Fredo's Dream: SEAL Brotherhood: Fredo

by Sharon Hamilton

  “Why not? He going to help us tomorrow?” Fredo asked.

  Zak nearly spit out his beer. “Hardly! Fredo, he likes to be in charge.”

  “He really has helped us quite a bit. Especially with some of the contract deals we’ve been negotiating,” added Amy. “Not everyone gets along with him, but they sure do respect him.”

  “How’s the rebuild going over at his place?” Coop asked.

  “Place looks like an anthill. He’s going to get a brand new winery out of it.” Zak took another sip of his beer. Fredo looked at the bottle carefully, squinting.

  “You serve me this stuff, and look what you’ve got. That’s your beer, Zak, right?”

  “It’s our test run of Frog Piss. Didn’t want to poison you. Not all the way happy with it yet. But hell, if you want one, you can have it.”

  “Holy crap, Zak. You’ve been holding out on us,” barked Coop.

  Zak brought out two green bottles with tan and green labels, the coat of arms being a bone frog with Trident spears. “This is pretty young still. It will get more mellow and more carbonated, and then it will be really good.” He handed a bottle to both of them, but Coop passed his back.

  “Coop, I didn’t think you’d pass up drinkin’ in your old married age,” Zak teased.

  “Nope. I’m the designated driver. If this one wants to go wine tasting, I drive. He’s not allowed.

  “Nothing wrong with my driving.” Fredo allowed himself to get slightly offended.

  “Just ask the others on the road, Fredo. This leaves more for you, my friend.” He handed the bottle to Fredo and then nudged it with his long fingers.

  “To Frog Piss,” said Zak. Everyone toasted, Amy and Coop with their ice water glasses held high.

  Fredo examined the label, “Because drinking pond scum is better than water.” He chuckled. “That’s your motto?”

  “Yessir. We got another one for the stout.” Zak jumped up and retrieved an envelope out of a desk drawer in the pantry, tossing it across the table to Fredo and Coop.

  Fredo opened the flap and pulled out a shiny black label with the white Punisher skull in the middle, glaring with red eyes. Beneath that was the name of the brew, Punish Yourself Beer. Fredo held it up. “Even better. This one’s a moneymaker.”

  “We’ve toyed around with lots of labels. Really having quite a good time. We’ve had contests on Facebook,” added Amy.

  “I didn’t know your hops could grow that fast,” said Fredo, taking another sip and then making a face. “Wow, that’s kinda bitter.”

  “No, we won’t be ready with our own hops until next year. These we bought,” said Zak.

  “Wait until you see the vines,” Amy started. “The rows are like walking in a giant cathedral. They go up nearly thirty feet tall. Hops grow like weeds around here.”

  “So can you sell this crop, or are you looking to go into beer production?” asked Fredo.

  “I guess a little bit of both. But we wouldn’t make much on the hops.” Zak looked at Amy. “She’s working with Zapparelli to help get the necessary permits. Luckily, we already had the zoning for the tasting room. But you have to get permits and inspections for every operation, from crush, to barreling, to brewing beer. But the hardest permit to get, and the reason this property was such a good deal, was because they already had the permit for the tasting room. They don’t just dish those out like candy. It’s controlled. And all the equipment and operation is heavily regulated and inspected.”

  “I think Zak’s a frustrated chemist,” Amy said, blushing. “He loves to tinker with the equipment.”

  All three SEALs laughed. “Oh, we know all about that,” said Coop, giving her red face a wink. “Fine tuning is our specialty.”

  “Hola!” said a booming voice from the front room. Into the doorway marched Mr. Marco Zapparelli himself, carrying two bottles of wine. “Gifts for the lady of the house,” he said, leaning down to give Amy a kiss on both cheeks. He presented her with the wine, which had a plain label, something scrawled in felt-tipped pen. Zapparelli appeared to have gained considerable weight.

  “Thank you, Marco.” Amy looked at the labels. “You’re experimenting again. Not sure I can read your writing.”

  “One is my blended Cab. Most of the fruit is from here, but I added about a fifteen-percent mixture from my Napa vineyard. This one,” he held up the second bottle, “is a blended Cab and Cabernets Franc. See which one you like best. We had some fun in the lab today.”

  Zapparelli grabbed a couple of jelly jars they used as wine glasses then returned to the table, pulling up a chair between Amy and Zak. Coop declined a glass, so the four of them tasted the two wines carefully. Zapparelli discussed the virtues of both blends and pointed out the wine’s character. Fredo could see they were getting a world-class education from the famous director. They’d given him a small glass to sample. He hated to tell them that both wines tasted the same to him. But then, he only used red wine to make Sangria at home. This was probably not the time to mention such things.

  “So…you come up here to work in the vineyard, yes?”

  Coop and Fredo nodded, along with Zak.

  “Just a little change of pace. We had a couple of days, decided to come up and visit, see how they’re doing,” Coop lied.

  “These kids have a good nose for the business. That, and they have a first-rate vineyard manager. I’m sad to say we had a falling out some years ago, so we can’t work together, but he’s too good to let go. They’ll win some awards if they are able to keep him.”

  “Amy tells us you are rebuilding. When do you open again?” Fredo asked.

  “Officially? We are fast-tracked for fourteen months from now, but it’s an ordeal.” He shook his head, staring down at the table.

  Fredo could see worry lines cross the director’s forehead. He decided to wait to see if there was something Zapparelli wanted to offer, so he wouldn’t have to pry. It didn’t take long.

  “The crime scene was horrific. I’m just now putting the images of those kids—” He looked off to the side, leaning into his palm, elbow braced on the table. “Horrible. Just horrible.”

  Fredo could only imagine. He’d seen similar things, and he was prepared in advance and trained to deal with it. But seeing innocent loss of life was never easy and always took a chunk out of a man’s stamina. When confronted with hell everyone deals with it differently, he thought. Zapparelli was a civilian and certainly not prepared for what he had to endure.

  “No one should have had to witness that carnage. No one. It will take time, and I warn you, some of it never goes away,” whispered Cooper.

  Zapparelli nodded, then focused back on Fredo’s face, breaking a broad smile. “Of course, nothing interferes with the harvest. Luckily, the fruit processing and fermentation tanks and bottling areas were untouched. But the restaurant, the bar and tasting room—unrecognizable. Gone.”

  “And your movie collection.” Fredo hoped it would jar him loose of the horrors he could see residing in the man’s head.

  Zapparelli shrugged with a kind smile. “For what they were insured for, I’m good with it. I also have a whole warehouse of old movie sets and props. Now I’m glad I was such a packrat. My wife had been getting after me to auction them off or donate them to a museum or my alma mater, UCLA. I will, after we make our final selections.”

  “Anyone from the Feds get in touch with you about the terrorist group?” Fredo wanted to know.

  “I’ve given up calling for updates. I think everyone feels it was a cell sent to do this. Or perhaps they just stumbled upon the children’s program.”

  “They gave you a letter first, didn’t they? A warning?”

  “My Head of Security got a call from someone and then a call from the Healdsburg police. No one believed it was going to happen.” He held his jelly glass up. “To your Elvis SEAL, who also was a mighty fine shot. Wouldn’t be here today enjoying this fine evening without that guy.”

  Coop and Fredo answered with
their own glasses, “To Jameson.”

  Chapter 8

  ‡

  ZAK AND AMY retired for the night. Coop talked to his kids via Facetime. Fredo could hear Gillian’s voice carry, echoing through the kitchen and all the way out to the patio. Coop was patient with her and it was fairly plain to see she adored him and vied for all his attention, giving her little brother as little airtime as possible.

  Zapparelli smiled. “Nice, isn’t it. Hearing them. Life goes on.”

  Fredo nodded. He was glad the man lived next door and had driven a Jeep the back way since Zapparelli had consumed quite a bit of wine. He was waxing eloquent sitting in the warm night air under the stars and a nearly full moon. The romance and feel of this place was soothing, full of magic. The grapes were bursting or fermenting in their stainless steel coffins. Coyotes were howling as if time stood still. It had been like this for generations here in the Dry Creek Valley.

  Coop was now whispering into the phone, chuckling to the sounds of his wife enticing him to just pick up everything and drive straight home.

  Zapparelli watched this too, appreciative. “How long’s he been married?”

  Fredo had to think. He leaned back in the rocking chair, peering at the stars, as if they held the answer. “I’m thinking maybe four years. Kyle was the first to get married, and then Coop met Libby soon after.”

  “You guys always been close?”

  “Right from the first day at BUD/S.”

  “What’s BUD/S?”

  “Basic Underwater Demolition/SEAL.”

  “No shit?”

  “The Navy isn’t known for their creativity, sir. It is what it is. But I can’t complain. It’s been a good life. And Coop’s been the best friend a guy could have.”

  “How come he doesn’t drink?”

  “He had an accident when he was younger and blames himself for the death of someone dear to him.”

  “I can’t add the number of cars I’ve totaled. Haven’t killed anybody, though.”

  “There’s still time,” Fredo winked, and both men chuckled.

  “They’re hell up here. Got a Federal prosecutor just to convict DUIs. That’s her full time job, and she’s busted most of my winery owner friends too.”

  “Well, it is a serious issue. We laugh at your wrecked cars, but the truth is we don’t want people drinking and driving. Such a tragedy. Coop will never get over it.”

  “I get a cab or a driver now,” said Zapparelli.

  “Smart.”

  Coop’s whispers ceased, and they figured he’d gone to bed.

  “You miss not being in LA?” Fredo asked the director.

  “Not on a night like tonight. There isn’t any place in the whole world as beautiful as this. Just look at what we have here, Fredo. Do you know how many people the whole world over would give everything they had for just one night here, under the moon and stars?”

  Fredo agreed. “What got you started in the wine business?”

  “My great-grandfather’s family all were winemakers. But in Sicily, that’s what you do. Either olives or wine. They used to make it in glass milk bottles. My grandmother kept a barrel in the bathtub at her apartment in San Francisco. She never stopped making wine, even in her nineties.”

  “So I guess it’s in your blood.”

  “Just a tad. When I got out of high school, funny how I didn’t appreciate that at all. Film school was way sexier. Girls wanted to marry a director or a famous actor. That was way more to my liking.”

  Another coyote howled in the distance, setting off a chain of dog barks.

  “So what really brings you up here, Fredo?”

  Zapparelli swiveled in his chair, adjusting his legs to allow him to turn in Fredo’s direction.

  Fredo felt the pressure of the director’s perusal. “Just needed to clear my head. Not sure if you know it, but our Team sponsors a teen center in San Diego. We’ve taken over an old Catholic school. We got, or had, after-school programs, you know—computer classes, an auditorium and even working on a radio station and public access TV station. We ran into problems with some locals at first. But now we have something bigger going on.”

  “So you come up here? Geez, I thought it was because of woman trouble.”

  Zapparelli was far from dumb. He’d gotten part of it right. Fredo weighed whether or not he should tell him, and decided not to reveal everything. “My wife just found out she’s pregnant. All of us involved here are supposed to do some labor, pitch in, as part of the sweat equity. I figured I’d get it out of the way early on, because I’m not going to want to leave her side when she gets further along.”

  The lie made him feel terrible. If Zapparelli noticed, he didn’t mention it. He was lost in a fog of a memory somewhere, and Fredo knew well enough to not touch it, or ask any further.

  Fredo thought he’d ask him a safe question. “Got any kids, Marco?”

  “My wife was pregnant once, but there was a complication. We were only able to save my wife’s life. But as a result she cannot have children. So we adopted four. And then my brother passed away and we took in three of his, so we’re just one big Italian family. But children of my own flesh? Nope.”

  “And how did you feel about that?”

  “They’re mine, just as if they got my juice, if you know what I mean. I’d die for those kids and my grandkids.”

  “Well, that was pretty much me. We just found out about the pregnancy, and I admit I’m having to adjust to it. Mia had a child with another dude.”

  “Another SEAL?”

  “Nope. Far from it. He was supposed to be in for fifteen years for murder. Real nice dude. Just the kind of guy you want being the father to the little boy you’re raising.”

  “At least he’s behind bars.”

  “Well, that’s the other thing. He’s getting out soon. Just after Christmas, I guess.”

  “Ah, man. Sorry. He’d be making a mistake tangling with one of you SEALs. Doesn’t he know that?”

  “Marco, I think he flushed his smarts right out with all the drugs he took. He’s a little short in that department.”

  “Garry Marshall used to say, ‘One taco short on the combination plate of life.’”

  It tickled Fredo. “I like that, man. I might use it.”

  “Garry’s gone now. Use it all you want.”

  “So your wife and kids live over here?”

  “Napa. But she spends a lot of time in the City, and she travels with some friends of hers. She’s always going on these cooking tours. Doesn’t really have much interest in the wine business. The kids are all out of the house. And you know what? None of them came back either. Imagine that?”

  “Well, that means either they had a horrible time, or you did a good job launching them.” Fredo had to ask the director one additional question, hoping he wouldn’t take offense. “So, you have any contact with the biological parents of your kids?”

  “My sister isn’t around for her three. They consider me their dad, anyway. We’ve had some contact with two of the kids’ parents. We let them go find them when they could, but not when they were little.”

  “How’d that go?”

  “Two of my kids didn’t want to look. Can’t say as I blame them.” Zapparelli finished off his glass and set it down on the concrete patio. “You got some reason for asking?”

  “Nope.”

  It was Fredo’s second lie of the evening.

  “What else?” Zapparelli asked.

  “I don’t get your meaning.”

  “You drove all the way up here, and you’re not going to bed early like Coop. What’s got you bothered?”

  “I was asking you about the winery attack because our school has been attacked by a group too. We’re thinking it was some new players, gangbangers in town, but we don’t know for sure. Just seems to be happening more and more, you know?”

  Zapparelli nodded to the distance.

  “I thought I’d ask you a few questions about anything strange that you
noticed before the attack. Did you have any inkling things weren’t going according to plan?”

  “Did you?” Zapparelli asked.

  “Not a thing. No warning.”

  “See, I think it was different for us. I’d seen a guy hanging around the shop and the tower bar where the blasts went off. But we get strange people all the time. We’re a tourist destination. If it wasn’t for your friend, Zak, there would have been even more loss of life. I would have been one of the casualties if it wasn’t for—you said—Jameson?”

  “Yessir. Jameson Daniels. Helluva nice guy. You see him, please don’t call him Elvis.”

  “He shouldn’t be in show business if he’s that thin-skinned.”

  “Well, let’s just say he was a favorite with the BUD/S instructors too. He still hates to be called Elvis.”

  “Ah.” Zapparelli stood to stretch his legs. “I’m not going to be able to stay up much longer, but let me think about all this and maybe we can talk about it tomorrow. Okay, son?”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  FREDO WOKE UP to the smell of bacon and coffee and the television blaring, which never happened at his house. Then he realized where he was: Frog Haven Winery with Coop, Amy and Zak.

  He threw on a T-shirt, found his flip flops, and re-tied his flag pajama bottoms.

  The kitchen was buzzing with activity. Coop and Zak were setting the table while Amy was cooking. But their eyes were consumed with side glances to the TV.

  “What’s up?”

  “Hey, Fredo, got some black coffee for you. And breakfast’s coming up. Hope you’re hungry,” said Amy.

  “Starving.”

  “How’s your head?”

  Fredo rolled his neck and shoulders, shedding the stiffness that came with the long trip. “No headache. That’s amazing.”

  “Yeah, they’ve been experimenting with their wines, doing an organic fermentation and it’s supposed to cut down on the morning after a bit. Really pretty amazing. Been reading up on it.”