Astrid dodged streaming puddles after Jonte dropped her off in North Beach, a couple blocks from Chinatown. The Gris-Gris Club, much like the Magnussons’ home, sat upon a steep hill. Here, cable cars braved the foul weather, climbing Columbus Avenue, but she’d heard on the radio that tomorrow it may not be running for long: the cable car turnaround at the bottom of the hill was on the verge of flooding too deep for service. The rain was spoiling everything. Only two of her old friends had agreed to brave the weather to meet her tonight, and now she wasn’t even sure she felt like being out herself. She’d originally suggested they all meet here at Gris-Gris because her brother supplied their liquor, and their family was friendly with the owner; Winter had even met Aida when she was doing a spiritualism show here a year and half ago, before he started knocking her up left and right. Normally the streets would be lined with cars and a long line would have formed around the unmarked speakeasy.
