Death in a Wine Dark Sea

by Lisa King

  “The whole point is to keep this thing quiet,” he said. “Too many people already know about it.”

  “But he can help us. And I swear I won’t tell another soul.”

  Zeppo thought about it. “What does he do for a living?”

  “He’s a freelance book editor.”

  He gave her a look. “So when you’re in a jam, you call an editor?”

  “Roman’s also one of the founders of Bash Back.”

  “Self-defense for gays and lesbians, right? They’re supposed to be tough.”

  “They are tough. Roman teaches martial arts. I’ve taken several of his classes.”

  “OK, give him a call,” Zeppo said.

  Jean took the offered phone and dialed. “Hey, Roman,” she said when he answered. “We just talked to one of the suspects, a man named Travis who runs a high-dollar counterfeit wine scam, and now his partner is following us. A big guy named Felix who used to be a boxer. I’m afraid if we lose him he’ll just pick us up later. What should we do?”

  “Do Felix and Travis have alibis?”

  “Supposedly they were across town together at the time. We have to check it out.”

  “Sounds as if a warning is in order,” Roman said. “Where are you?”

  “Near Van Ness and Union.”

  “OK, stay put. I’ll call you when we’re in position. What’s the phone number?”

  She told him. “Who’s ‘we’?”

  “Trust me.” He hung up.

  In about twenty minutes Roman called back. Zeppo’s phone played the opening bars of The Ride of the Valkyries.

  “All right, Jean,” Roman said, “remember that small clearing in the Presidio where we sometimes have lunch? Can you find it in the dark?”

  “Of course.”

  “Let Felix follow you there. Get out of the car and go through the clearing to the path that leads into the woods. Walk for fifty yards or so and wait until I tell you to come back.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Nothing very illegal. Now get moving.”

  Jean explained their orders as they drove to the decommissioned army base that encompassed several hundred acres of wooded open space at the northern tip of San Francisco. She drove deep into the Presidio, past houses and former military buildings to a wild, heavily forested area. Traffic was light once they got off the main road, and occasionally she caught a glimpse of Felix’s car behind them.

  Finally they turned down a narrow gravel road that ended at a small grassy clearing surrounded by pine trees. When Jean shut off the engine and headlights, the only illumination came from the gibbous moon overhead. Traffic sounds filtered through the brush that completely hid the road. Roman had to be somewhere nearby, but she could see no sign of him.

  “How do you know this place?” Zeppo asked.

  “Roman and I eat lunch here sometimes when we cycle through the Presidio. It’s really pretty in the daytime.” She heard a car door shut nearby. “That must be Felix.”

  “OK, let’s go,” he said.

  They followed a narrow path that led through the clearing and into a grove of trees where the moonlight barely penetrated. Jean cursed her heels, which sank into the soft ground. When they’d gone only a few feet, she grabbed Zeppo’s arm and pulled him into the woods and back toward the clearing, stumbling on tree roots in the dark.

  “We’re supposed to keep going on the path,” he whispered.

  “I don’t want to miss the show.” Jean found a spot behind a dense bush where they could see the clearing yet remain hidden. “Isn’t this exciting?”

  “Sure, if you like being scared shitless.”

  “Shh!” Jean heard someone walking along the gravel road. In a few moments Felix appeared at the mouth of the clearing, moving cautiously, staying close to the trees. As he stepped onto the grass, two men in black clothes slipped out of the darkness, one in front of Felix and the other behind him.

  Roman, facing Felix, held a revolver. “Clasp your hands behind your head,” he ordered. The man did as he was told. Roman’s companion, a wiry man with a ginger handlebar mustache and shaved head, patted Felix down, reaching into his pants pocket to withdraw a large folding knife. He handed it to Roman, who put it into his own pocket. Jean recognized the man from Bash Back events—Nick Rigatos.

  Nick nudged the back of Felix’s knees with his foot. “Kneel down.”

  Jean pushed through the brush into the clearing, Zeppo following. “Nice work, fellas,” she said. “Thanks.”

  Roman nodded. “Felix, I hope this will teach you not to underestimate how devious Jean can be.”

  Felix looked angry and unhappy. “What do you want, asshole?”

  Roman flicked the man’s ear with the revolver. “I simply want your attention.”

  “You’ve got it.”

  Jean took a few steps toward him. “Why were you following us?”

  “Eat me, bitch.”

  “Mind your manners, Felix,” Roman said. “If you don’t answer my friend’s questions, I’ll be forced to resort to violence.”

  Zeppo came up beside Jean. “What were you going to do to us?”

  “I thought you were having an outdoor screw.” He gave an ugly grin. “I wanted to throw a little scare into you.”

  “Did Travis put you up to this?” Jean said.

  Felix made a disgusted noise. “That pussy-whipped wimp? Nah. You’ve got him scared good.”

  “Listen carefully, Felix,” Roman said. “If you follow them again or harass them in any way, Jean will contact the media regarding your counterfeit wine operation. If you harm either of them, you and Travis will have the police and my entire organization on your backs.”

  “Oh yeah? What organization might that be?”

  “Bash Back. Have you heard of us?”

  “Sure. You’re that bunch of hard-ass pansies.”

  “That’s correct, Felix,” Roman said softly, putting the muzzle of the gun against the man’s neck. “So do we have an understanding?”

  “Yeah, I’ll leave them alone.”

  Roman took a step back. “Good. Now on your way.”

  Felix unclasped his hands and stood up. There were dark stains on the knees of his pants. “What about my knife?”

  “I’ll find a more suitable home for it,” Roman said.

  Felix turned and stomped out of the clearing.

  “I think he’ll stay away,” Roman said to Jean and Zeppo. “But keep your eyes open.”

  “We will,” Jean said. “By the way, I’ve neglected to make introductions. This is Jay Zeppetello. Zeppo, meet Roman Villalobos and Nick Rigatos.”

  “Named after the dumb, handsome Marx brother, are you?” Roman said as they shook.

  Zeppo grinned. “Yeah, but I’m neither.”

  “What’s on the agenda for the rest of the evening?” Roman asked.

  “We’re going to Sputnik, a nightclub south of Market, then Zeppo’s dropping me at Peter’s and going straight home,” Jean said.

  “I’ll follow you as far as the nightclub,” Roman said.

  “OK. I’ll phone you tomorrow, Roman,” she said, hugging him. “And thanks again.”

  Jean and Zeppo walked out to the Jag and got in. “Wow,” he said. “That was intense. I guess calling an editor was a good idea after all.”

  “Roman has all sorts of useful skills.”

  “What’s Nick’s day job?”

  “He’s a nurse.”

  “I bet that comes in handy. OK, partner, it’s party time. Let’s go to Sputnik.”

  Jean drove out of the Presidio, Roman following, and turned south toward Sputnik.

  CHAPTER 16

  The nightclub occupied a converted warehouse in the trendy part of the South of Market neighborhood, not too far from the Museum of Modern Art. The club’s theme was kitschy science fiction, and a plump silver spaceship with a tail of orange cartoon fire surmounted the lime-green neon “Sputnik” sign over the door. Jean took off her jacket
and a leering bouncer let them both in after carding Zeppo.

  The cavernous interior, equal parts Flash Gordon and early Star Trek, was hung with rockets and satellites, and the huge dance floor was painted with a swirling silver and black pattern. The young, straight, overwhelmingly white patrons and indifferent club music weren’t Jean’s idea of a good time, but she had to admit this was an attractive, welldressed crowd; the bouncer had done his job.

  “We’ll split up,” Zeppo said as they looked the place over. “I’ll work my way over by the dance floor and you go that way, near the bar. You know what to do?”

  “Sure. Find out if anyone like that little blonde ever worked here. Look for a guy with spider-web tattoos. Talk to Simon Emory.”

  “Got any money?”

  “Not much.”

  “I’ll give you some. Tip heavily. And try to keep a low profile.” Zeppo took out his wallet and looked through it. “I’ve only got twenties. Let’s buy a couple of drinks and get change.”

  They made their way toward the long curving bar, where patrons on futuristic stools and waitresses carrying shiny silver trays kept several bartenders busy.

  Men turned to watch and made appreciative noises as Jean passed. She glanced back and saw Zeppo looking pleased with himself—she was doing a little inadvertent ego-building. She didn’t mind; he could certainly use it.

  At the bar Zeppo ordered a draft beer and Jean a mojito. There were several wines by the glass listed on a board, but here the bottles might have been open for days. Zeppo gave her an assortment of bills and headed for the dance area. Jean sat on a stool next to the service station, hoping to strike up a conversation with a waitress or bartender.

  In a few minutes a waitress with spiky dark hair and a short silver-and-black Jetson-style uniform came up to the station near Jean. “Hey, Rudy,” she called to a bartender. “I need a pitcher of cosmos.” Jean picked up an Eastern European accent.

  Jean smiled at the waitress. “You worked here long?”

  The woman smiled back. “A few months.”

  “I’m looking for a waitress job,” Jean said. “What’s the boss like?”

  “Pretty cool, and the tips are good.” She set four glasses on her tray. “But I don’t think he’s looking for anyone right now.”

  Rudy put a pitcher of icy pink liquid on her tray and she was gone. Jean looked him over—young and dark-skinned, with short brown dreadlocks and a lean face. His long-sleeved silver-and-black T-shirt hung loose on his bony frame.

  “Can I have another mojito?” she asked him.

  “Sure thing.” He mixed the tall drink and set it in front of her.

  She took a sip. “Mmm, that’s good. You’re an artist, Rudy.”

  “Thanks,” he said, grinning.

  “So Rudy, how about you? Worked here long?”

  “Almost a year.”

  “You like it?” she asked.

  “It’s pretty OK. At my last job I had to wear roller skates.”

  “That must have been a challenge. Where was that?”

  “Retro place in Hollywood.”

  “Where else?” Jean took another sip. “Hey, last time I was here I had a great talk with one of the waitresses,” she said. “We were going to have lunch sometime, but I lost her number and I can’t remember her name.”

  “What’d she look like?”

  “Petite and slender, with light blond hair and blue eyes. Russian, I think.”

  Rudy lost his grin. “Don’t know her,” he said. He walked down the bar and began washing glasses.

  At the end of the bar a man wearing what looked like a good Italian suit flipped through a stack of receipts. A tall black bartender hurried past Jean and gave the man a paper. “Here you go, Simon,” the bartender said. This must be Simon Emory, the owner. Time to make something happen.

  As the bartender hurried back, Jean made her move. She grabbed her drink and deliberately slipped off the stool into his path, colliding with him. She planted her left foot but somehow fell off the heel and went down, spilling the mojito all over her dress. Shit. All she’d wanted was to bump into the guy to get Emory’s attention, not end up soaked and embarrassed on the barroom floor.

  “Whoa,” the bartender said in alarm. “Hey, I’m really sorry.” He took Jean’s hand and pulled her up, grabbing a stack of napkins off the bar to wipe at her dress.

  “I’m fine, really,” Jean said, taking the napkins from him. “It’s my own fault.”

  The man at the end of the bar approached her. “Are you all right, Miss?” he asked. He had an intelligent, conventionally handsome face and looked to be around forty.

  “Just a little damp,” Jean said.

  “That’ll do, Jack,” he said to the bartender. “Get back to work.” The bartender left and the man turned back to Jean. “I’m Simon Emory. This is my club.”

  “I’m Jean Applequist.”

  “Delighted,” he said, taking her hand and kissing it. “I apologize for Jack’s clumsiness.” He smelled good, like expensive cologne. His eyes were an unusual shade of light brown, his well-cut hair darker brown. She would have found him attractive, but his jewelry was a tad too flashy and his unbuttoned shirt showed a little too much chest hair. On the other hand, he’d beaten Martin Wingo at his own game.

  “No problem,” she said. “I wasn’t watching where I was going.”

  Simon was looking her over, too. “May I buy you a drink?”

  “Sure.”

  He led her to the bar and she spotted Zeppo nearby. He gave her a thumbs-up and faded into the crowd.

  At the bar Jean ordered another mojito and swabbed ineffectually at her dress with cocktail napkins. The bartender brought Simon a cup of espresso without being asked.

  “I haven’t seen you here before,” Simon said. “How do you like it?”

  “It’s a fun place,” Jean said. “The décor’s very imaginative. You own some other clubs, don’t you?”

  “Yes, three on the Peninsula and one in Oakland.”

  “Do they all have the same outer-space theme?”

  “All but the one in Palo Alto. It’s got live cabaret music and a French wine list.”

  “I’ll have to check that one out.” Jean looked more closely at his hair—pale roots were just starting to show.

  “Are you interested in wine?” he asked.

  “Very. I write for Wine Digest.”

  “Really? I often read it. I’ll have to watch for your byline.”

  A hostess interrupted them. “Sorry, boss. The cashier needs some twenties.”

  Simon sighed with annoyance. “Duty calls,” he said to Jean. “It’s my own fault—I don’t believe in delegating anything important. Perhaps we can continue this fascinating conversation some other time.”

  “I’d like that.”

  He took a business card from his wallet and gave it to her. “I look forward to hearing from you, Jean.” He kissed her hand again and followed the maître d’ through the crowd.

  As soon as Simon was out of sight Zeppo slipped onto the stool next to her. “You OK?” he asked.

  “I’m fine. I wouldn’t have fallen if I’d been wearing different shoes. But at least I met Simon Emory. Pretty smooth guy. I didn’t have time to ask him about the blond woman, but he wants me to call him. Did you come up with anything?”

  “Yeah,” Zeppo said. “She worked here as a waitress. Name’s Oksana something. She quit a few weeks ago, must be right after talking to Martin. No one’s seen her since. Dated a bartender named Spider. He quit around the same time.”

  “Looks as if they took Martin’s money and ran,” Jean said. “Hey, did you see the bartender I was talking to? He clammed up when I described Oksana.”

  “Oh yeah? Let’s find him.”

  She got up and adjusted her stiffening dress. Simon stood near the door looking through the reservation book. Jean and Zeppo threaded their way through the crowd toward him.

  “Excuse me, Simon,” Jean said. “Where�
�s Rudy? I owe him a tip.”

  “He stepped out to make a phone call. Should be right back.”

  “Well, thanks. I’ll call you.” Jean said. She and Zeppo walked back into the crowd. “My dress is all sticky.”

  “We’ll come back another night,” Zeppo said. “Where does that guy get off, kissing hands like that?”

  “Probably trying to pass himself off as a gentleman.” Jean got her jacket from the coat check and they went out into the cool night; the line to get in was much longer now. Jean glanced around warily but didn’t see Felix lurking anywhere.

  They’d parked nearby, just off Howard. As Zeppo unlocked Jean’s door, a young man stepped out of the darkness. The short dark stubble on his head showed a seriously receding hairline. A black bar pierced his eyebrow and he wore a black T-shirt with “Rhino Fitness” written on it in yellow. Underneath, his exaggerated build was the kind that came from hours at the gym. Jean thought of a description of the young Arnold Schwarzenegger she’d read somewhere: that he looked like a condom full of walnuts. Most interesting of all, spider-web tattoos covered his forearms.

  “Why were you asking my friend about Oksana?” he demanded.

  “It’s what I said. I couldn’t remember her name,” Jean said in what she hoped was a placating tone.

  “Bullshit.” He took a step toward them, his hands in fists at his sides. “Your buddy here was asking about her, too. If you know where she is, you better tell me.”

  “Hey, just a minute,” Zeppo said. “Why would we be asking about her if we knew where she was?”

  The man looked less sure of himself now. “So why do you want to find her?”

  “I’ll level with you,” Zeppo said. “We’re looking into Martin Wingo’s death. We know Oksana saw him right before he died. You were there, too. We want to know what they talked about.”

  “Why? Are you a detective?”

  “No, I used to work for Wingo. Oksana came to see me but I wasn’t there. I’m Zeppo.”

  Recognition flickered in his eyes. “Yeah?”

  “What’s your name?” Zeppo asked.

  “Spider Brandt.”

  “Why don’t you tell us why she went to see Martin? Maybe we can help each other.”