by Peter Prasad
He liked Tanya. He loved her mother. If Sonya approved of Col. Hap Hazard, that was good enough for him. Jake knew that getting his first few P.I. jobs would be the hardest. He had to build a reputation for discretion and results. Word-of-mouth referrals were won a client at a time. Col. Hazard offered to introduce him into the world of the wealthy and the naughty.
Hap stood and stretched. He bent down to touch his toes and shake sand from his sandals. He and Sonya tossed items into hampers and dumped remains into a trash bag. Hap intended to haul out his trash. “You kids take care of the rest?”
Jake nodded and stood to give Sonya one last hug. She tugged at his hair again and kissed his cheek. Jake heard the thump-thump of rotor blades and looked up to see the sleek black profile of an executive Sikorsky helicopter descend to hover over the sand fifty feet away.
Tanya looked at the startled expression in his eyes and grinned. “Hap’s ride. Sonya lent me her ‘Vette and gets around by helicopter now.”
Sonya chimed in. “Yes I do, and by golf cart too.” She brushed sand from her butt and looked at her daughter. “Kisses, Tanya. Stay firm, darling.”
Hap took Sonya by the elbow and guided her across the blowing sand to the helicopter. The side door slid open. Jake scooped up the hampers and followed. He hopped barefoot through the shifting sand. He carried them to the open chopper door and squinted to avoid swirling dust.
Hap helped load in the gear and took his seat. “Nice to meet you, Knight. Last thing, no more bullet holes.”
Jake laughed. It was good advice.
He studied the pilot and co-pilot in the sleek executive helicopter. Both were armed with pistols on their webbed belts. Both men wore black zippered jumpsuits, helmets and headsets. They grinned and gave him a thumbs up sign. Jake remembered his fondness for military camaraderie. He missed it.
He glanced back at Col. Hap Hazard. “Done deal. As long as I don’t have to come fetch you out of some hellhole.”
Hap shook his head. “Never happen. I just make phone calls.” Jake slid the helicopter door shut and stepped back. The Sikorsky rose up under the pilot’s gentle touch and sped forward in a lazy curve over the wine-red sea.
Jake returned to the blanket and stretched out on his back beside Tanya. They shared a quiet moment and he watched the wheel of stars in the night sky above. The thump-thump of Hap’s helicopter faded away, swallowed by the steady tumble of waves on the coast below the sand dunes.
Gingerly, Jake slid his arm around Tanya’s waist as she lay beside him. Neither spoke, soaking in the star light, the rising moon and the fresh salt air.
Tanya raised herself on one elbow, tugged at the elastic band that held her ponytail and shook out her long dark blond hair. Jake reached across her face and pushed her hair away from her eyes. She leaned forward and kissed him. Then he felt her hand pushing down on his chest over his heart. She kissed him again, long and hard this time, and she began to melt against him. He opened his eyes and stared into hers.
“Now, Sergeant Jake Knight, Afghan vet, returning war hero, the abalone diver and provider… my very own Shake-and-Bake… I have new orders for you.” Tanya cleared her throat and lowered her voice to whisper into his ear. “I want you, all of you, all night long.”
Jake gently lifted her into a sitting position next to him and covered her hand over his heart with his own hand, and replied. “Reporting for duty.”
He barely got the words out of his mouth. He turned away long enough to pile three more logs on top of the embers in the fire pit. After that, he stretched out with Tanya in his arms. He did not need a match. They lay together with one billion stars as witness.
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CHAPTER ELEVEN
Wild Bill rested by a small cooking fire at his camp tucked away in the hills adjacent Fransec’s new planting. It was a short walk to the water faucet he shared with the vineyard. Semper had planted ten acres of new vines. They were on a drip irrigation system for two years until the roots had run deep into the soil.
Bill dangled his legs from the back of the van, parked in the shade of a stand of ancient oak trees. He chewed on a roasted goat leg.
What a waste to kill goats and dump their bodies, he thought. But he did what he was told. He always put the liver on ice in a cooler in the storeroom, where Dr. Semper picked it up the next morning.
He couldn’t help himself. At the dump sites by the road late at night, he’d sometimes carve off a hunk of goat for his grille. The Doctor would never know. And Bill saved money. He preferred to eat off the land.
Goat juice dripped on his shirt. Waste not; want not, he thought. He liked goat meat. He could live on a goat for a week in the panga grass back in Guam.
Five more goats pranced behind him in a temporary pen under the oaks, munching on a bale of hay. He shook his head and rubbed his temples. Getting those goats into the back of his van was a shitty mess.
Now that new gal at the winery, “Van-ness-ah” was a yummy bit. He’d peeked through the shades when Dr. Semper boogled on her. She acted drunk or passed out or something but Doc didn’t mind. Doc laid her out and rolled her panties to her ankles. Wild Bill got a peek at her delta fuzz. She had creamy white skin and plump high-riding titties. Her nips puckered up real red after Doc sucked ‘em.
Doc mauled on her bush. He got his fingers in her and rubbed until she moaned. Her twat turned a fountain and Doc licked her cream. Bill would’ve done more, lots more, and shaved her patch bald. Doc was some kinda different.
Afterwards, Doc spent time at his desk on the phone sniffing his fingers while the little bitch slept it off.
Dr. Semper ignored him now. He called when he wanted a new goat brought up to the office. It meant a midnight-run for Bill. Doc paid time-plus for that. He always gave Bill an extra bottle of wine. Bill was running more deliveries into the City. What kind of numb nuts would ever want to live there? he wondered.
Hey, whatever floats your boat, he agreed with himself. He tossed the leg bone into the fire and wiped his hands on his pants. He walked around camp, scratching. What could he do next?
He reached under the seat of the van and pulled out the stub-nosed .38 caliber pistol he kept there in a military holster. He liked to wear it on delivery runs, like in his Army days. Nobody was going to steal his shit. Dr. Semper didn’t know he had it. He had some secrets and an ex-military man could never be too careful.
He set to sharpening the Bowie knife he had since Army days. He liked it wicked-sharp, a perfect goat-slitter. He could rip them in three strokes, slice out the liver and be gone in 30 seconds. No point in waiting for flies. His cell phone rang. Doc said wait for dark and bring down a goat.
Doc wouldn’t do the bloody work. Doc was clean hands all the way. Wild Bill would hold the critter while Doc injected a syringe in its neck. Then Doc turned on his stopwatch to see how long it took before the critter keeled over dead. First time, 20 minutes. Now, less than a minute.
Then Wild Bill would do the rest. He wrapped them in a blanket and loaded them in. Depending on the night and the moon, he’d slit their throats and bleed them out at the dump site. He didn’t have to but that was fun. He always carved out the livers real quick. It depended on his meat supply whether he took a hunk of haunch or not. Wild Bill liked his red wine and goat barbecue.
The Doctor knew all this science stuff. He could make anything. Bill used to sit on a stool in the office and watch him burn and boil and extract shit at his lab. That was before Van-ness-ah came. Doc told him to stay clear of her, stay out of the office.
Things were changing. Doc said, “No more dumping goats now, William. I want you to dig a fire pit by the trees and we’ll burn them.”
He might sneak into the pit and saw off a charred piece to eat, if Doc was gone. What the hell, dead is dead.
Maybe he could get some time with that Van-ness-ah. Maybe she’d put on bright red lipstick for him. He’d shave her and split her, for sure. Bill started getting worked up. His t
hroat got dry. He felt a headache coming on. The pain cut through his skull, enough to make him puke. Doc would give him wine. That helped his headaches. Wild Bill was the Doc’s handy-dandy handy man.
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CHAPTER TWELVE
Tanya dropped Jake at the dairy before 9:00 in the morning and left him with a flood of kisses and an abalone shell for his veranda. He felt great, even though he’d had only a cat-nap before dawn. He had a few raw scratches across his back. She’d promised to trim her nails before their next date.
The vision of Tanya in starlight riding him to orgasm glowed in his brain. Her bare skin shimmered. They had talked late into the night, made hot toddies, and melted together in love a few times more. After a long hot shower and two cups of Kenya, Jake struggled to focus on the day. His special glow would not fade away; nor could he wipe the satisfied grin from his face. He had fired his entire arsenal and she had outgunned him.
He dialed Tim Stafford’s number to check in. Tim reported another goat-ripper carcass found Sunday, dumped by the road minus a liver. The ripper had carved out a haunch of hind meat this time. Tim confirmed the count: eight goats.
It was way too many for Jake’s peace of mind. Wally walked into the cottage.
“Hey thanks for covering for me,” Jake said.
“Anything for the cause.” Wally grinned. “Let’s go find out about Fransec. I searched the web. No site up but I found a news article. It’s the old Shawn Winery in a turn-around and re-branding.”
“Not far, maybe six miles up the road.”
“I thought so. Some guy named Semper is running it. Commercial-trade only. Let’s go see.” Wally had the address. They didn’t need a Google map; it was one exit up on the freeway and off the frontage road.
Tendrils of morning fog were melting into a warm day. As they drove north, Jake studied the sky for buzzards. He saw nothing suspicious.
As they got closer, Jake looked for a large showcase winery surrounded by vineyards. But they never made it that far. They did see a wooden sign with white lettering proclaiming FRANSEC hung from wrought iron poles, anchored in a pile of cut stone. In a few years it would look old and expensive; now it looked pretentious.
The lavender bushes at the foot of the stonework needed water. The sign directed them to a gravel lane that ran through a valley planted with new vines. The vines needed water as well.
Wally stared out the window and called out the likely price-tags for all this fuss: the gravel, signage, landscaping and a tall black iron gate supported by two pillars of white stonework. They stopped at a call-box attached to one pillar. A remote-control security camera above the call-box panned down to capture Jake’s license plate number as he exited the red rust bucket.
Although this kind of security wasn’t outlandish for a Sonoma winery, the new owner was obviously security-conscious.
Jake pushed the button on the call box. The video camera panned over to look at him. Nothing happened. He pushed the button again and an odd English-accented voice from the call box answered. “State your business.”
“Hello. We wanted to pick up a couple of bottles of your wine. We tasted some last night over at Sonya’s Tavern. The label said Fransec. It was great. Do you have wine for sale?”
The callbox voice replied: “The winery is closed to the public. No retail sales. Wholesale only. Please call to make your order. We’ll deliver. Thank you. Good day.” Jake noticed that the English accent had disappeared. The remote camera followed him as he stepped up to the gate and shook it. It was locked.
Jake saw that the gravel road continued up the forested hill. Whoever ran this place wanted to remain hidden from prying eyes. Jake could slide around either pillar that held the gate, but he was not welcome. The call-box voice made that clear. This was not the kind of a welcome you’d expect from a Sonoma winery proud of its product.
Jake walked back to the truck and opened the door. “Tight security. We’re not welcome.”
“Let’s go. Maybe Tanya has another bottle of Fransec.”
Jake started his truck and completed a three-pointed turn in front of the gate. In his rear view he saw a large black delivery van crawling down the hill toward him. He pulled forward to give the swing-out gate clearance and stopped the truck in the middle of the narrow gravel road. He watched the van in his mirror.
The black van stopped, waited for the gate to swing open and rolled forward. Jake saw one driver, male, in aviator sunglasses. The driver beeped his horn hard twice. Jake opened his door and walked to the driver’s side window. The driver was in his thirties; medium-length black hair.
“Hey, how are ya? I’m Jake.” He was overly-friendly on purpose. The driver rolled down his window and studied him, not smiling. Jake memorized his face: a pug nose too small for his face, and an odd shape to his head, as if his skull was dented. The man needed a shower and shave. He acted nervous and was in a hurry. “You make a great wine. Can I buy a few bottles?”
“Don’t know,” the driver replied, without looking Jake in the eyes. He spoke in a flat, metallic voice. He did not appear very bright.
“Closed to the public. Invitation only.” The driver stared at him, expressionless and massaged his temples. He had black, fire-stained hands. Suddenly, he raised his voice. “Now piss off.”
Jake knew volatility in a man; this guy had all the signs. Anger might make a stupid guy reveal his secret, so Jake tried to set him off. He kept his tone over-bright, country-dumb: “You’re a new brand up here in Sonoma. We like to know our neighbors.”
“I said, piss off.”
“So where’d you learn the hospitality business?”
The driver scowled, cringed, reached under his seat, rolled up his window and pushed his horn in a long, steady blast.
Jake stepped forward and rapped his knuckles on the window. What the hell; he could take this guy.
The driver jerked in his seat, and suddenly swung his door open, shoving hard to slam it into Jake. Jake jumped back; the door missed him by inches. The driver screamed “Leave me alone!”
The guy’s face was contorted with rage. Spit flew from his mouth. Then Jake noticed the pistol in the driver’s hand, pointed at him. He hadn’t bargained on that kind of escalation. His military training clicked in; he felt his muscles get taut, ready to move exactly where he wanted to be; his brain was crisp on adrenalin.
Jake stepped back, raised his hands and walked backwards to his open truck door. Then he heard Wally’s passenger door slam shut. The sound echoed across the narrow valley.
“You crazy nut sack,” Wally yelled.
He couldn’t see the pistol. He stood between the two vehicles, waving his hands. Bad move, Wally, Jake thought. Shouting could send this delivery driver over the edge. If the guy rolled forward, Wally would be pinned between the vehicles.
Jake looked back at the driver. He’d stepped down from the van and stood in a bent-knee crouch, his pistol in a two-handed grip, aimed on a center line between Jake and Wally. He held a snub-nose .38 pistol and his hands were rock steady. Jake knew he was looking at a military-trained killer.
“No problem, dude. We’re gone!” He saw the driver’s face relax a little.
Wally spotted the pistol and stepped backward toward his side of the truck. The tone in his voice changed. “Let’s get out of here…please…”
Don’t beg, Jake mentally instructed Wally. The guy’s not going to go for that. He knew this type well. They couldn’t deal with any more emotion; they couldn’t deal with another man’s fear.
He mustered his war-time command of himself and in one smooth movement turned his back on the wacko with his gun. “We’re going,” he said to Wally, who was already getting inside the truck.
Once they were both inside, Jake was careful not to do anything more to set off the van driver. He wanted to speed off, but that would raise dust and shower the guy with gravel. He didn’t want this jerk following them back to their dairy. He kept his departure calm.
“Jesus, Jake. What’s with that asshole?” Wally was shaking. Jake had sped up and now slowed down and made a right turn at the Fransec sign onto the frontage road. Through the dust he saw the black van behind him.
At the frontage road, the van turned left and drove away in the other direction.
“He’s a wack-job. He escalated way too quickly. He’s hiding something,” Jake said. “Just to be safe, we’re going for a little ride now before we go back to the dairy. He might turn around and follow us and and I don’t want him to know where we live.”
“Nobody has an armed driver for wine deliveries in Sonoma. We just don’t do that here. Why would Fransec hire that freak?” Wally wondered.
“Beats me.”
People pull weapons to draw a line in the sand, to show off and create fear, Jake thought. He’d seen too much of that in Afghanistan. The driver was ex-military and too much of a hot-head to have Ranger training, probably just another damaged ‘all-volunteer’ grunt.
He’d never forget the man’s face. Jake knew he’d see him again. When he did, he hoped that pistols would not be the weapon of choice. Jake did not own one.
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CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Jake pulled into the parking lot at Sonya’s Tavern. Wally was quiet for the ride back from Fransec. He sagged on the bench seat. Jake tried to help him laugh it off. Jake was expert at walling off his rage. To him, it was energy secured behind lock and key until he needed to draw on it. He expected he’d need the reserve and he didn’t know when.
He felt his body and mind slide down from the warrior’s adrenalin rush and unnatural calm. It was his first since Afghanistan and he missed it. His brain was cracking; his fingers twitched. His mind kept clicking through scenarios. Each ended in bloodshed, someone else’s blood.
It was a delayed emotional reaction to a life-threatening situation. He lived by a simple code: Threaten me all you want but heaven help you if you hurt someone I love. Jake could call up his own cold-fury berserker mentality in a nano-second. He called it his warrior mind. Very few people lived after seeing that side of Jake.