Hollywood and Vine - 21. Chapter 21

Hollywood and Vine

Strange things happen

The potato salad sat on the middle shelf of the refrigerator, its surface smoothed with the back of a spoon, flecks of paprika just beginning to bloom their color against the pale cream of the dressing. The kitchen held the lingering warmth of boiled potatoes and the faint, sweet bite of diced onion.

Johnny wiped his hands on a striped dish towel, glancing once toward the clock on the wall. The old landline rested on its cradle by the window—a glossy, black relic with a coiled cord that remembered every twist of past conversations. He lifted the receiver, the faint hum of the dial tone filling the quiet and spun the numbers with a deliberate rhythm.

On the third ring, a woman’s voice—bright, practiced—slipped through the line. “Stars Restaurant, how may I help you?”

“I’d like to make a reservation for five o’clock this evening,” Johnny said, his voice steady but carrying that faint edge of anticipation that comes before a special night.

“Of course. What name will that be under?”

“Day,” he answered, leaning one elbow on the counter, eyes drifting toward the refrigerator as though the meal already had two anchors: the one he’d made, resting in the cool, and the one yet to come, waiting in the golden light of Stars.

They lingered in the pool until the last track of Pet Sounds faded, voices and horns melting into the hum of early evening. The water was starting to cool, but neither seemed in a hurry to break the spell. Only when Sam glanced toward the darkening sky and smiled—wordlessly suggesting it was time—did they finally paddle toward the shallow end.

Climbing out, they left a constellation of wet footprints on the flagstone. The oversized towels waited like silent sentries on the lounge chairs. Johnny wrapped his around his shoulders, pulling it tight against the breeze; Sam raked his hands back through his hair, sending tiny droplets scattering onto the grass.

They carried the quiet satisfaction of the afternoon’s order—every box labeled and stowed in the garage, every stray object tucked into its place—up the steps and into the house. The shift from outdoor light to the softer, amber glow of the hallway lamps felt like stepping into another act of the evening.

Upstairs, the bedroom had the faint scent of cedar from the open wardrobe. Johnny stood before it for a moment, studying the line of hanging jackets, then reached for the black suit. The fabric had a subtle sheen, catching the lamplight as he slipped the jacket over his shoulders. The black shirt buttoned smooth and close, the white tie slicing a clean contrast down the center.

On the dresser, his fedora waited, brim sharp, crown molded with care. He set it on his head at a calculated angle, then slid on his dark glasses. The reflection in the mirror gave him a figure out of another era—cool, deliberate, with the quiet confidence of someone who knows exactly the statement he’s making.

Sam, beside him, was pulling on the same black suit, adjusting the knot of his own white tie until it mirrored Johnny’s. The glasses went on last, and when they caught sight of each other—two sharp silhouettes grinning back—it was like looking into a mischievous double exposure.

The laughter came without restraint, ricocheting off the walls, turning the moment into something bigger than fashion. It wasn’t just about looking the part; it was about sharing the part, owning the night together.

Johnny grabbed his wallet from the dresser, tucking it into the inside pocket. Sam reached for the keys, twirling them once before catching them in his palm.

As they headed downstairs, the house felt charged, as if the quiet domestic order of the day had been a prelude to this—two men stepping out in sync, a private joke stitched into their public debut. At the door, Johnny paused just long enough to glance back at the refrigerator, knowing the potato salad was still resting there like another small promise, before the click of the lock and the sweep of night air carried them out toward Stars.

Johnny’s voice carried that mix of mischief and certainty as he leaned against the doorframe, still in his black suit and dark glasses from their earlier mirror-laughing moment.

“I’m thinking of buying a Pontiac Trans Am,” he said, letting the words hang like the opening line of a plan already half in motion. “It’s a power car—and we’ll look so cool driving it.”

Sam’s grin widened, the image already forming: “The long, low hood with the firebird decal blazing across it, the deep growl of the V8, the way the sunlight would catch the glossy paint as they rolled down Main Street. Yes, we would be looking good!”

They rolled out through the quiet curve of their street, past gates with wrought‑iron scrollwork and low walls draped in bougainvillea, its magenta blossoms still vivid in the last threads of daylight. The road dipped briefly, revealing a sweep of L.A. basin ahead, rooftops catching the glow like scattered embers.

Johnny sat angled toward the window, one arm resting along the sill, letting the warm wind tug at the cuff of his jacket. They passed sleek houses with spotless glass fronts that reflected the setting sun, driveways lined with European coupes and the occasional vintage roadster polished to museum shine. Sprinklers whispered across emerald lawns, the scent of wet earth rising to meet the dry summer air.

As they merged into busier streets, storefronts began to stack closer together—boutiques with minimalist displays, art galleries lit from within like aquariums, the occasional neon sign flickering to life. Johnny caught glimpses of pedestrians in linen and silk, the clink of cutlery from sidewalk cafés, a couple pausing mid‑conversation to watch the black sedan glide past.

Crossing into Beverly Hills, the palms along the boulevard rose like sentinels, evenly spaced, their fronds silhouetted against a wash of pink and indigo sky. Glass facades along Rodeo Drive shone like jewel cases—Rolex green beside Cartier red, gold‑leaf lettering on doors that swung open to perfumed air. Through it all, Johnny let his eyes travel from one fleeting vignette to the next: a valet jogging to open a gullwing door, a woman in a sequined dress laughing into her phone, the curve of a sports car disappearing down a side street.

By the time Sam eased them toward Stars, the city felt as if it had set the stage—every light, every reflection conspiring to make their arrival part of the show.

The table was dressed in crisp white linen, the lamplight pooling warmly against the silverware. As Johnny and Sam sat, a waiter in a fitted vest approached with an easy smile.

“Water to start?” he asked.

“Yes, thank you,” Johnny replied.

The waiter poured steadily, the surface of each glass trembling before settling. “Your server will be right with you,” he said, setting two menus on the table.

Sam ran his fingertips over the embossed gold lettering. “Even the menus are dressed better than some people we passed on Rodeo,” he murmured with a quiet grin.

Johnny leaned back slightly, scanning the room over the rim of his glass. “Yeah, but no one here’s looking like us tonight.”

Sam smirked, glancing at his own reflection in the wine glass. “That’s because they don’t know how to commit to a look.”

The gentle rhythm of the restaurant wrapped around them: a low ripple of laughter from a booth, the muted chime of glassware at the bar, the faint scent of something buttery and rich drifting in from the kitchen.

Johnny tapped one side of his breast pocket where his sunglasses rested. “Think I should leave these on the whole time? Make ’em wonder?”

Sam shook his head, amused. “Tempting. But then they might not notice the tie.”

A soft laugh passed between them before they both opened their menus at last, the world narrowing to candlelight, paper, and the question of what the night should taste like.

Johnny flipped the menu open, the soft weight of the leather cover folding back under his hand. “Hmm… filet mignon, seared halibut, wild mushroom risotto…” His eyes flicked up briefly. “What do you think, Sam? Go classic, or surprise the palate?”

Sam’s gaze lingered over the hors d’oeuvres section, a faint grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Classic’s safe… but I’m in the mood to start with something decadent.”

The server arrived, tall and composed, notepad in hand. “Gentlemen, have we decided?”

Johnny closed the menu with a quiet snap. “We’ll start with a dozen oysters on the half shell… and the beef carpaccio, thin as you can make it.”

Sam added, “And for the main course—halibut for him, lamb chops for me.”

“Excellent,” the server said, pencil moving swiftly. “Any cocktails to begin?”

Johnny glanced at Sam, then back to the server. “Two Manhattans. Rye, not bourbon. Up, with a brandied cherry.”

Sam nodded in approval. “And make them cold enough to leave a frost ring on the glass.”

Outside, the city pulsed. Inside, the table held its own quiet gravity—two plates, two men, and the rhythm of a night unfolding in layers.

The server’s smile deepened. “I’ll see to it.” He slipped away, leaving them in the warm hum of the room, menus gone, the promise of oysters, carpaccio, and perfectly mixed cocktails hanging between them.

Johnny tipped his glass of water toward Sam. “Here’s to the opening act.”

Sam returned the gesture, eyes glinting. “And to the encore we haven’t planned yet.”

The Manhattans came first tall, stemmed coupes with a fine mist of frost feathering their sides. The deep amber liquid caught the lamplight, a single brandied cherry resting like a dark jewel at the bottom. The server set them down without a ripple, the faint scent of rye and sweet vermouth already curling upward.

Johnny lifted his glass, turning it slightly to admire the thin ring of frost at the rim. “Cold enough for you?” Sam teased, though his own grin said the answer.

One sip, and the quiet warmth bloomed spice from the rye, a hint of oak, the gentle bite softened by the rich sweetness of the cherry.

Then the hors d’oeuvres arrived in graceful succession:

Oysters on the half shell nestled in crushed ice, their briny liquor glistening beneath shards of lemon and a tiny ramekin of mignonette.

Beef carpaccio fanned thin as silk, ruby red against the plate, drizzled with peppery olive oil and scattered with curls of parmesan and a confetto of micro‑greens.

Sam reached for an oyster, tilting it to his lips in one smooth motion, the ocean’s salt and chill waking the palate. Johnny followed suit, savoring the sharp kiss of vinegar in the mignonette.

“Now that,” Johnny murmured, setting the shell back in its bed of ice, “is the right way to open a night.”

Sam speared a sliver of carpaccio, the olive oil catching the light. “Consider it the first verse,” he said, raising his fork as though to toast, “before the chorus really hits.”

The Bus boy took away the empty plates and made room for the Mains.

The server returned with the mains, his movements still fluid, unobtrusive. He placed Johnny’s lamb chops with a quiet nod—three thick-cut ribs, seared to a caramel crust, resting against a bed of rosemary-scented potatoes and charred broccolini. A drizzle of pomegranate reduction traced the edge of the plate, dark and glistening.

Sam’s halibut arrived in contrast—pan-roasted, its skin crisp and golden, perched atop a swirl of leek purée and a scatter of spring peas. A lemon Beurre Blanc pooled gently at the base, catching the light like silk.

Johnny inhaled, the scent of rosemary and char rising like memory. “They didn’t hold back,” he said, picking up his knife with reverence.

Sam smiled, already cutting into the halibut. “Neither did you,” he said, nodding toward the lamb. “That’s a commitment.”

Johnny shrugged, but his grin betrayed him. “Some nights call for it.”

They ate in companionable silence for a moment, the kind that doesn’t need filling. The lamb was tender, the pomegranate sharp against the richness. Sam’s halibut flaked perfectly, the lemon brightening each bite.

Johnny paused, watching Sam lift a forkful, the steam curling upward. “You always go for the clean lines,” he said softly. “Even on the plate.”

Sam looked up, eyes steady. “And you always go for the story.”

Johnny’s smile was slow, thoughtful. “Maybe that’s why it works.”

Around them, the restaurant moved at its own elegant tempo—but at this table, with frost on the glass and the taste of the sea and rare beef still on their tongues, the night was already underway.

The server had just cleared the last trace of the lamb’s rosemary and the halibut’s lemon silk when the desserts arrived—a chocolate torte so glossy it seemed to catch the candlelight in waves, and a dish of vanilla bean ice cream crowned with curls of candied orange. The coffee followed in small porcelain cups, the dark surface rippling once under the pour before settling.

They were mid‑exchange about the best stretch of coastline for an autumn drive when a shadow leaned briefly across the linen.

The man was somewhere in his sixties, his grey‑streaked hair combed neatly back, the charcoal suit fitting him with the ease of habit. His smile was cordial, but there was a watchfulness beneath it.

“You must be Johnny Day,” he said, voice carrying just enough to be heard over the hush of the room. “I would like to give you this script.”

He placed a slim envelope on the table, its cream stock faintly embossed, as though it had been handled with care—or perhaps rehearsed in the passing.

Johnny’s fingers stayed where they were, cradling his coffee cup. A flicker of something—annoyance, restraint—passed behind his dark glasses.

“This is a poor time to give me this, sir,” he said evenly. Then, after the smallest beat, “By the way, what is your name?”

The man’s smile didn’t falter, but it thinned at the edges. “Charles Carrington,” he said, the name carrying an old‑money lilt, as if it had been spoken often in wood‑panelled rooms and written in an elegant hand on heavy stationery.

Johnny gave a single nod, his expression unreadable. “All right, Mr. Carrington. I’ll keep that in mind.”

Carrington glanced at Sam, offered a polite tilt of the head, and with that, he eased back from the table, disappearing into the low light and linen‑soft murmur of the room.

Sam’s gaze dropped to the cream envelope still lying between their coffee and the untouched torte. “So now it has a name,” he said quietly.

Johnny let his fingers rest near the script but didn’t reach for it. “Names can wait,” he murmured. “Dessert can’t.”

Sam smiled faintly, the tension in the air giving way to the aroma of coffee and chocolate. Around them, the restaurant’s tempo resumed, as if Charles Carrington had been only a passing note in their night’s score—one they could choose to return to later.

They leaned back into the warmth of the moment. Johnny cut a forkful of the torte, the bitter depth of the chocolate blooming against the sweetness of the candied orange. Sam’s spoon drew a clean path through the melting vanilla, each bite softened by the quiet steam of coffee between them.

Inside, the house held that stillness of a place left in perfect order. Johnny stepped in first, the faint leather scent of the envelope in his hand. He laid it carefully on the entry table, as if its contents might shift of their own accord, then hung his jacket on the back of the chair by habit.

The kitchen light pooled softly over tile and steel. Sam opened the refrigerator, and the potato salad sat there exactly as they’d left it—its covered bowl a small, waiting promise from earlier in the day.

Johnny crossed the room, sliding the script just far enough onto the counter that it caught a sliver of light. “Two things on ice tonight,” he said, nodding first to the fridge, then to the envelope.

Morning light slanted in through the kitchen window, pale and angled, catching on the rim of Johnny’s coffee mug. The cream envelope from the night before sat on the table beside his plate, its flap neatly slit now, the pages within loosened from their long press.

Sam was at the counter, slicing bread for toast, the soft scrape of the knife against the board filling the comfortable hush.

Johnny drew the first few sheets into the light; the title stamped in bold: KRAKATOA. The paper smelled faintly of ink and whatever quiet places scripts wait before finding their readers.

His eyes moved over the opening scene—ships in the straits, the distant hiss of steam, the sky already carrying something unnatural in its color. He turned a page, thumb resting on the margin, gaze narrowing as if mapping the rhythm in his head.

Sam glanced over his shoulder. “Well?”

Johnny let the paper settle against the table, still open to the second page. “Big story,” he said at last. “Bigger than I expected.”

The toaster clicked behind them. Steam rose from the coffee. Outside, the day went on, unhurried—while in here, between sips and bites, a new possibility had quietly come ashore.

Morning light angled across the kitchen table, Johnny’s coffee steaming beside the loosened stack of pages. The title—KRAKATOA—was still bold across the top, but the first scenes held nothing of fire or ash.

“They start three days before it happens,” Johnny said, eyes moving steadily down the page. “Whole port going about its business like the mountain’s not even there.”

Sam sipped his coffee, nodding. “Makes the loss sharper. Let you feel it first.”

Johnny smiled faintly. “Dutch traders bickering over spice shipments… a botanist pressing orchids… a fisherman teaching his kid to mend a net. It’s everyday life—small acts that’ll mean more later.”

Sam leaned back. “That’s your kind of storytelling. Build the world first.”

Johnny’s glance flicked toward the refrigerator as Sam rose to make toast. “Potato salad still in there?”

“Of course,” Sam said over his shoulder. “And it’s staying there till the barbecue tonight.”

Johnny smirked, flipping another page. “Fair. Wouldn’t want to rob the evening of its opening act.”

Sam set down the toast, sat opposite, and tore off a piece. “So how’s it read?”

Johnny tapped a paragraph. “It’s a slow tightening. You can feel it coming, but the characters can’t. Like a fuse burning in daylight.”

They ate toast and sipped coffee, Krakatoa resting between them like an unfinished sentence, the potato salad waiting patiently in the fridge for its own moment under the night’s lights.

Johnny smeared a stripe of deep‑red jelly across the warm toast, the butter beneath it softening into a pale sheen. He took a slow sip of his coffee, the steam curling up into the morning light, then bit into the toast, the sweet tang of fruit breaking against the faint salt of the butter.

Sam glanced at the motion, then back to the open script between them. “Fuel for analysis?” he teased.

Johnny chewed, swallowed, and nodded toward KRAKATOA. “Can’t chart the end of the world on an empty stomach.”

The script’s first pages still showed a port town caught in its unhurried days before the eruption—market traders haggling, children chasing one another between stalls, the volcano’s green slopes watching in silence from the horizon. Johnny tapped the margin with one finger, smirking faintly. “They have no idea what’s coming.”

Sam reached for his own coffee. “That’s the point, isn’t it? Let it get under your skin before it blows.”

The refrigerator hummed softly in the background, the potato salad waiting untouched for the barbecue that night—one more quiet constant in a morning that held both the comfort of routine and the rumble of a story unfolding on the page.

Johnny skimmed the last line of the page, then pushed the script forward just enough to make space for the phone. He scrolled through his contacts, the sunlight shifting on the table as Sam rinsed his coffee cup at the sink.

After a few rings, the familiar click and voice came through. “Hello?”

“It’s me,” Johnny said, his tone a notch brighter, almost conspiratorial. “Listen—Violet, I need you to come over now. It’s important. And bring your swimsuit.”

There was a pause, long enough for him to picture her eyebrows arching on the other end.

“I think you’re going to love this,” he added, the corners of his mouth curling as if he’d already imagined the moment she stepped through the door.

From the counter, Sam glanced over his shoulder, catching just enough to raise a curious brow. “This about the barbecue tonight?”

Johnny covered the mouthpiece and grinned. “Sort of. You’ll see.”