The Barbarous Coast

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THE CHANNEL CLUB lay on a shelf of rock overlooking the sea, toward the southern end of the beach called Malibu. Above its long brown buildings, terraced gardens climbed like a richly carpeted stairway to the highway. The grounds were surrounded by a high wire fence topped with three barbed strands and masked with oleanders.

I stopped in front of the gate and sounded my horn. A man wearing a blue uniform and an official-looking peaked cap came out of the stone gatehouse. His hair was black and bushy below the cap, sprinkled with gray like iron filings. In spite of his frayed ears and hammered-in nose, his head had the combination of softness and strength you see in old Indian faces. His skin was dark.

“I seen you coming,” he said amiably. “You didden have to honk, it hurts the ears.”

“Sorry.”

“It’s all right.” He shuffled forward, his belly overhanging the belt that supported his holster, and leaned a confidential arm on the car door. “What’s your business, mister?”

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