convertible BMW 335 up the driveway of the Sunset Grand Hotel thinking about how funny my own life was.
Less than three months before I’d been completely broke and worried about the cost of new dress shirts. Now I was on the fast track. I’d taken the ten grand the firm gave me and trotted on down to the BMW dealership to buy a car like it was a perfectly normal thing to do.
The hotel grounds were immaculately manicured, palatial, and the long driveway curved up the hill through tall palms that stood crisp against the fading evening light. But it was lost on Liz who could only exclaim over and over, “I cannot believe this car!”
I was almost embarrassed by her enthusiasm. “It’s just a car,” I said, glancing at her, smiling and shaking my own head in disbelief.
“I’m not saying I’m impressed and I’m not saying I approve of such a waste of money. But my God, this is sweet!” She leaned her head back against the firm leather seat and looked up into the darkening sky. “I can see how riding around in something like this could almost make you forget about selling your soul.”
“Fuck you.”
“I just might, but not because of the car.” She laughed as she leaned over and tried to nibble my ear. I shrugged my shoulder and squirmed away from her.
“The valet! Are you crazy?”
“Maybe.” She giggled, as the valet opened her door and she stepped out onto the grounds of the grand old Hollywood landmark that sat above Sunset Boulevard, tucked into the hills. I watched her slink out of the car in her small blue dress. Liz didn’t dress up often, but when she did, she turned heads. My nerves were taking over. I hoped that somehow Morgan would not be there and my eyes scanned the crowds, straining to confirm that hope.
The ballroom was not large, but it was elegant in a way that most things in Los Angeles are incapable of being. Built in the 1920s in what was then a quiet village at the outer edge of the city, it had the feeling of a grand old theatre. Which made sense, because most of its functions served the then burgeoning movie industry. The ceiling was a maze of art deco ridges and crowns and swirls. The walls were more of the same, combined with rich tapestries. The floor was an intricate series of inlayed woods, the massive pattern of which could only be appreciated from the aerial view of one of the four seat balconies that sat high up in the middle of each wall.
I studied the room for Morgan when we walked in and, not seeing her, breathed a little easier. There would be a cocktail hour prior to dinner. My plan was to avoid her by ensuring that we sat as far away from her as possible during the meal. Once the dinner was over, I planned to leave without partaking in the festivities. If all went well, we would slip out without any tense moments of any kind.
We made polite conversation with people I knew only slightly. Standing in groups of four or five, there were introductions, perfunctory talk about what a nice location it was, and then the conversation would nose dive into discussions of work and whether people were going to accept their offers. I was saved only by having to return to the bar for more drinks. And, while waiting for a gin and tonic and a glass of chardonnay, I heard her voice from behind me.
“I take it she’s not your sister.”
I turned to see her in the tight black dress I’d once peeled off of her. I tried to laugh it off and turned back to the bar, trying not to think about our night on the town.
“She’s cute, for a fool.” Morgan went on. “Where have you been hiding her?”
“Please,” I said, holding the glass of wine and waiting for my drink. “I was never hiding her.” I smiled. “I was hiding you.” I surprised myself with my own boldness, and I regretted saying it almost immediately. But Morgan laughed it off.
“I can’t blame you for that.” She moved past me and up to the bar. I thought of Mack’s, and then I thought of what happened after. “Just remember.”
“Remember what?” I responded, sensing a threat in her tone of voice. I reached for the gin and tonic and tried to relax. My heart was pounding. Morgan hadn’t done anything