Cruel Vintage

by Huston Michaels

  “I’m glad that’s over,” she said.

  “You don’t do this every Saturday night, do you?” Kaye asked.

  “Oh, God no. Tasting dinners are only twice a year. One in the spring when the newly-pruned vines start to leaf out and one, this one, around harvest time. It’s kind of an appeal to the wine gods for a good vintage.”

  “Does it work?” Kaye asked, grinning.

  “Only time will tell. Sometimes the vines can be cruel,” she replied. She reached out and laid a hand on Kaye’s forearm. “Hey, I’ve got about thirty minutes of stuff I absolutely have to do tonight, but the rest can wait until tomorrow. If you have the patience, what say a girl buys you a beer after that?”

  Kaye looked around, then back at Auggie and said, “Do I know her?”

  She looked at him murderously for about three seconds, then burst out laughing. “Oh, the detective has a sense of humor! Good thing for him he’s so big, or I’d toss him out.”

  “I’ll wait,” was all Kaye said.

  Just under a half-hour later, after all the employees had gone, Auggie came back. She had changed clothes and now wore jeans, a t-shirt and black boots. Her hair was down and captured by a bright red bandana, and a motorcycle helmet hung by its strap from her fingers.

  “Okay, so how about that beer?” she asked.

  “What’ve you got?” Kaye asked

  “Not here, silly. I know this place in Solvang that has too many beers to count. If you can’t find something there that you like, you’re not trying.”

  “I’m in,” Kaye said. “Lead the way.”

  Auggie set the security system and led Kaye out the front door. She walked directly to the Street Glide and started putting on her helmet.

  “That’s yours?” Kaye asked.

  “Yep. Got it last year. Pretty much retired my car and van except when I need to carry stuff, or it’s foggy.”

  Kaye shook his head and smiled. She was describing him.

  “What?” Auggie asked.

  “Nothing,” Kaye said. “What’s the name of this place and where is it, in case we get separated.”

  She gave him directions and told him she’d meet him there, that she had to make a stop first but it would only take about two minutes.

  “I’ll be there,” Kaye said.

  Fifteen minutes later Kaye had parked and was waiting on the sidewalk outside a noisy Biergarten that occupied about half of a large, timbered structure off Solvang’s main drag.

  “Hi.”

  He heard Auggie’s voice from behind him and spun around.

  “Hope you haven’t been waiting long,” she said, grimacing slightly.

  “Just got here. Where’s your bike?”

  “Home. That was my stop,” she said. “I only live a couple blocks that way.” She pointed. “It’s an easy walk, so now I can have more than two beers if I want to.” She laughed.

  “Good plan.” Kaye pulled the door open. “Shall we?”

  The place was hopping. Thanks to Kaye’s massive size, he was able to shoulder through the crowd surrounding the fifty-foot long bar and find a small table in a relatively quiet corner.

  Over ninety minutes and two pitchers of very good Belgian microbrews, Auggie McMaster and Ben Kaye got acquainted and swapped stories.

  He told her about growing up in Wisconsin and joining the Marines to escape a strained relationship with his father, his time in the Marines, how he’d landed in Southern California after his early discharge, how he’d met Amy at Harley Charlie’s bike shop, about her writing, and her death in a motorcycle crash.

  “Oh, my God,” she said. “Ben, I’m so sorry. I’m almost embarrassed to admit I’ve never read her books, but I know who she was. I have seen the movies. What happened to the other driver?”

  Kaye looked at her and said, “I got him.”

  She told him she’d been married once, too young, that it hadn’t lasted and she was relieved there had been no children. She warned him it had made her a bit of a cynic when it came to men.

  She told him she was the third generation of her family to be born in the Central Coast area. In 1933 her great-grandfather had given up and abandoned his farm in Harper County, Oklahoma, after his infant daughter choked to death inside the house during a night time dust storm. He’d loaded up his family and, like many others, headed for California.

  “They were honest-to-God Okies,” she said. “Grapes of Wrath is my second-favorite movie, after The Wild One, and I always imagine that Henry Fonda’s Tom Joad is my great-grandpa, except he was never in prison.” She paused, then added hastily, “At least as far as I know.”

  She told him that her grandfather had also been a farmer, passing the family land along to one of her uncles. Lettuce and strawberries had never done anything for her, but she’d been fascinated by grape vines and grapes, and subsequently wine, since she was old enough to be aware of them, and that her only goal in life had always been to make great wines.

  “Until Valle delle Viti came along, I was doing great,” she said. “They slowed me down, but I’m not giving up.”

  He told her about his uncertainty about being a cop since Amy’s death, but that he’d finally accepted that it was what he was supposed to be doing.

  He told her about buying the ’51 Panhead Pan-in-a-Box that morning, how excited he was to have a project bike, and gave her the quick history of the ’41 and ’61.

  “Wow,” she said. “I wish I had that kind of skill set.”

  “I’ll teach you, if you teach me how to make wine,” Kaye said. “I’m assuming you still want to make wine again, right?”

  “I never stopped making wine,” she said. “They took my vines, but I still have all my equipment. I’m just using grapes I buy instead of grapes I grow, and, really, a lot of vineyards operate that way.”

  “But you want to grow your own.”

  “I do,” she said, and went on to tell Kaye about a sixty acre plot she had her eye on. It was still native vegetation, probably because it was a little steeper than many larger growers liked. “I snuck in at night and took soil samples. They were outstanding, and I figure I can eventually terrace the steeper slopes if I have to, without spending a ton of money. I have an option on it now, with about three months before my right of first refusal runs out.”

  “Think you’ll make it?” Kaye asked, idly wondering if she’d consider taking on a silent partner.

  “Yeah, absolutely,” she replied. “In fact, I don’t want to jinx it, but I’m really close. The restaurant has turned out to be a terrific investment. I’m way ahead of projections.”

  “Can I ask you a really personal question?”

  He caught her in the middle of raising her mug, and she stopped short of her mouth.

  “Sure,” she said. “I guess.” Then she took a big drink.

  “How’d you get the name Auggie? Honestly, you look more like a Giselle or Cindy or Naomi to me.”

  She snorted, choked on her beer, started to cough and grabbed a napkin.

  But she came up laughing.

  “I’m sorry,” Kaye said. “I didn’t mean…”

  “No, no, it’s okay,” she said breathlessly, wiping tears from her eyes. “I’m used to it, really.”

  She told Kaye her father, who had died less than a year before, had dreamed as a boy of being a history professor, but lacked the family resources to go to graduate school. So he became a cop. But he never lost his fascination with history and was especially interested in the Roman Empire.

  “I have two brothers and two sisters,” she said, counting them off on her fingers as she named them. “Marcus, Julius, Octavia and Livia. And I’m Augustina.”

  “So, why not Tina?”

  “I think that was actually Dad’s plan, because that’s what he always called me. It worked until the third grade. There was already a Tina in my class, and it confused the issue. Then the boys figured out that Auggie rhymes with doggie, the teacher heard them, and I’ve been Auggie ever s
ince.”

  Kaye suddenly felt compelled to tell Auggie about Roshi and the Zen monk’s belief that Kaye was the reincarnation of legendary 12th Century warrior-monk Benkei.

  That led to a discussion of Buddhism versus other religions. Kaye told her he meditated and practiced yoga, but didn’t really consider himself a Buddhist, that he was too western for that.

  “You do yoga?” Auggie asked, amazed. “At your size? Really?”

  “Yep,” Kaye said, and told her the story about discovering it after getting hurt in the Corps, and that it had led him to what he now considered to be his Path.

  “I’m impressed,” she said. “I’ve never even tried to figure all that stuff out.”

  “Not a church-goer?”

  She laughed and said, “I’d probably get struck by lightning if I tried to walk into a church. I am, after all, the namesake of a Roman Emperor. You know, the guys who crucified Jesus.”

  Kaye bit his tongue. After his recent experience in Aspen, he wasn’t about to start that discussion.

  Instead, he said, “Yeah, but Tiberius, not Augustus, was Caesar then.”

  “I’m impressed,” Auggie said, grinning. “You know, Ben Kaye, I’m sure glad you walked into my little grape juice joint. What was up with that, anyway?”

  “Good fortune,” he replied. “I’m working a case that might have a financial connection to Valle delle Viti. I visited, I got hungry, and voila, there you were. Great sandwich, by the way.”

  “A case connected to them?” Auggie asked, leaning forward. “Did you find anything?”

  “No,” Kaye said. “It’s a homicide case, and the victim was an investor. But after seeing how well the resort is doing, all I can say is that people who make money together are usually friends, not enemies, so I doubt there’s a connection. But I did have a run-in with the Chumash Oaks police.”

  “Please don’t call them the police,” she groaned. “That’s an insult to you and my Dad. Those people are thugs. Absolute thugs.”

  “I got that impression.”

  “Talk around the aging barrels,” she smiled, “is that they make a lot of sketchy, oh, what did Dad call it? You know, when they confiscate your property for being related to crimes?”

  “Civil asset forfeiture,” Kaye said, remembering Reid’s threats to confiscate his bike and cash.

  “That’s it. My memory is going, which means it must be getting late.”

  It was. Kaye looked around and saw fewer than ten other people still in the place.

  “Yeah, I’d better get going,” he said. “Two hours home.”

  “You could stay at my place.”

  Kaye looked across at Auggie.

  She looked back, and a second later he saw her eyes open wide.

  “Whoa,” she said, and Kaye saw a blush creep up her neck above the t-shirt. “Pump the brakes, turbo. I know we talked about families, religion and kids’ names, but I meant you could sleep at my house and ride home in the daylight. Separate quarters.”

  “Are you sure? About the invitation, I mean.” He felt himself blush.

  “I’m sure. I like you, Benkei,” she smiled and winked. “I just thought it would be better if you didn’t have to ride home in the dark after drinking beer.” Kaye saw the blush mount again.

  “I appreciate the invitation, Auggie, and normally I’d take you up on it. But first thing in the morning I have to pick up that old Harley I bought today. I have to get home, get my pickup and be back to Chatsworth pretty early. If I stay the night, I’ll never make it.”

  “Oh, okay,” she said, and Kaye could tell she thought he was blowing her off.

  “But can you send me a text real quick?”

  “Why –” she stopped and Kaye again saw her blush. “Oh, duh.”

  Kaye recited his new number and a second later he had hers.

  “I’m going to call you, you know,” he said.

  “You’d better, Strabler, or I’ll have Lee Marvin… all…over…your ass.”

  ***

  As he rode through Santa Barbara and Montecito on US 101 he couldn’t help but look up at the lights spread across the hills and wondered if any of them shone from the place where Nicole Ingram’s life had taken an unexpected, and ultimately fatal, detour.

  The ride home didn’t take any longer than usual, it just seemed like it to Kaye. He interpreted that as meaning he would rather have stayed in Solvang, and that surprised him. It had been a while since he’d felt that way.

  DAY 14

  Sunday Week 2

  Dog tired, Kaye still managed to keep his appointment to finish his transaction with Damion Spencer and pick up the Pan-in-a-Box. After unloading the big parts and boxes and stacking them in the garage, he went inside to get some lunch, and, after eating, promptly fell asleep on the couch.

  He dreamed.

  A fierce warrior, wielding two swords and dressed in odd armor, was after him. The warrior wore a helmet with large horns, but Kaye could see the face beneath and it looked, like the tattoo he’d seen on the woman at Black Scimitar, to be an odd mix of animal and human.

  He knew the warrior was samurai.

  No matter where he turned or how fast he ran, the samurai was always in front of him, waiting. It was then that he saw himself dressed in the same unusual armor, carrying swords.

  Realizing he could not escape, he decided to stand and fight. His father appeared and stood beside him.

  “Run, Ben. You’ve met your match. You can’t defeat this one,” Matthew Kaye said, then disappeared.

  The samurai came at him, his sword so fast Kaye could barely see it, and before the warrior delivered the killing blow he said, “You will die, Benkei. My Lord will be avenged.”

  The warrior was a woman.

  Onna-musha.

  Her sword whistled through the air and Kaye was suddenly looking up at his own headless body as it crumpled to the ground.

  He awoke with a start, drenched in sweat as he’d been when he’d heard the voice on Friday.

  The dream had been startlingly vivid and it took Kaye a moment to gather his wits.

  He had never dreamt his own death before, at least that he could remember, and wondered what it meant. He also wondered if he’d fallen asleep during his last shikantazi session and the voice had been nothing more than a dream fragment.

  He got up and headed for the kitchen to get some water, then stopped short.

  A piece of paper was taped to the French doors that opened to the patio.

  With the light behind it, he could clearly see Kanji characters.

  ***

  Two hours later Kaye passed through the gate of Kyokoku-Dera Monastery.

  This time he was blind to the view that opened before him and idled the Road King down the slope to the main building.

  Roshi must have heard him coming, because when Kaye had finished parking and got off the bike, the old monk stood on the top step, smiling.

  “I like your old, red motorcycle better, Benkei,” he said.

  “I will ride it next time, Roshi-sama, “ Kaye said, bowing slightly. “Forgive me, but I come to your home today without a gift.”

  “Your presence is gift enough, Benkei-bo,” Roshi said, returning the bow. “Come, we will walk.”

  The two walked slowly toward the pond. Kaye tried to figure a way to ask Roshi about the notes, the voice and the dream, but the master beat the pupil to the punch.

  “You are troubled, Benkei. Tell me, why have you come today?”

  They stopped. Kaye reached into his pocket and withdrew the three notes he’d received since his last visit to Kyokoku-Dera and handed them to Roshi.

  The old man read them silently, then looked at Kaye, perplexed.

  “You do not see the person who gives you these?”

  “No, two were left on my motorcycle, and that one,” he pointed, “was taped to my back door today. While I was home, but asleep. What do they say?”

  “Which is the first you received?” Roshi asked.


  “That one,” Kaye replied, tapping the paper.

  “It says, ‘Your presence is strong, Benkei. I sense you during zazen. Yoshitune is not here to protect you and the beauty of the falling sun will take your head’.”

  Roshi went to the next note and read, “Do not look for me, Benkei. I am a ghost. You will not see me until I decide it is time.”

  “And the one I got a little while ago?”

  “We meet soon, Benkei. Destiny. This time you will fall,” Roshi said, then glanced at the notes again. “It is also interesting that each note, while not bearing the name of the writer, carries the same hanko.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You would call it a seal, or a stamp of identification.”

  “Do you know whose hanko it is?”

  “No,” Roshi replied. “But I will see if I can find out.”

  Kaye was silent, considering the contents of the notes, then asked, “What does the beauty of the falling sun mean?”

  “I do not know,” Roshi said, “and I will not speculate. Why do you ask?”

  “Because I had a strange dream while I was napping. In it, a samurai used that phrase, and until just now I had no idea it was in the note,” Kaye replied. “I heard a woman’s voice threaten me during a shikantazi session when there was nobody near. Or maybe I fell asleep and dreamed that, too.”

  “Remember our talk of circles on your last visit?”

  “Yes, of course, but…”

  “But you do not believe.”

  “I’m sorry, Roshi,” Kaye said. “I don’t mean to insult you.”

  Roshi looked up at him and Kaye saw sadness in the old man’s eyes.

  “You do not insult me, Benkei. You insult yourself.” He started walking back toward the main temple.

  They walked without talking. Kaye felt he’d hurt the old monk, whom he loved like a grandfather, but didn’t know how, or even if, he could repair the damage. He thought about the notes, the voice and the dream, and came to the inescapable conclusion that Roshi was right. He didn’t truly believe. It was all a little too supernatural for him to buy into.

  They had reached the Road King when Roshi turned to Kaye.