River Rules

by Stevie Fischer

  “It’s taking up like all your time. Get more help if you can.”

  “Already on the to-do list. Marco’s going great, and there’s hope for Paco.”

  “Have Marco tell Paco to smile more at least. You’d think he could manage that, especially since you did a big favor by hiring him.”

  “Look, he runs hot and cold. Paco’s a good guy.”

  Ian hadn’t gotten back to Peter about the flash drive. Peter called him a few times but went straight to voicemail with no response, irritating the hell out of him.

  “Listen,” Peter said after the beep. “Just tell me if you got the flash drive to work. And if you don’t want to do it, man up and say so.” Finally, on Sunday, Peter called Andre to see what he knew about Ian’s radio silence.

  “Up at the retreat, again,” Andre said. “It’s a no-phone zone. But, if I didn’t know any better, I’d swear he met someone.”

  “Like a woman, you mean? Come on.”

  “I’m just saying. So what can I do you for? You wanna train?”

  “Nah, I just wanted to pick Ian’s brain about how to get hard-to-find information.”

  “I’ll help you—things are slow today. Who’s this for?”

  Peter had no problem trusting Andre’s search skills. Ian relied on Andre’s creative problem solving more and more after tasting victory with Zenergy.

  “You loved it, admit it, man. Let’s roll out a side hustle. You got the license, so you’re the face of the business. A butt-ugly face, but whatever.” Andre sense of purpose was palpable. “I’ll do back-office ops.”

  They had to overcome a high hurdle first because of Ian’s big mouth. When he publicly questioned the Bridgeville PD’s commitment to getting things right instead of finished, he pissed off more than a few people.

  “The Bridgeville police were lazy, quick to implicate and content with circumstantial evidence,” Ian said to a gathering in Peter’s honor at BIG. “Just because the attack happened the night Peter finished planting does not make him guilty Yes, he had blood on his hands and the shovel, but it was his own blood from being such a clod.”

  Peter winced. “Ian, no. Don’t say stuff like that.”

  “What, you’re a clumsy oaf?”

  Vic, who surprised everyone by showing up, cautioned him. “Hey, you ever heard of not biting the hand that feeds you?”

  “They don’t feed me anything,” Ian said.

  “Look, genius. You gotta get along to go along.” Vic jabbed a carrot stick loaded with ranch dip in Ian’s face. “If you want to work around here, you gotta get with the program. You just popped your cherry. Not exactly a track record, so don’t go thinking you’re such hot shit.”

  “I feel you,” Andre jumped in. “We could do some clinics for kids and Special Olympics that the cops organize. But,” he said, pulling a visibly annoyed Ian into a corner of the gym away from Vic, “we should take on some more cases.”

  “What a total wanker. Wait, we?”

  “We, you heard right. C’mon—it’s a guaranteed money-maker. And we did something good by getting Skippy put away.”

  “True.” Ian thought for a few minutes. “Right, why not? Let’s give it a go.”

  By year-end, Believe Investigations Group (BIG) came to life.

  “Hold on,” Peter said after hearing the name. “You guys are already BIG. Won’t that confuse people?”

  “Nah,” Andre said. “We already own the name and we gave ourselves permission to use it.”

  “Yeah.” Ian slapped Andre’s waiting hand. “We promised not to sue.”

  CHAPTER 37

  WHEN IAN FINALLY RETURNED FROM THE CATSKILLS that Sunday night after Tomassi set things in motion about Eautopia, he stopped by Andre’s. Finding Andre sitting with Peter at the dining room table, typing on his laptop and printing documents, Ian did a double-take and then lay down on the floor to do his favorite lateral rotation stretches.

  “Sorry, I was going to call you back, Peter.”

  “Yeah, well, Andre’s on it. Although, I still feel like this is more up your alley.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s kind of an unusual client—Mother Nature.”

  Andre chuckled at Peter’s phrasing. “Be good to mama and mama’ll be good to you.”

  “Right. How’s her net worth looking these days?” Ian asked.

  “Ha ha. Listen, I heard some water-bottling company called Eautopia is expanding into our area, and the Consortium is cozy with them. Basically, I want to find out if they’ve got a secret deal.” Peter pointed at Ian. “It’s probably on the flash drive, you know—the one you were allegedly working on.”

  “And I’ve been telling Peter no way in hell is there a deal to sell water from here. We’re in the middle of a bigass drought. I can’t find anything. Your source is wrong or at least he better be.”

  “I don’t think so. This is a pretty solid lead.”

  Ian leaned his legs against the wall and sighed contentedly. “Great hamstring stretch. Nothing like it.”

  Andre and Peter looked at each other and then looked at Ian.

  “Who the hell are you, man?” Andre asked.

  “Yeah.” Peter threw up his hands. “The world’s going to shit and you’re happily stretching?”

  “Maybe he’s finally right,” Andre said to Peter. “It’s the apocalypse.”

  Lori left a message for Peter on his cellphone. Then she texted him twice and sent an email. They all said the same thing: Call me—it’s important.

  Peter and Marco worked like dogs in the hellish heat. They grilled non-stop to give the long line of customers what they wanted. The steamy late-June weather created misery, with temperatures in the nineties and high humidity.

  “Glad I hit up Twitter last night to let everyone know we at the park today. Did Spanish and English shout-outs, so I’m like head of the United Nations and all.”

  “Mad skills, Marco.”

  “’bout time you knew that.” Marco took a rag and wiped down the countertop, trying to get rid of all the condensation.

  When they ran out of almost everything except for the ice-cold bottles of water and iced tea that the kids from the playground lined up for, Marco made another pitch for adding a Latin frozen treat called paletas.

  “What’s a paleta again?” Peter’s sweat ran in rivers down his face and arms. He couldn’t mop it up fast enough.

  “Like ice pops but a million times better. Not so sweet and got like real fruit not some high fructose corn syrup shit. Bridgeville’s got fruit everywhere. It fits nice with the whole local angle. You gotta give it a shot. Big fan favorite.”

  Marco still had some bounce in his step, but Peter leaned wearily against a tree. He couldn’t take it any more in the truck, so they parked in the shade at Abigail Adams Park. Some people approached the truck, but Marco had hand-printed a sign that said Sold Out and, below it in Spanish, No Mas. Peter hated seeing them walk away disappointed.

  “They got some crazy good flavors like piña colada, strawberry pineapple, blackberry orange, mango—you name it. Ima bring you one tomorrow.”

  “I could use a dozen of those right now.” Peter finally managed to reach into his pocket for his buzzing phone, and he quickly called Lori.

  “What’s up?”

  “It took you long enough. I texted you yesterday.”

  “Sorry, just finished the lunch. It’s so fucking hot that I can barely move.”

  “So take a shower when you get home, and plan on staying for dinner. We want to talk to you.”

  “Am I in trouble?”

  “Yes, no, maybe.”

  CHAPTER 38

  MARCO AND PETER HOSED DOWN THE TRUCK IN THE shade by the commissary. Aaron scrubbed it from top to bottom after they finished.

  By the time Peter got home, Brutus was waiting impatiently to play tug-of-war with his favorite rope toy. Peter tried to oblige but even Brutus could tell that he had nothing in the tank.

  The long cold shower he t
ook felt like a gift from the gods. Peter donned clean shorts and a T-shirt. Uncharacteristically for him, he gulped two glasses of water instead of beer.

  He drove over to Lori’s and Marti’s house, with Brutus half out the window. Brutus bounded in first to see if Murphy, their standard-sized schnauzer, wanted to wrassle.

  Marti ushered him onto the screened-in porch overlooking the fields, and Peter gratefully accepted a refreshingly cold and highly potent gin and bitter lemon, a cocktail they introduced him to.

  “OK, I’m practically human now. What’s happening?” Peter chewed on the slice of lime from his drink and kept it between his teeth, flashing a smile like Marlon Brando in Godfather Part 1.

  The women scooched together on the rattan wicker sofa and started to do what looked like a hula dance. When Peter couldn’t puzzle out what the hell they were doing, Marti and Lori beamed at him, holding up their left hands. “We’re getting married!” They waved their matching diamond engagement rings under his nose.

  “Hey, I get it now. Fantastic. Mazel tov—it’s about time, you two.” After kissing each one on the cheek, he sat up more attentively. “Tell me, when’s the wedding?”

  “I think you’re going to love this,” Lori said excitedly. “Try September 23, the night of the Harvest Moon.”

  “Don’t forget the Blood-Red moon and the eclipse.” Marti grabbed a chip out of Peter’s hand and ate it.

  “Oh, man—all at once? That’s perfect for the wedding of the century.”

  “Peter, we really want Great Full Bread to bake lots of gluten-free goodies for the wedding,” Marti said, going over to the table and grabbing a notebook. “Yeah, I’m in warrior planning mode.” Lori rolled her eyes. “Hey, I saw that. So, ‘no’ is not an option.”

  “Are you kidding? Y-E-S.” He looked at her spreadsheet carefully. “We’ll get all hands on deck.”

  “Terrific.” Marti wrote GFB at the left side of the catering tab. She had printed something else on the right side, but Peter couldn’t read it. “So, this is what we’re thinking: enough gluten-free bread, cookies, and apple pies for 150 people.”

  “What? All of your guests?”

  “No, I just meant that’s how many are invited. Figure 25 percent of them will go for the gluten-free option.” Marti used her phone calculator and said, “So 37.5.”

  “You’re inviting half a person? This I’d like to see. Who’s your caterer?”

  “Carmen.” Lori let the information sink in for a beat. “We’re doing it up at Fiori Orchards.”

  “Carm’s a helluva cook. Does she know about you asking me?”

  “She’ll be fine with it.”

  “OK, I better wear something loose because she’s so good that just thinking about this makes my pants too tight. What?” Marti and Lori cackled. “Grow up, you two. Talk about immature.”

  “Sooo, that’s settled.” They linked arms and moved closer to Peter.

  “Now what? I promise to behave. Carm and I are on decent terms even though I hear she’s dating some tycoon.”

  “That’s not it,” Lori said. “We want you to do the wedding ceremony. We would be thrilled if you would officiate. I checked; you can become a Universal Life Minister so it’s legal. Will you do it?” They hovered near him, waiting for his response.

  “In a heartbeat, absolutely. I’m so honored. Wow—maybe I can start my own religion, too. The right Reverend Russo. It’s got a nice shake, rattle and roll to it, don’t you think?”

  A few days later, Peter asked to sit down with them to discuss what they wanted in the sermon.

  “I really like calling it a sermon. Do you have any objections, my child?”

  “Whatever you want to call it, just make it good,” Lori said.

  “I love the whole Harvest Moon connection. It’s like a big valentine to the past. Farmers always depended on a good harvest moon.” Peter showed them a well-worn photo album his mother had made. “Look at my pops and uncles bringing in the harvest by the light of the moon.”

  “I know, we used to celebrate the Harvest Moon, too. It was like a ritual.” Lori tried to explain to Marti. “We’d go out into the backyard after dinner, build a small bonfire and just watch the sun and the moon in nature’s magic show. We could see the sun setting in the west while the moon was rising in the east. We pretended we were drinking moonshine.”

  “In Jersey, we celebrated not being killed in Newark or mugged in New York,” Marti said. “You guys had such charmed lives.”

  “Yes and no,” Peter said. “All the kids helped out with the harvest, and it took every ounce of energy and then some. When the moon came out Dad and the uncles would let us have beer. I bet your moonshine was ginger ale.”

  “So, since we’re committed to the Harvest Moon and Carmen’s orchard, apples are the theme.” Marti laced her fingers through Lori’s.

  “Fiori’s is a perfect place for an apple wedding.” Peter nodded appreciatively. “Tell me more. Are you guys gonna hyphenate your names or invent one? I love this stuff.”

  “If you are so into wedding plans, you’ve gotta get back up into the saddle, Pete.” Lori arched an eyebrow at him. “You are going to bring a special someone to the wedding, right?”

  “Yeah, Brutus. He’s my plus one—I’m in a committed relationship with him.”

  “Why not?” Marti shrugged. “It’s outdoors. What’s the worst he can do?”

  “You’re talking about a dog who thinks licking his balls is the ultimate. His life is all about a good bone, a good nap and a good dump.”

  “Don’t all males think that way?” Lori asked, squeezing Marti’s knee.

  CHAPTER 39

  FIORI ORCHARDS HOSTED A FEW WEDDINGS EVERY summer, and Lori had her heart set on getting married there. Yankee Bride Guide called the location, “an authentic and magnificent venue for a classic New England summer wedding.” With a bewitching charm, the orchard’s acres of mature apple trees graced the rolling hills overlooking the river and valley.

  Lori and Carmen had a mutual admiration society Marti happily joined when she and Lori got serious. Carmen’s benevolent dictatorship of Fiori Orchards extended to her idiot brothers. She paid them small salaries and basic benefits on the condition they butt out. After her divorce, she double-downed on improving the orchard’s profitability and community service outreach.

  Lori and Marti didn’t dare interrupt the epic Scrabble match between Aldo and Jimmy. With a wave, they made themselves comfortable on the patio under the big shade umbrella and waited for Carmen to finish a phone conversation.

  Carmen sighed after she hung up but rallied as she turned her attention to her friends.

  “We’ve got something to cheer you up,” Lori said. “Here’s the date we want. Tell me you don’t get the total greatness of our plan.” She handed Carmen a spiral-bound calendar from the golf course and pointed to a red circle.

  “I love it. September 23 is perfect for your wedding—the Harvest Moon. And it’s perfect for us, too. We stop booking after the 15th, but for you two, we’re wide open. Thank God, I scheduled the Bocce-b-que before Labor Day. I’ll have time to recover. Some of those old-timers can barely walk, but they play all-out bocce, booze it up and chow down like starving wolves. I’ll save you some grappa.”

  “Do they still do the whole roast pig plus every kind of pasta?” Lori, a veteran of Fiori family dinners, still could recall overeating to the point of nausea.

  “Yeah, we do the pig, brisket, turkey, lasagna, manicotti, calzone, eggplant parm; it’s insane, total gluttony. I would die if I ate a quarter of what they eat.”

  Carmen started to talk in a stream of consciousness monologue about what she envisioned as the most kickass wedding for Lori and Marti.

  “I see a huge white tent up on the ridge, a dance floor, a stage for the band, strings of twinkling lights, stunning floral arrangements, passed hors d’oeuvres, a three-course meal, and plenty of booze.”

  “Is that all?” Lori joked

&n
bsp; “No, just for you I’m making sure all of the toilets are working in the pavilion.”

  “Now that’s the ultimate wedding present,” Marti said, offering Carmen a high-five. “I’ve got the wine and bar covered.”

  “I made some dishes for you to try.” Carmen placed small plates in front of Marti and Lori. “Taste.” “Don’t tell me—stuffed zucchini flowers from the gardens? They’re gorgeous,” Lori dug into a plump blossom and moaned with pleasure.

  “Sinful.” Marti stole some off Lori’s plate. “I can’t decide if I like the cheese or meat filling better.”

  Carmen listened carefully as Lori shared what she and Marti wanted.

  “A rustic chic vibe,” Lori said, laughing as Carmen rolled her eyes. “Come on, you know what I mean. No fancy lace table linens and gold-plated settings. Picture this: long wooden farm tables set simply but with beautifully arranged white flowers in glass vases.”

  “Absolutely no pretentious bullshit. And a huge bonfire after the eclipse,” Marti added.

  “Terrific.” Carmen took notes on her iPad. “People could make their own s’mores or just sit. What about music?”

  “Astral Plane, our friend Sam’s cover band. They’re amazing.”

  “Yeah, terrific choice. Now, since you’re going with the apple theme, I want to do a signature cocktail, like an Appletini, but better. Then, I’m thinking a basic field green salad with ripe tomatoes and local goat cheese for the first course. For entrees, a choice of either grilled chicken or pork with apple salsa, chilled string beans vinaigrette and garlic roasted potatoes. Any vegans? And I came up with a great sour apple sorbet for a palate cleanser before you guys cut the cake. What do you think?”

  “Love it,” Lori and Marti said together. Then Lori brought up the baked goods. “You know Great Full Bread is baking all of the gluten-free bread and cookies. I already arranged it with Peter. He said it won’t be a problem on his end. What about for you?”

  “Of course not. We’re OK-ish. Rachel or Jeff will probably do the coordinating, anyway.”

  “He knows you’re seeing someone. Nancy told him, but I haven’t said boo. What about you, Marti?”