by Peter Prasad
Tanya returned from the kitchen with his plate and brought him another beer. One of the cooks from the kitchen waved for her to sit down and let him look after the bar. Several customers were finishing dinners and another dozen sat drinking at the bar.
Jake tried not to inhale his food. They chatted about nothing much. Even their silences were comfortable. Jake kept it light. She returned every smile, touch and laugh like a savored, slow-motion game of ping-pong. The dinner was delicious, smothered in childhood memories and Tanya suggested he just might get dessert, if he wasn’t busy, after she closed the tavern for the night.
He reached for her hands and looked at her finger tips, her nails now cut sweet and short, painted pink. “You got a manicure?” She blushed, looked into his eyes, and nodded her head in the affirmative. Waking up with this woman, Jake wondered, just might be his life’s delight.
Jake looked up. The Tavern was empty. “It’s a slow night, Jake Knight. I better close early,” she said. He followed her to the bar to get a few dollars in change. He dropped quarters into the juke box and punched keys for the songs he loved, the mileposts on his highway. Tanya slipped into his arms. Their hips and lips melted. Jake closed his eyes and swayed to her.
He let Elvis, Van, The Beatles and Bruno Mars say the things he wanted to say to her. So he held her close and nibbled on the top of her ear. Halfway through the third song, he realized they were breathing in unison. He was on the verge of deciding he’d never have a good reason to let her go.
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CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Werner Belesto’s patrician voice boomed in Semper’s ear. “You’re late with your donation to my campaign. Politics is an expensive business. And I’m delivering superb representation to you and your brand.”
Belesto had refined his pitch from years of practice. Making cash calls—dialing for dollars, as he called it—was a regularly-scheduled event from his private penthouse office in a high-tech business park in Sacramento. Here he could be candid and direct, complaining or cajoling, and say any damn thing he wanted. He had a tech guy sweep his private office regularly for recording devices.
He had avoided a preliminary FBI investigation only last year. When the investigator suggested links between him and certain unsavories, he threw a tantrum. He’d received routine campaign donations from the parties mentioned, and half the elected officials in Sacramento were guilty of that. No special favors had been involved. When asked specifically what certain notes had meant, he claimed they were doodles. All he could recall was a boring meeting. No, he had never initialed any receipts. He never handled campaign contributions, even cash—he left that to his campaign manager.
One of the newly-casinoed Indian nations had complained to the Feds. Belesto’s name had come up. Of course it had, he argued, he was an elected official with a responsibility to all Californians. Especially for a strict accounting of all taxable revenues.
The whistle-blower was now pushing up daises somewhere near Bakersfield and his video testimony, transcripts and phone records had disappeared.
Belesto’s two special investigators had leveraged their state connections to get that done. Werner now shredded documents and burned his own trash to avoid future embarrassments.
He was accustomed to leading two lives, one public and one private. Werner was a promoter, of himself, and anything else that would earn him a fee.
His public office near the statehouse drooled with California history, California wines and gourmet California food products. On the wall above his always immaculate desk, a framed glass display showcased a replica of the first flag from the California Republic. He had singed the edges himself. It blazed with a red star and a golden bear. Across the bottom, a horizontal red line ran across a field of white. He thought of the red line as the blood line that separated California from Mexico.
The original California Republic had been the brainchild of a bunch of ruffians and buffalo hunters in 1849, proclaimed in Sonoma Square. Anglo-Saxon might, fueled by jingoist sentiment and newly-discovered gold, had rolled over the Mexican rancheros and grandees. The republic had lasted 26 days, before U.S. military authority replaced it. California had become a state the next year. The folks east of the Mississippi wanted to get to the gold.
The first Governor, Peter Hardeman Burnett, a debt-ridden clerk from Missouri, had taught himself the law and made a bundle as a Sacramento land speculator. He had resigned as Governor after one year. He had been ignored on the State Assembly floor and ridiculed in the newspapers.
Old Burnett had been right about one thing, Belesto remembered. Burnett had supported a bounty of fifty dollars for proof of every Native American killed. Belesto was owed fifty, which he would never collect.
Twenty years earlier, he had been an assistant principal at a public high school in Bakersfield—not the town for old money. He jumped at the invitation to move to San Jose and take a position in public school administration. He saw the light and rolled the dice. He had been in campaign mode ever since.
Within two years, Belesto had won election to the San Jose school board. He let it be known that he was a loyal Democrat and earned the support of the powerful teachers’ union.
He played upon the myth that he had flirted with the John Birch Society of rabid right-wingers and then had an almost religious conversion to serve the people, all the people, all the time.
After four years of school budgets and posturing, he won election to the San Jose City Council in the go-go days of the high-tech boom. His coffers had swelled by greasing the skids for the permits and approvals required for a series of high-tech business complexes. Then he became the go-to guy for passage of municipal bonds to pay for the light-rail public transportation system.
Municipal transportation had put Belesto in the fast lane. He won election as San Jose’s mayor. Soon after, he’d been tapped to join the ticket as Lieutenant Governor. He knew how to squeeze the teats of the California milk machine.
Semper adjusted the earpiece from his cell phone headset. Belesto was in rare form, but beginning to wind down. He sat in his office, staring out the window at his vines, surrounded by his beloved bottles. Vanessa worked at her desk across the room. He glanced at his calendar. He saw his secret shorthand note that indicated today was a special training day for his little kewpie doll.
He struggled to pick up the thread of the conversation with Belesto. “Making me money? I’m confident you will, Governor.”
Semper always called Lieutenant Governor Warner Belesto, from the great state of California, “Governor.” They both knew why. It was a simple understanding, a promotion for promotion. Semper would help Belesto assume the highest seat of power in Sacramento. He knew the man well, all his little quirks and foibles. Some days Belesto was roaring to be the next leader; other days he sounded like a weak little milkmaid. Today he roared, all fuss and bluster.
“They bought in big time, didn’t they, the wine auction folks? They’ll sail your brand into the stratosphere. I’ll give you credit for the positioning—California wines tailored to the discriminating palate of the European connoisseur. Jesus, Semper, how do you come up with that hype? But you know I made it happen for you on my personal recommendation.”
“You’ve added a stunning link in my chain of authority. Soon to be a golden link, the best from the Golden State. Thank you, Governor.” Semper was all smarm and charm. He knew how to handle big money and shake it out of fat pockets as well as Belesto. That’s why they worked so well together. Despite the fact that he often ended up telling Belesto what to do, he was expert in making it sound like it was Belesto’s own idea. Semper didn’t need credit; he preferred cash. He could fill the room and Belesto could shine upon it.
Money likes money, he summed it up. He’d been working on this wind bag for a year. Now he had product and a secret upgrade formula, so let’s get the show on the road. Or under the auctioneer’s gavel, at least. Delaying Belesto’s shakedown for another few days wo
uld be easy, Semper mused. Half distracted, he watched his little kewpie doll, typing emails to food-and-wine editors far and wide.
Semper smarmed on, “We both know you’re destined to be number one, the biggest bear in the big bear state.” Belesto was in love with his own reputation.
“Once you are numero uno, all my little tax problems go poof and your new round of tax credits for wineries kicks in. Ka-ching. You’re the only man in Sacramento with the vision to pull the California economy out of the doldrums.”
“You got that right, but it takes time… and money. I counsel patience, Semper. The court case is in slow fade away. We’re replacing the judge next week. Even old ‘oats and groats’ (his euphemism for the sitting Governor) signed off on it yesterday. Another Republican appointee bites the dust. The new gavel-banger is eating out of my hand.”
Semper picked up the theme. “And so he should. Better than biting the hand that feeds.” They both laughed at that.
He continued. “Moving on… I want a rebate on my export permit fees. Werner, you said you’d get that done. You have the power, Governor. I have buyers in Eu-ro-pa.” He trilled the last word. Vannie looked at him over her shoulder and smiled.
Semper concluded by hitting hard on Belesto’s hot button. “You like Euros, don’t you?” Semper chuckled at his own skillful repartee.
“Well, Pritchard doesn’t have to know. I sent a memo to authorize your refund yesterday. The man is jaundiced. He keeps blocking my special projects. He needs to vacate.” Pritchard was the current sitting Governor, a seventy-year old champion of the liberal left.
“So serve up a special bottle of Semper’s finest, hey?”
“No problem, he drinks like a priest.”
“Did you hand-deliver that last bottle?”
“I handed it to him and he dropped it. Smashed in the parking lot. I ruined a pair of suit pants. Remember?”
“You’ve got to watch him drink it. Get excited about a bold new California wine and pour him a large dose of it.” Semper giggled.
“That’s not the plan. I’m out of town. It’s a hand-off so I’m free and clear. Remember?” Belesto said.
“You like Euros, don’t you? Ka-ching, governor, ka-ching.” Semper reminded him.
They agreed to talk again before the upcoming auction in San Francisco. Semper clicked off. He shook his head and scowled. This was taking forever. Belesto was thick as a mule and slow as molasses; he’d probably go chicken-shit at crunch time.
Semper could see the arc of a critical timeline in his head, and Belesto was causing delay. He’d be damned if his exquisitely-timed house of cards was going to come tumbling down. Europe beckoned.
The new judge was good news. Belesto had promised that for months. Soon he’d extricate himself for his sticky little tax situation. The winery turn-around was coming along nicely. Product was moving out the door. The auction would be a cash cow.
Semper did not play poker, but he liked the metaphors. He reviewed the cultivation of his high spade in the hole, the wild card he wanted to trigger for his get-away. He’d met with his Panama-connection twice, a slick little Latino attorney named Cristobel. Dinner and drinks only, with rafts of wine sampling, prodding and innuendos; they were not talking money, not yet. He could see through Cristobel’s charade so clearly.
Meanwhile, he needed a distraction. “Vannie, come join me for our four o’clock refresher?”
He poured her a glass of old Shawn Red. He had several barrels of it in the warehouse. It was the foundation wine for his new and improved brand. A good sturdy red wine did a fine job of masking Vannie’s special little highball. All the better to make her tidy white panties slide down to her red toe-nails.
He poured himself a long taste of the new and improved ruby red Fransec Estate Grown Reserve. It was a collector’s wine, screaming with fruit and tannins. He wondered if he could get a hundred per bottle at the upcoming auction. He had paid well for two highly regarded wine reviews, translated and published in German and Dutch.
“Van-ness-ah, I’m drinking alone. Don’t do that to me,” he trilled.
He envisioned himself wearing a cravat and a smoking jacket, relaxing on a terrace at his imaginary estate with a view across Lake Como, ensconced in the Italian Alps.
He would have a butler in livery, a butt-boy toy and a kewpie doll. Perhaps he’d have both at once. He shivered in anticipation.
He looked up to see Vannie sipping from her glass, standing at his desk. In his imperious voice, he raised a single eyebrow and looked at her. “Well?”
“Yummy. It had a noble nose. Bold, fruity, jammy, the perfect marriage of flavors, with the kiss of sun and soil. Long on tannins. Ideal for your cellar. This wine will age beautifully, with unexpected delight whenever you indulge.”
“Excellent,” Semper tittered and clinked wine glasses with her. “Well done. You are mastering the art. Agreed? Now taste it again and repeat.”
Vannie obeyed. The third time through her little soliloquy, he noticed her neck in full blush. He imagined how the rush of blood and swollen capillaries colored the pale white skin across her belly and breasts. Under the right conditions, he could make her his little fountain.
“Ah, Van-ness-ah, let me see that marketing T-shirt you’ve been so keen to have.”
“Yes, sir. A proof came today.” This was the first marketing idea she’d sold to Semper. She traipsed to her desk and pulled the tape off a FedEx shipping box. She turned it upside down and shook it. A black T-shirt tumbled out.
“Bring it here,” Semper ordered her.
She crossed the room to stand before him, holding the T-shirt stretched wide under her neck. “It’s 100% organic cotton. See the green tag on the hem. People will notice that. It suggests our stewardship of the soil.”
“Excellent,” Semper enthused. He admired the black T-shirt. The younger generation wore such things. He reached out with his hand to get a finger feel for the raised puff-paint lettering that was silk-screened across the front of the T-shirt. Bold capital letters proclaimed: FRANSEC. Below that, in ruby red Italics: Semper Wines.
“Van-ness-ah, you’ve done a stunning job in managing this project. I approve.”
He reached out to clink wine glasses with her again. He sipped his wine. He watched her gulp from her glass.
“May I wear it, on casual dress Fridays? Always with a skirt, never with jeans?” Vannie asked.
Semper looked at her and smiled. “Well, let me see. Please try it on for me. Do you mind?”
“I’d be happy to…” Vannie looked around the room, a little bit confused.
Semper stood and unlocked the door to his private bedroom. He held the door open for her. “Change in here, Vannie.”
Vannie stepped through the door. Semper closed it behind her, leaving it open a crack. He moved to his desk, opened the top drawer, picked up his stop-watch and clicked it on. Ten minutes, he guessed.
He freshened his wine. He placed two blue Viagra pills on the tip of his tongue and chased them down with a slug of wine. Careful not to make wrinkles, he removed his gray jacket and wiped his hands across his buttoned vest.
He returned to the door and peered in at Vannie. She had removed her blouse and was pulling the T-shirt over her head, with her back to the door. Semper returned to his seat.
“Now what’s the style these days, Van-ness-ah? You’re the T-shirt expert, not me. Bra-less, perhaps? Does your generation ever lounge in T-shirt and panties? You may hold the secret for Fransec as the brand for all occasions.”
Vannie stepped through the bedroom door and pirouetted for Semper’s inspection. The T-shirt was too large for her, tucked into her skirt. “I can’t see the green tag. Show me without the skirt,” he ordered.
His little kewpie doll stepped back inside the bedroom to kick off her skirt. She reappeared and pirouetted for him. She was soaking up the attention. She had never been asked to model anything before in her life. This was exciting.
“Excellent,
I see the green tag. I see a poster. We’d have fun posing you among the trellises. With a basket of grapes at your feet. Would you do that for me?”
“What a wonderful idea, Dr. Semper.” Vannie moved to his desk, held it to steady herself, and gulped the last of her wine. She felt so alive.
Semper enjoyed how uninhibited his kewpie doll had become, padding around in her bare feet and T-shirt. He enjoyed his private show. His blend of chemicals and wine in her glass was working its magic. He looked at the bubbling red blushes that dotted her neck and cheeks. She grinned at him, feeling no pain.
“Oh, Van-ness-ah. I’ve had a wonderful idea. Even a twee bit risqué.” He was testing her, taking his time, teaching her. She had not shied away from the word ‘risqué’. Semper decided to step it up a notch.
“May I see the T-shirt without the benefit of the bra straps?”
Vannie nodded her head yes and gave him a silly grin. She traipsed back into the bedroom. The T-shirt hung half way to her bare knees. Semper followed her. He stood at the door and watched as she pulled off the T-shirt and slipped out of her delicate white lace bra.
He moved back to his desk and sat down, opened the drawer and looked at the ticking stop watch. Nine minutes had elapsed. He closed the drawer and swiveled his chair so that his legs stretched out toward the bedroom door.
Vannie emerged and stood near him, ready for inspection. He raised his hand and drew a circle in the air. She got the message, and began another pirouette.
He kept circling his finger in the air and she slowly twirled for him. As she began twirl number three, her knees buckled and Semper moved in to catch her, guiding her to sit comfortably on his lap.
He studied the impression her nipples made through the black cotton cloth. He rested her collapsed body against his desk and stroked her hair. He listened to her breathing as it slowed and deepened. He was so close to having her now.