by Julie Thomas
He looked up at her out of the corner of his eye and grinned. It was definitely a game day. ‘I keep a pipette in my pocket.’
She emitted a short laugh and covered her mouth with her hand to smother it. ‘I’m not sure that’s the most flattering term for it, my darling.’
He popped another ball into his mouth. Round one to him.
‘And here’s me about to compliment your salted caramel. I’d pay real money for this one.’
Vinnie’s cart was built like a miniature gypsy caravan, with a side that opened up, shelves that folded out, and big hooks on the poles that supported the roof. A sign read ‘Vin Extraordinaire’ in a flowing script, and the contents on display included decorated wine glasses, books, wine stoppers, corkscrews, wine racks and more. It was an extension of his real job – sourcing and supplying fine wine to wealthy clients – but he enjoyed it and he made contacts.
Anna’s cart stood next door, identical in structure. Her sign read ‘Anna’s Chocolate Pot’ in the same script, and her wares were edible and delicious: handmade truffles and chocolates, racks of chocolate bars, moulded shapes in chocolate, dipped fruit …
A couple strolled slowly across the piazza towards the two stalls. The man was older and the woman was a trophy.
Vinnie stood up and smiled broadly at them. ‘Morning, my lovelies. Would you like to try a really unusual chocolate?’
They gave him a confused shake of the head. He put down the tray and picked up a pack of cocktail mats, painted with wine bottles and grapes. ‘Genuine china, Italian-made. Very classy, good value, too. Only a tenner.’
The busty blonde took them from him. ‘Gosh, feel ’em, Ronnie! ’eavier than they look.’
‘Aren’t we all, my lovely? Special treat, for today only: they come with a song. Where else would you get service like that?’
The painted fingernails clinked against the china as she turned them over. Her companion picked up a book on French wine and looked at Vinnie.
‘Does this come wiv a song?’ he asked.
New money, desperate to impress, reads wine magazines, wants a top-class cellar and doesn’t know a cork from a screw cap – Vinnie’s bread and butter. He shrugged dramatically.
‘Go on, you’ve twisted my arm.’
The blonde held out the mats towards her husband.
‘I really like ’em, Ronnie. They’d go beautiful on that new coffee table – it’s Italian, too.’
She turned to Vinnie and smiled sheepishly. ‘Cost a lot more than a tenner.’
Vinnie winked at her. ‘Worth it, though. Is it marble?’
‘Yeah, it is! How’d you know that?’
He shrugged. Hooked.
‘You look like someone who knows the best when she sees it. Italian marble, it’s the best.’
Her husband hesitated and nodded. ‘Go on then, the book and whatever it is Barbara wants for her damn table. But I want that song.’
Vinnie beamed, took a card from his top pocket and handed it over. ‘If you ever want any help sourcing fine wine, sir, I’m your man. Vinnie Whitney-Ross, best labels, best prices.’
The man took the card gratefully and read it. Landed.
‘Thanks very much, Vinnie. I’ll be in touch.’
Vinnie spread his arms wide and sang the first verse of ‘Little Ole Wine Drinker Me’ a capella in a rich baritone voice. At the conclusion, he took the blonde’s manicured hand and raised it to his lips. She gave an excited giggle, and the few people who had gathered applauded.
‘Gosh, you should be inside, busking with one of ’em CD players.’
Anna wagged her finger at the woman. ‘Oh, stop encouraging him!’
The blonde turned and glared at her. ‘Don’t be mean, he deserves encouragement. Thank you, Vinnie, for being so lovely and singing to me.’
On a late winter evening Vinnie and Anna strolled hand in hand through Richmond Park. Gently rolling green hills flowed in every direction as they walked along a dirt track towards a stand of bare trees, the branches stark against a leaden sky. Anna carried a dog lead in her free hand, and Vinnie a plastic bag in his.
He was now forty-six, still a muscular, heavy-set build. He smiled and laughed easily, people warmed to him quickly and he liked to be the centre of attention. Part of this was that old defence mechanism: if they laugh with you, they won’t laugh at you. He had a soul that loved music, art and wine, with a performance flair that Anna had brought to life.
The fact that she didn’t have a maternal bone in her body had surprised him, as she was empathetic with most people, and kids were naturally drawn to a chocolatier. She had remained firm on the issue, though: she didn’t mind his past, she was available, but having children was not on the agenda. Motherhood meant sacrifices she was not prepared to make. She had three siblings and three half-siblings, but never saw any of them, so nieces and nephews were not on the agenda either. He found it amazingly easy to agree, and they came to a compromise that suited them both.
The newest compromise bounded up to them, his tail wagging furiously, a chocolate Labrador puppy called Merlot. It was the one name Vinnie had suggested that didn’t immediately sound like a wine label. They stopped and both patted the dog with obvious affection, then watched as he raced off. Deer were grazing in an open field, and their heads shot up in alarm as Merlot ran between a stand of trees.
‘Are you at the club tonight?’ she asked.
He nodded. ‘For a while. Why don’t you join me and I’ll treat you to a curry?’
She hooked her arm through his. ‘You spendthrift, you. I could be persuaded to do just about anything for a prawn korma.’
The Golden Circle was an underground supper club and cocktail lounge, with a loud atmosphere, lots of coloured lighting and, occasionally, clouds of dry ice. At one end of the elongated space, tables and chairs were scattered around the periphery of a packed, under-lit dance floor. An enormous mock-candle chandelier swung above the dancers. The five-piece band played on the slightly raised stage, and music boomed from the speakers, which were partially hidden by heavy velvet drapery. At the other end of the room, people were drinking and flirting, clustered around a circular gold-coloured Perspex bar. One long wall was lined with deep booths filled with men in ill-fitting suits conducting business hidden from view.
Vinnie sat at a table and sipped a glass of cranberry juice as his gaze swept from the dance floor to the bar and back again. He supplied the wine for the club and had an informal arrangement with the owner, David Kelt, which meant he spent three nights a week chatting about wine and encouraging people to try the more expensive bottles. He found new clients among the patrons on a regular basis, and it allowed Kelt to advertise a discerning wine list. Vinnie could also spot trouble before it erupted and give a wink to the bouncers, who sorted it out. Kelt knew he was an observer, a wise and experienced head who had made it to the peaceful harbour of an honest living.
Anna was squeezing her way through the crowd of people. As she reached the table, he stood and kissed her.
‘So sorry, my love,’ she said. ‘Traffic was crazy.’
She sounded stressed and tired. He rubbed her arm, pulled out a chair and she slumped gratefully into it.
‘You’re in perfect time, she’s the real star.’
He indicated towards a redheaded woman, dressed in a fringed jacket, jeans and cowboy boots, busy lowering the microphone and preparing to sing.
‘Oh, please! How many dying dogs and abandoned lovers can she fit into a three-song set?’
Vinnie laughed. ‘Darling, you’d be surprised. Do you want a drink?’
‘Is it one of yours?’
An affectionate glance of understanding passed between them.
‘Absolutely, only the best for our VIPs. With an obscene mark-up.’
An elegant brunette put her bony hand on Vinnie’s shoulder and leaned down to whisper in his ear. ‘Mr Kelt wants to see you in his office, as soon as you’re free, sir.’
Vinnie nodded a
nd stood up. ‘I’ll just get Anna a drink.’
‘I’m quite capable of looking after myself!’
Vinnie winked at her. ‘It won’t hurt him to wait, and I’m supposed to be encouraging the clients to drink.’
‘But they’re supposed to pay for it,’ she said to his disappearing back.
Vinnie stood in the open doorway. David Kelt sat behind an antique mahogany desk and wrote figures into a black leather notebook with a Montegrappa fountain pen. He was taking obvious care to write slowly and create perfectly rounded numbers. Vinnie liked the man, who was in his late sixties, rotund, with a thick head of grey hair, an impressive moustache and a face flushed by the regular intake of fine wine.
The thin brunette was stacking several bundles of banknotes into a very full wall safe, and when Vinnie coughed the woman rapidly closed it up, punched numbers into an electronic keypad and swung an oil painting back against the wall, covering the safe.
‘You wanted to see me, David?’ Vinnie asked.
Kelt closed the notebook, looked up and smiled broadly. ‘Hello, Vin. Got time for a drop of the good stuff?’
‘Always!’
Kelt motioned for the woman to leave as he went to the sideboard and poured two glasses of red from a delicate crystal decanter.
‘It’s that ’85 Grand Vin Château Latour, from the auction. A great year.’
Vinnie sat down and accepted the wine. His eyes glistened as he held the glass up to the light. God, I love my job, he thought to himself.
‘Thank you. Indeed it was! A very hot, dry summer. Harvest was between 30 September and 11 October, with light rain between 4 October and 9 …’
His voice trailed off and Kelt smiled and cocked his head to one side.
Vinnie shrugged with embarrassment. ‘I have that kind of brain, David. When I read about harvests, tasting notes, reviews, it just sticks.’
‘Good God, don’t apologise. It must be something of an advantage. I’ve been meaning to ask you: Israeli reds, any you’d recommend?’
Vinnie raised an eyebrow. ‘One or two. Why?’
‘I tried a Syrah at a dinner party. Seahorse, or something like that. Rich, very intense, peppery even. I thought it was a real surprise.’
Vinnie nodded and sipped the wine. ‘Dear Lord, that’s good!’ he exclaimed. He took another sip, let it roll around in his mouth, and then swallowed slowly. ‘One you should definitely try is the Flam brothers, from the Judean Hills of Upper Galilee. Golan is a Master of Wine, and Gilad is the businessman. Their father, Israel Flam, was the chief winemaker for Carmel, Israel’s largest winery. He was a pioneer in Israeli winemaking, and the boys are a credit to him. Superb reds. Merlot reserve, Cab Sav reserve, but the star is the Syrah – just exquisite.’
Kelt took a long sip of the wine and also savoured it. ‘Maybe a mixed case? To start.’
Vinnie nodded. This departure from a lifetime devotion to French reds was something he had been trying to foster. There was so much more to sample if he could just get his clients to take a chance. ‘Excellent! I’ll drop it around tomorrow night. Nice to see you experimenting.’
Kelt beamed at him and raised his glass. ‘Live dangerously, Vinnie. Your palate will thank you.’
It took Ronnie and Barbara two days to get back in touch after their purchases at the market. Vinnie’s website, also called Vin Extraordinaire, listed his services, and among them was a page called ‘Wine Match’. If you were having an important party, anniversary, birthday, wedding, product launch – any event where quality and flair were important – you gave him your menu and he suggested exciting and impressive wines matched to each course, and, naturally, supplied everything he recommended. He offered bubbles, red and white wine, boutique beer and non-alcoholic choices, and could match any cuisine.
Ronnie and Barbara were having an anniversary dinner party for clients and friends, and they wanted wine that would surprise.
Vinnie sat on an over-stuffed sofa and scrutinised the menu Barbara had just handed him. She was wearing a one-piece lounge suit in a very loud bird print, a vivid green turban, a stack of thin gold bracelets on each arm and two rings on each of her fingers. Vinnie couldn’t help but wonder what knock-offs he would have been able to sell her in his former life.
‘So, Vinnie, what you think of the food?’ she asked anxiously.
He looked up at her and shook his head with genuine surprise. ‘Beautiful, my lovely.’
She smiled, the relief rippling across the part of her face that wasn’t botoxed. ‘I chose it from all the lists ’em caterers sent round. But their wines were all French. Ronnie wants some of that new stuff everybody’s talkin’ about.’
Vinnie nodded. ‘New World. Australia, New Zealand, Chile, Argentina, South Africa, America.’
‘Really? All ’em countries make wine? Well, I never.’
‘I think you should go with some of my favourites, from New Zealand. That trio of salmon to start? The roulade and the vodka-cured salmon in particular need a crisp, strong, gutsy wine … a lovely Marlborough Sauvignon Blanc.’
She watched him with a mixture of fascination and thinly veiled desire. ‘Got any samples?’
He winked at her. ‘Of course. In the car. Got any smoked salmon?’
She smiled and touched his knee with her long green talons. ‘Of course. In the fridge.’
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
DAVID KELT
David Kelt was a very good client of the Lanes. Tobias had loaned him the money to buy his first club, and David had paid back the debt on time and with interest. When he had decided to expand, he had raised the issue with Norman and discovered that the interest rate had trebled. After a couple of days of thought, he went back to Norman with a proposition.
‘I need a capital injection and you need an efficient laundromat. I have a very good system in place, sending money offshore and bringing product back which is sold for clean, legitimate profit. I can give you several references from satisfied customers.’
Norman puffed on his cigar while he considered how to make the deal work for him. ‘What do you want for this service?’ he asked.
‘A lower interest rate on my loan.’
Norman nodded. ‘I think we can make this work, David. How about you open one of your famous bottles of wine and we start talking percentages?’
The end result was the Golden Circle and a very successful money-laundering system. Kelt brought Norman potential contacts and received a ‘finder’s fee’ along the way. This symbiotic relationship worked well for several years, until the manager of the Golden Circle decided to retire in mid-2011.
Kelt had one major flaw: he had a roving eye, and his current squeeze was a young brunette with ambition. She decided she wanted to run the club and, if Kelt didn’t agree, she’d take her favours elsewhere. She was intelligent, attractive, witty and an extremely good lover with no desire to get married, someone he really didn’t want to lose. So he agreed to her demands and set about teaching her how to run the club. To his surprise she proved to be an excellent learner. By February 2012 she had mastered all aspects – staff, ordering, cashing up, booking acts and running the illegal high-stakes gambling in the back room. There was only one thing about her he didn’t know: she was also sleeping with Marcus Lane’s 2IC, Tom McGregor.
‘He runs a really good legit business,’ she said as she lay next to Tom in his bed.
‘So, there’s no creaming off the top before he pays us?’
‘No, not at all.’
‘What about the money-cleaning side of it?’
She frowned. ‘He does all that himself.’
‘In his head?’
‘No, in his notebook.’
Tom rolled onto his elbow and looked at her.
‘What notebook, sweetheart?’
‘He has a black leather notebook. I searched his desk to see if I could photocopy it for you, but it’s always in his pocket. He writes numbers in it – dates, amounts, bank accounts.’
Tom smiled and pulled her towards him. He kissed her passionately. ‘Good girl, that’s very interesting.’
Vinnie sat in his car and watched people walking down the wide pavements. Some were exercising dogs and others were hurrying home, laden with carrier bags or briefcases. He could see yellow beams of light from cracks between curtains in several of the bay windows. The cars were expensive, shiny, almost daring someone to try and break into them. Mayfair at twilight was a beautiful sight. This was the London he loved, peopled by those who knew how to enjoy the finer things in life.
He sighed deeply and turned to Merlot, who sat on the passenger seat beside him. ‘How many wine cellars do you think there are in this street alone, boy? How many bottles of Pétrus just waiting for a corkscrew?’
He rubbed the dog’s head, then opened the car door and pulled himself out. The black Mercedes was a hatchback. He lifted the boot and picked up a cardboard case of wine, held it under one arm and slammed the boot shut. David Kelt’s house was a semi-detached Georgian three-storey mansion, elegant and perfectly maintained. The door was painted black, and the handle was brass that shone like gold. Kelt answered almost as soon as Vinnie rang the bell.
‘Vinnie! Come on in. Eliza’s away for the night, so I have the house to myself.’
Vinnie followed him into a black and white tiled entranceway. A wide oak staircase rose to the upper floors.
‘Delighted to see you branching out,’ Vinnie said as he put the box down on the floor. ‘I’ve got some stunning New Zealand reds, too – Central Otago Pinots and Waiheke Island Bordeaux blend. I know I harp on, but I’d love you to try a couple. Some of them are up with second-growth Bordeaux.’
Kelt laughed. ‘Baby steps, Vinnie. Let me get my head around the Middle East before I go any further south.’
‘Fair enough. Shall I take them down?’
Kelt leaned over and pulled a bottle from the box. ‘Leave one up here – I’ll try it later. The rest can go on the south wall. And do a little checking for me, if you wouldn’t mind.’