by West, CJ
Charlie walked past three empty bays that he would soon fill with his first batch of sparkling. Right now, the wine was being jostled about on the ocean, heated by intense sunlight during the day, and cooled rapidly by ocean breezes at night. The temperature fluctuations would do irreparable damage. He feared customers would taste the flaws and his first commercial wine would be a blight on his reputation. He couldn’t drink thirty thousand bottles himself and destroying them meant admitting failure to his father. He consoled himself that he’d have nine million dollars tucked away when the wine arrived. He’d also produce several table wines before that sparkling was ever served. With luck, the sparkling would be soon forgotten. In the meantime, he’d consider ways to surreptitiously discard the entire batch.
He walked past several hundred bottles stacked upside-down in the final stages of riddling, ready to be chilled and disgorged any day now. He closed the heavy cellar door and turned for his office. From nowhere, a sharp pain flared in his ribs. A pink stain appeared on his tan shirt and he wheeled around, searching among the machinery for his assailant. Seeing no one, he clutched his side and felt for the door handle behind him. A burst of rapid-fire spitting noises came from the direction of the stainless-steel tanks. Two more painful spots appeared on his shirt and several paint splotches whacked the door behind him. Charlie covered his eyes with his forearm knowing the latex bullets were notorious for curving mid-air. A direct hit in the eye would be devastating. “Cut the shit,” he yelled toward the fermenters.
Randy emerged from the shadows with a neon-blue paintball gun. “Man, you’d be easy to kill.” His jovial voice and sarcastic smile belied the warning in his eyes that he was not only capable, but he would savor the final gruesome moments.
“I didn’t know we were at war.”
“The world is a dangerous place. Caution is your friend.”
“Unlike you.”
Charlie motioned toward the office, but Randy didn’t follow.
“I need your help.”
Charlie tugged at his shirt-tail to display the pink stains. “Nice way to ask.”
“Don’t be a wuss. I have a project to do. It’s a two-man job.”
Randy wasn’t one to give up when he wanted something.
“How long?” Charlie asked.
“An hour. Two tops.”
Charlie wasn’t eager to spend the day poring over old reports. He reasoned that Sebastian had run the winery for months and another day wouldn’t matter. Besides, he’d never seen Randy’s house. Curiosity overcame Charlie’s sense of duty and washed away his father’s words of warning. “Why not?” he said.
Charlie followed Randy out to the parking area looking for the Mercedes.
“I scared the shit out of you, didn’t I?”
“I’ll do the same for you someday so you can see how it feels.”
“Doubt it.” Randy opened the door to a beige box van, an odd vehicle for him. The inside smelled like a big rat cage that hadn’t been cleaned in months. There was scurrying in the back as the engine started and they pulled away.
“What have you got back there?”
“You don’t want me to spoil the surprise. Trust me.”
Randy drove the next twelve miles without mentioning their task or their destination. Charlie absently wiped the pink stains and wondered about Randy’s mysterious project. The tools in back hinted they’d be doing light construction. The smell gave the impression Randy had been working down by the docks. Charlie pictured him struggling with a hand saw in the slimy gravel beneath a fish house; rats scuttling around, gnawing at fish heads, and laboriously dragging long bony skeletons over slippery rocks.
Charlie grinned out his window. Outside he saw massive brick homes with one perfect yard after another. The lots were small enough to be considered a neighborhood, but large enough so you didn’t have to see your neighbors if you chose not to. It was the kind of place where doing anything yourself beyond planting a flower or two was frowned upon.
Randy pulled up a long paved driveway surrounded by manicured gardens and a row of twenty-foot pear trees on either side. The trees were covered with pink-tinged buds poised to burst into bloom. The house was a massive brick-front colonial with white pillars fronting a wide, slate porch. Behind the house, an expansive lawn gave way to scraggly dunes that sloped down to Buzzard’s Bay.
The van made a wide turn and forced Charlie’s view toward three similar-looking houses across the street. The occupants seemed to be hiding themselves from each other with strategically-placed landscaping. Charlie was curious to see what kind of people afforded themselves such luxury, but no one was in sight; not a gardener or pool man, not even a neighbor out walking the dog.
The clock on the dash showed precisely noon as the van backed up to the nearest of six garage doors. Randy pulled on a pair of supple black gloves and handed a pair to Charlie. When Charlie put them down, Randy picked them up again and thrust them forward with determination that was not to be denied. Charlie put them on knowing they were not to protect his hands, but his identity. This wasn’t Randy’s house after all. Father’s warning echoed again in his ears, “He’ll get you thrown in jail or killed, one or the other.” Charlie wished he’d listened now. He scanned the neighborhood again, this time checking the street-side windows for prying eyes.
Randy tapped a few numbers on a grey box hidden in the door frame and the garage door lifted open. Charlie hoped this wasn’t breaking and entering since Randy knew the combination. Somehow he knew better when he saw the SLR wasn’t inside. The three cars parked there were antiques, much too slow for Randy. The rest of the garage was pristine. There were no tools on the shelves and no speakers mounted anywhere. Definitely not Randy’s garage.
Charlie took the box of tools Randy passed him and headed inside. The garage led directly into a marble-tiled kitchen with four ovens and enough refrigeration for a busy restaurant. Charlie set down the toolbox and wandered further into the house. To the right was a pantry bigger than Charlie’s own kitchen. It was stocked floor to ceiling with neatly arranged packages.
Beyond was a separate room with a glass door. Charlie slipped inside and browsed through an impressive selection of wines. There was a wall of twenty to thirty-year-old ports, a smaller section of recent whites, and some impressive labels from France and Napa on the near wall. The atmosphere was ideal. Sixty-eight and a half, maybe sixty-nine degrees, not a breath of air and the humidity felt just right. The wine room and its contents were more valuable than Charlie’s house.
Several familiar foils caught his attention on the way out. He pulled one of them and saw the Marston Vineyards label. A 1996 Cuvee Charles Sebastian, named for Sebastian’s leadership in Westport. Surprisingly, Charlie found two cases by the entry. He closed the door wondering why someone with a cellar like that would drink an immature sparkling like Cuvee Charles Sebastian. Granted the winery was less than twenty minutes away, but this man had a massive wine budget. Unfortunately, he seemed to have more money than taste.
Through the kitchen and down a short hall, Charlie crossed a grand foyer and turned his back to the wide double-doors. A staircase curved upward to landings on the second and third floors. The tile was darker here to accentuate two ten-foot-tall sculptures, one against either wall, both in white marble. On the right, three attractive women embraced. They wore nary a strip of cloth among them, but somehow the group emanated a warm sisterly bond and wholesomeness, despite their alluring features and scanty attire. On the left, a lean older gentleman wore a light toga, clasped at the breast in his left hand. In his right, he clutched a rolled document. His wide scholarly forehead wrinkled as if he knew what Randy had planned and he didn’t approve. Charlie nodded respectfully as he left.
Off the foyer was a great hall. Charlie imagined scores of black-tie guests clustered around the artwork while a flawless classical piece played on the ebony grand piano. Charlie wound his way through the library and the dining room back to the kitchen. Randy had am
assed several boxes on the floor and was ready for work.
“What are we doing here?”
“This guy’s an old friend. The project’s a gag.”
Charlie waggled his black-gloved hands. “What kind of gag?”
“Listen, help me out and we’ll be done in thirty minutes.” Randy hoisted a fifty-pound bag of cracked corn. “Here.”
“What am I supposed to do with this? Eat it?”
Randy pointed to a wooden door that led to the basement. “Spread it around down there. Keep it out of sight.”
“What?” Randy wanted him to scatter chicken feed inside this house.
“Just go with it. Have fun. I’ll be down in a few.”
Charlie didn’t move.
“Dude, trust me. We’ve got a lot to do.”
Randy opened the door and gave Charlie a shove. The weight of the bag forced him down the stairs. He promptly dropped it when he reached the concrete floor. The string pulled away like a zipper and he stopped to listen as Randy’s footsteps trailed off toward the garage. Charlie guessed he was being abandoned here as some sort of practical joke. He scooped up a handful of dusty corn, watching the stairs, wondering what Randy had in mind, and listening for his return.
The cavernous basement was outfitted with shelves that broke the huge space into smaller areas, like rooms with translucent walls. It was entirely dedicated to storage, much of it empty. Charlie left the bag and browsed a section devoted to sporting equipment, golf clubs, fishing gear, even surf boards and scuba tanks. Charlie faced a dusty pair of swim fins with a handful of corn, unsure whether to go along and spread it around or head out before someone saw him.
Hurried footsteps raced down the stairs. Randy carried a blue torch and a pair of red-handled pliers in a green milk crate. He walked underneath a copper pipe until he found a coupling and then climbed on the milk crate, tools in hand. He lit the torch, heated the coupling, and then twisted it with the pliers. When he finished, he walked over, grabbed Charlie’s wrist, and dumped the corn on the floor.
“Stop standing around. We’ve got serious work to do.”
Randy kicked the milk crate over to another coupling.
Odd as it seemed, throwing corn in the basement was easier than confronting Randy and it seemed harmless enough. Charlie dropped one handful and then another. Mostly, he wandered and browsed the shelves, impressed at how new everything looked. Randy seemed satisfied that he was moving. He wandered into an entire roomful of patio furniture near a bulkhead that led to the backyard. There were fifty lounge chairs, a dozen tables, and as many umbrellas.
“You can leave big piles; just don’t leave them in plain sight. Put them in stuff.” The voice came from somewhere nearby, punctuated with muscled grunts.
“What’s this about?”
“I’m returning a favor. A big favor that’s long overdue.”
Randy shuttled from place to place with his milk crate loosening every copper coupling in the cellar then he hurried back upstairs. Charlie was only half finished with the corn when Randy returned with a drill and a case of Sprite. He chose to watch as he worked rather than ask what the drill and soda were for. After a while, hiding the corn was amusing and didn’t seem the least bit harmful. Charlie filled the swim-fins, several boots and old shoes, stuffed it in a dozen storage boxes filled with clothes. He was particularly pleased with the picnic basket, the old board games and the sleeping bags. When he ran out of corn, he walked over to get a closer view as Randy drilled half-inch holes just above the sill. As the drill made it through to the outside, Charlie realized only on the street-facing side of the house was brick. Randy was making his way around the other three sides drilling a hole every five feet or so.
Randy handed him a Sprite.
“Thanks, I’m all set.”
“It’s not for you, Moron. Shake it up and spray it in the hole.”
Baffled, Charlie held the can and stared at him.
“What’s in that, Charlie? Come on, think?” Randy glared defiantly.
His audacity was stunning. “It’s sugar and water, so what?”
Randy shook his head and went back to drilling.
Charlie turned toward the places he’d hidden the corn. The sugar would attract bugs, thousands of bugs, but they wouldn’t eat corn. He noticed a dark spot from one of the joints Randy had loosened. A drip had started on one side of the coupling. He wondered when the water would begin gushing out and turned back to watch Randy. The odd picture forming in his mind was going to get much stranger.
After the last hole was drilled, Randy shook up the soda himself and sprayed it through the holes. He emptied every can, coating the cement and the joists with clear, sticky foam. He carefully arranged the empty cans in the box, making sure he had them all, and headed for the stairs.
Charlie carried his empty bag and followed, shaking his head in disbelief.
Before he climbed halfway up, Randy returned with some wire and headed toward the furnace. Charlie turned and followed.
Randy mounted something against the wall with a single screw and pulled a thin blue wire and taped it to a small window. Then he went to work stripping some wires around the furnace.
“What’s with the wires?”
“We’re upgrading the heating system.”
Randy attached a wire to each zone valve and connected them all to the tiny device he installed on the wall. The solid wire against the window was an antenna. The other wires would bypass the thermostats in the house. Randy was installing a remote control capable of turning on the heat just as if the thermostats upstairs had signaled it was too cold inside. The hot water would flow through the valves and deliver heat to different areas of the house. From the way he was wiring it, Randy was going to turn them all on at once.
“You going to smoke them out?”
“It’s going to get hot. They’re going to sweat. Then they’ll turn down the thermostats and open the windows. When they do, I’ll freeze them in the middle of the night. It’ll drive ’em nuts.”
Charlie limped away toward the stairs.
Randy ran past him, up to the kitchen and returned with two large boxes. The faint scratching inside made it clear what the corn was for. It was food for the creatures inside the boxes. When Randy tipped them over, a mass of brown fur spilled forth and filtered throughout the basement. Charlie wondered where Randy had gotten so many mice. The pet store must have considered the purchase odd.
Randy ran past him again, up the stairs, empty boxes in hand.
“I’m going to the attic. Meet me up there, Hop Along.”
Charlie wondered what these poor people would notice first. Would the pipes burst? Would the mice scurry into a roomful of guests? Would they find the remote on the furnace after a hot, sleepless night?
He labored up four flights of stairs and found Randy nearly done in the attic.
Randy was cutting away the screen from the gable-end vent to let in any pest that could fit between the two-inch gaps in the slats. Charlie imagined a horde of insects followed by bats and a few small birds. Randy would have broken away the slats to let in a raccoon and a few squirrels, but that would have been too obvious. The way he was packing up everything and taking it out, he was hoping this would go unnoticed for a while. Randy’s gag was looking evermore sinister.
Charlie noticed little piles of sawdust here and there on the floor and when he saw the cause, he couldn’t believe it. There were holes drilled into the roof far enough to crack the asphalt shingles, but not far enough to make the holes obvious from the outside. Water would leak in, but no daylight showed through. The cause wouldn’t be apparent until they went looking for the source of the water.
“Randy! You ruined their roof. We can’t leave it like this.”
“The bugs need water or they won’t stay inside.”
“This is a three million dollar house and you’re trashing it.”
“That’s about what he owes me. With interest, probably more, but I’m factorin
g in stress.” Randy paused and nodded when he was done calculating. “Yeah, it’s about right.”
Randy handed Charlie the drill and asked him to carry it downstairs.
“I can’t believe you.”
“Fun, isn’t it?” Randy stepped back, gave Charlie an odd look then rushed away with a wide grin.
When Charlie made it back to the kitchen, the other tools were gone. He walked around the corner toward the sound of running water. Randy was urinating into one of the air ducts in the floor. Charlie couldn’t help but laugh when Randy gripped himself and ambled across the floor to another vent and started spraying it.
“You have to go?” Randy asked straight-faced.
“No thanks. I’ll wait.”
“Suit yourself.”
Charlie couldn’t help but watch as Randy ambled to a third vent by the piano.
“God, that’s going to smell.”
“Nothing like the fish I jammed into his mattress,” he said over his shoulder.
“Did I miss anything else?”
“Not much. I loosened the shower pipes so they’ll leak inside the walls. And I installed a remote on the doorbell.”
“Nice.” Charlie noticed a piece of paper on the counter with the name and address of an insurance company. Randy snatched it from his hands and led the way out through the garage.
“Thanks for helping out.”
“Man, I hope I never piss you off like this guy did.”
“Not possible. What he did can only be done once.”
They drove away, leaving the house looking as neat as it did when they arrived.
Chapter Sixteen
Jo Caulfield stood at the foot of the stairs wrapped in the aroma of freshly cooked bacon. In a smaller home, the scent would have permeated the entire house and drawn Bill down to eat. In these lavish quarters, Jo needed to call upstairs and alert him that breakfast was ready.
“Almost there, Jo,” came a hollered reply from Bill’s bedroom.