Please, don’t let us stop you.”
He let out a huge laugh. “Wouldn’t think of it, Queenie,” he assured her before he went staggering inside.
Monette let her breath out slowly. “I’d say we’re doing fabulously well so far. Joey’s hiding in his room. Patrick’s bombed. His so-called friends are wandering around my home doing God knows what. It’s another idyllic Saturday afternoon here on Rockingham Avenue.” She pulled an opened bottle of Sancerre from one of the ice-filled tubs and poured herself a glass, taking a sip of it as Maritza came out to turn the corn on the grill. “How is lunch coming, Maritza?”
“The onions and peppers are frying on the stove,” she answered quietly. “Should I put the steaks on?”
“Yes, why don’t you? And thank you for your hard work and your patience. We’ll get through this. Somehow.”
Maritza went back inside, returned with a huge platter of marinated flank steaks and began to lay them, sizzling, on the hot grill.
Reggie and Danielle climbed out of the pool, wrapped themselves in towels and hurried up the path toward us, their wet faces shining in the bright sunlight.
“Mom, do we have time to go up and change?” Danielle asked.
“Absolutely,” Monette assured her.
They dashed inside, Reggie murmuring something to Danielle under her breath and Danielle responding with a giggle.
Me, I decided to swim some laps before lunch, mostly so I could be by myself for a few minutes. I’d had just about enough of people. I took off the khaki shirt I was wearing over my swim trunks, dove in the deep end and began to swim, enjoying the cool, clean water. It made for a pleasant contrast to how soiled I felt being around Patrick, Lou and Kyle. Kat was another class act. She and “cousin” Trish. The whole lot of them made me sick. But I’ve discovered over the years that I always feel sick as soon as I’ve spent more than twenty-four hours on the left coast’s so-called beautiful dreamland full of so-called beautiful people. My body, mind and soul yearn to be back in authentically filthy, noisy, smelly, freezing cold New York. Back where I belong.
I swam, Lulu running alongside me barking her head off. Over on the patio, Elliot seemed to have taken over as temporary grill master. Monette and Maritza had both gone inside the house. Elliot stood there all by himself, tongs in hand, flipping the steaks with dutiful care. Even though the man was now the head of a multimillion-dollar production empire, he’d spent the first half of his career as a shlepper of small-time comic talent. For a man like Elliot, there was no such thing as a job that was beneath him. He’d been asked to work the grill. He was working it.
I swam. Lulu barked. She barked so loud that I almost didn’t hear the gunshots.
Almost.