racked the air, and saw Jesse on the phone. The wind shivered across pewter puddles. I got in the car, shaking my head. P.J. wasn’t there.
‘‘Playing head games is the last thing I’m doing. This is extremely serious, and if she . . .’’ Hand through his hair. ‘‘No, Dad. I can’t help it if— Fine. Yes. Soon as I can.’’
He hung up. ‘‘I have to go back to their house.’’
He started the car. ‘‘P.J.’s at the Jimsons’.’’ Can you go? We have to talk to him before Mom gets riled up and starts calling him every two minutes. He’ll rabbit.’’
As Patsy lost count of her drinks, she lost control of her tongue. But it meant a potential run-in with the Iron Pixie.
‘‘Sure.’’
He shot me a glance. ‘‘Don’t let her scare you.’’
‘‘I won’t.’’
I lied. But P.J. was going to tell me the truth.
Santa Barbara believes it escaped the Fall. The bumper sticker says so: ANOTHER DAY IN PARADISE. We find proof everywhere—in the sunshine, the beaches, the relative infrequency of gang wars. And, of course, the celebrities.
We’re a straight shot up the freeway from Hollywood, so stars seeking a haven from L.A. land here constantly, like space debris. It convinces us we’re hot stuff. Sight an Oscar winner buying taquitos at La Super-Rica, and we coast on it for weeks.
Montecito, the tony suburb that styles itself a village, draws the biggest names, and has the most pretensions. Quiet and lush, it’s a place where old money needn’t speak, rock gods don’t raise their heads, and if your house can be seen from the street, you plain ain’t rich. Granted, Jesse had a village address—but in the neighborhood that surf rats call Baja. Lower Montecito, where you get fog, and train whistles at midnight.
Karen Jimson, on the other hand, had installed her family on a Spanish-style spread with a pool, tennis court, gym with sauna, and Japanese rock garden. They called it Green Dragons, after a slang term for jimsonweed.
I followed the winding drive up to the house. The sun was spearing the clouds, gold light through the gray. Parked in front of the garage was the BMW four-by-four I’d seen that morning outside Sanchez Marks, with the JMSNWD tags. Oaks arched over the house. The adobe walls had a creamy heft. Inside, music was thundering. I rang the bell, bracing myself for Karen.
The door opened and gangsta rap rained down on me, lyrics hitting the air like buckshot. A young woman stood in the doorway. Early twenties, Karen-sized. Her long hair flashed like black water. Sunlight kicked against her silver earrings and bracelets, and the eyelets of her steel-toed Caterpillar boots. Not to mention the diamond stud in her nose.
She jerked her head, nodding me in.
She wore fatigue pants and a ribbed white undershirt. She was eating Ben & Jerry’s straight from the carton, licking a mound of chocolate ice cream from the spoon, and she was chilly. Her nipples protruded like rivets through the clingy undershirt. She was, I surmised, the Jimsons’ daughter. Without a word she turned and walked off.
After a few seconds, realizing that she wasn’t coming back, I followed.
Ricky’s gold records formed a receiving line along the walls of the entry hall. To the left, a cavernous living room sported leather furniture and six-foot cacti. Above the mantel hung an original Georgia O’Keeffe. A white flower filled the canvas like the bell of a trumpet, green leaves spiraling behind it. Jimsonweed.
The rap music hammered the floor. The young woman kept walking.
‘‘Excuse me,’’ I called.
She was passing the kitchen, which led to another wing of the house. Spinning around, she pointed with her ice-cream spoon. ‘‘Ricky’s in the sauna.’’
‘‘I’m looking for P.J.’’
She kept spinning and walked away.
Though she dressed like a welder, her carriage was pure princess. It was the sway of her hips, the thrust of her chin, the cut of her hair—like Pharaoh’s
‘‘Playing head games is the last thing I’m doing. This is extremely serious, and if she . . .’’ Hand through his hair. ‘‘No, Dad. I can’t help it if— Fine. Yes. Soon as I can.’’
He hung up. ‘‘I have to go back to their house.’’
He started the car. ‘‘P.J.’s at the Jimsons’.’’ Can you go? We have to talk to him before Mom gets riled up and starts calling him every two minutes. He’ll rabbit.’’
As Patsy lost count of her drinks, she lost control of her tongue. But it meant a potential run-in with the Iron Pixie.
‘‘Sure.’’
He shot me a glance. ‘‘Don’t let her scare you.’’
‘‘I won’t.’’
I lied. But P.J. was going to tell me the truth.
Santa Barbara believes it escaped the Fall. The bumper sticker says so: ANOTHER DAY IN PARADISE. We find proof everywhere—in the sunshine, the beaches, the relative infrequency of gang wars. And, of course, the celebrities.
We’re a straight shot up the freeway from Hollywood, so stars seeking a haven from L.A. land here constantly, like space debris. It convinces us we’re hot stuff. Sight an Oscar winner buying taquitos at La Super-Rica, and we coast on it for weeks.
Montecito, the tony suburb that styles itself a village, draws the biggest names, and has the most pretensions. Quiet and lush, it’s a place where old money needn’t speak, rock gods don’t raise their heads, and if your house can be seen from the street, you plain ain’t rich. Granted, Jesse had a village address—but in the neighborhood that surf rats call Baja. Lower Montecito, where you get fog, and train whistles at midnight.
Karen Jimson, on the other hand, had installed her family on a Spanish-style spread with a pool, tennis court, gym with sauna, and Japanese rock garden. They called it Green Dragons, after a slang term for jimsonweed.
I followed the winding drive up to the house. The sun was spearing the clouds, gold light through the gray. Parked in front of the garage was the BMW four-by-four I’d seen that morning outside Sanchez Marks, with the JMSNWD tags. Oaks arched over the house. The adobe walls had a creamy heft. Inside, music was thundering. I rang the bell, bracing myself for Karen.
The door opened and gangsta rap rained down on me, lyrics hitting the air like buckshot. A young woman stood in the doorway. Early twenties, Karen-sized. Her long hair flashed like black water. Sunlight kicked against her silver earrings and bracelets, and the eyelets of her steel-toed Caterpillar boots. Not to mention the diamond stud in her nose.
She jerked her head, nodding me in.
She wore fatigue pants and a ribbed white undershirt. She was eating Ben & Jerry’s straight from the carton, licking a mound of chocolate ice cream from the spoon, and she was chilly. Her nipples protruded like rivets through the clingy undershirt. She was, I surmised, the Jimsons’ daughter. Without a word she turned and walked off.
After a few seconds, realizing that she wasn’t coming back, I followed.
Ricky’s gold records formed a receiving line along the walls of the entry hall. To the left, a cavernous living room sported leather furniture and six-foot cacti. Above the mantel hung an original Georgia O’Keeffe. A white flower filled the canvas like the bell of a trumpet, green leaves spiraling behind it. Jimsonweed.
The rap music hammered the floor. The young woman kept walking.
‘‘Excuse me,’’ I called.
She was passing the kitchen, which led to another wing of the house. Spinning around, she pointed with her ice-cream spoon. ‘‘Ricky’s in the sauna.’’
‘‘I’m looking for P.J.’’
She kept spinning and walked away.
Though she dressed like a welder, her carriage was pure princess. It was the sway of her hips, the thrust of her chin, the cut of her hair—like Pharaoh’s
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