Chapter 6: My Partner's Family Tree Is Thicker Than the Menu
"Okay! I won't disturb your 'good habit' of ducking out early. Your new partner's name is Erin, right?" Trist asked Sean for his partner's name.
Erin, phone in hand, heard her superior say her name and quickly answered,
"Yes, I'm here, ma'am!"
"Good, girl! Next to you sits a man who thinks he's Jordan Belfort. When you finish eating, just slide the bill across to him—smoothly."
Trist gave Erin her instructions; everyone in the precinct knew about Sean's habit of throwing money around.
(The Wolf of Wall Street protagonist, famously rich and reckless with cash; Trist exaggerates to describe Sean's spending. Catchphrase: "I'm not leaving!" A symbol of both excess and the American Dream gone wild.)
"O...kay!" Erin replied with a grin, signaling she understood.
The call ended as the two reached their destination—Il Pastaio. Even Google Maps tags it as "Beverly Hills Italian Fine Dining."
Sean deftly parked behind the restaurant in a lot on Brighton Way.
A hostess dressed in an all-black suit, name badge on her chest, greeted Sean and led him inside; the dress code must be house policy.
In Beverly Hills, surrounded by wealth, the place had to keep its image polished.
Though there were sidewalk tables, Sean preferred dining indoors.
The décor inside felt warm: cream-colored globe pendant lamps, curved wooden chairs with lumbar support, white tablecloths, dishes, and matching cream napkins.
A single yellow rose completed the cozy atmosphere.
Seated, they were handed menus—one rustic wood-fiber, the other laminated—one for Sean, one for Erin.
Service was enthusiastic and attentive.
As soon as they sat, Rosie—her name tag said—smiled broadly and recommended house specials:
"First time here? Try the Pan-Seared Veal Scallopini or the Frutti di Mare—both are customer favorites!"
Sean thought her smile a touch rehearsed, yet the service was impeccable.
Rosie moved on to drinks.
Work loomed that afternoon, so they skipped alcohol and each ordered a San Pellegrino sparkling water.
In pricey Beverly Hills, a bottle of sparkling water at $8.50 felt almost reasonable.
Entrees were settled quickly:
Erin chose the signature seafood pasta—shrimp and shellfish tossed with linguine in a rich marinara sauce.
Sean picked the heartier-sounding Bolognese spaghetti.
Shrimp Scampi
Grilled Clams Oreganata
Pan-Seared Veal Scallopini
Italian cuisine leans seafood-heavy.
French food: huge plate, tiny portion, a swirl of sauce, one decorative herb sprig.
As for British food—sorry, Britain doesn't really do cuisine.
A server in white long-sleeves, black trousers, and a black bistro apron began bringing dishes.
Courses arrived in waves; while they waited, Sean and Erin chatted.
"Erin, what's your background? Ethnicity-wise?"
Sean asked, tearing off a bite of complimentary garlic-rosemary focaccia.
Crisp outside, soft within, fragrant—excellent.
Still savoring it, he spotted Rosie approaching with plates and an idea struck.
Without hesitation he pulled a twenty with Andrew Jackson's face and, as Rosie neared, slipped it toward her.
Rosie looked puzzled.
Sean pointed to the bread basket, lowered his voice, and said with a conspiratorial grin,
"If I can get another basket of these to take home, I'll be the happiest man alive."
Rosie's confusion flipped to instant understanding; she smiled knowingly and smoothly pocketed the twenty in plain sight.
"No problem, sir—consider it done," she answered crisply.
They shared a smile; everything was understood without words.
Dishes kept coming, and over them Sean and Erin continued their earlier topic.
Erin swallowed a bite and answered honestly,
"I'm Irish-American."
Sean nodded, comprehension dawning.
No wonder a woman like her became a cop—decent pay and benefits, sure, but high stress and danger too.
For the Irish, joining the force was practically a family tradition.
"So someone in your family's on the job?"
Feeling safe with her partner-cum-supervisor, Erin didn't hide a thing and replied candidly,
"My father works a desk job at Topanga Division, my uncle is SFPD. My ancestors immigrated here from Ireland during the mid-nineteenth century."
As expected—turns out Erin really does have family in law enforcement; classic Irish-American stereotype.
That explanation cleared things up for Sean, letting him map out Erin's clan. The root cause seemed obvious:
The Great Famine.
The potato blight.
Mass starvation.
—all thanks to British colonial policy!
Ask why and the answer is: Queen Victoria's government stood by while Ireland starved, choosing political ideology over humanitarian relief.
Erin's forebears must have arrived during the Potato Famine, fleeing Ireland's devastation. Most Irish-Americans settled in the Northeast—Boston, New York, Philly!
But decades have passed; people scattered everywhere, so serving in the Los Angeles Police Department is nothing unusual.
After all, for a nineteenth-century Irishman, the best shot at survival was:
'Get to America, work any job you can, and build a new life.'
And the achievement that best captures that Irish-American pride is:
'Work your way to the U.S. presidency and make sure Britain never forgets.'
Since Sean had asked about her, Erin grew curious why so many cops called him 'the rich kid' and pressed:
"Sean, what about you? And why does half the station call you Gatsby—shorthand for trust-fund baby?"
Sean, who had owned these memories for seven years and long since absorbed them, could chat breezily about family lore:
"My ancestors reached this land early, then trekked from the East Coast to the West. In 1848, after the Mexican-American War, they mustered out and joined the California Gold Rush—at least that's what the family story says."
"With that money they bought a huge ranch in Arizona; nobody knows exactly how much gold they found or how much land they ended up with."
Anyone fuzzy on U.S. expansion might miss why these events fit together.
America once held only thirteen colonies, all on the Eastern Seaboard; through war, negotiation, and purchase the government pushed west, so Sean's forebears likely enlisted and ended up on the Pacific side.
The 1848 Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo ended the Mexican-American War and gave the U.S. California, Nevada, Utah, and most of Arizona.
By chance, a carpenter named James Marshall spotted gold nuggets at Sutter's Mill in California, sparking the first Gold Rush—probably the window when Sean's family headed west to chase fortune.
"As for the gold, FDR probably confiscated it during the Depression!" Sean added.
He meant Executive Order 6102, issued by President Franklin Roosevelt in 1933 to combat the Great Depression:
'Individuals and banks must exchange gold for dollars; private hoarding is banned—ten years in federal prison for violators.'
"Civil War, both World Wars—my family was there, though only as junior officers, never generals. Today we just run our ranch in Arizona."
That blunt family history also explained, in passing, why Sean had money to burn.
If he had to sum up his clan in one phrase, it would be:
"One family's story, half of American history."
If a country song could tell that tale, it would go something like:
Dust and Gold
Rode out east with iron and lead, crossed the plains where the blood ran red. Found that color in canyon streams, built an empire on frontier dreams. Government came and took the shine, turned our gold into dollar signs. Fought their wars from Shiloh to France, now we're left with cattle and ranch.
After chatting with David at the station and taking Trist's call, Erin had nursed a question that felt too personal to ask—until curiosity overrode professional boundaries:
"Sean? Can I ask something? If it's too personal, just tell me to back off."
Sean, busy battling the Shrimp Scampi on his plate with knife and fork, guessed what was coming and answered casually:
"I'm an open book."
"I think you're a fascinating guy."
"Responsible!"
"Loaded!"
"Healthy!"
After several hours together she hadn't seen him smoke once, drink excessively, or show any red flags.
Sean knew she was building up to something and nodded to acknowledge the compliments.
He couldn't help wondering what came next; from the way she was buttering him up, he sensed:
She's winding up for the real question!
"Thanks for the kind words."
"So... why aren't you married—or even dating anyone?"
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