by Peter Prasad
The waiter circled around the booth and hovered nearby. Semper waved him away.
“I’ve ordered for us. The roasted quail,” Semper said.
Senor Cristobel sat across from him in the cozy booth, padded in red leather, with a linen-covered table between them. Semper was ensconced in his favorite bistro; he knew how to rule here.
Should Senor Cristobel indulge him, Semper would pour six wines, in hopes of selling his 70 acres, the Fransec brand, inventory, buildings and business license. They’d discussed a consulting arrangement for Semper, who would return to California twice every year for five years to blend for his new owners.
The acquisition included seed capital for a new venture to launch in Grenoble, Switzerland, as Semper Wines Gmbh.
Semper poured from an unlabeled bottle and handed the glass of shimmering golden wine to Cristobel. “Taste this, a small batch chardonnay we made, just for fun, at the winery. I’m holding a barrel for you. I’ll bottle it up any time you like and deliver to your door. The least…for friends…Don Cristobel.”
Semper snapped his fingers as though he was wearing castanets and wiggled in his seat. The wine? From 50 gallons of bland chardonnay he’d bottled for a Sonoma society matron. He’d improved the chardonnay over oak chips in his mixer.
Senor Cristobel waxed his mustaches and shaved once every three days. “Has Padron, Dr. Semper, ever been to the pampas of Argentina? Some of the finest cattle country in the world. Some are my friends. Some are in my fund.”
Cristobel stuffed his mouth with olives and peppers from a small plate. Semper poured him a brimming goblet of ruby red wine. He rolled the bottom of the bottle on the table to showcase the label: Fransec Gran Crux 1999 Sonoma Estate.
“It’s two hundred and fifty dollars a bottle now, Don Cristobel. Bottled last week. Up for auction tomorrow. You have a role to play, pushing the brand by phone with your bids.” He winked and Cristobel winked back. They tapped glasses. Cristobel placed both palms flat on the table, lowered his head to the glass brimming with Semper’s wine, inhaled through both nostrils, then swirled the wine and stared into it.
He looked up with a small smile across his face. “We are agreed, Doctor? My group is pleased to confirm an offer, as you say. My fee and the balance of $24 million for you, $5 million set aside for our new venture. You deserve it. You built the brand, and now you will champion us in Europe.” They clinked glasses again and both drank deeply.
Cristobel continued: “We can close in three days. And you’re free to fly to Europe before the holidays. We’ll have new management in place when you return in March. We’ll have a gala garden party for Dr. Semper when he returns.”
Cristobel beamed at his new acquisition candidate.
***
Semper escaped from him after appetizers, roast quail and dessert with a deposit check of $1 million dollars folded in his shirt pocket. He’d signed a receipt and a letter of intent. The remainder of the paperwork would follow the next day.
Semper could not believe his good fortune. He had flipped the winery for a 400% return in less than a year.
Of course, he was selling to thugs. If he crossed them or cheated them, they might kill him. He had no doubt of that. However, he was needed in order to advise and help them blend. And the magic of wine came from the blending. He knew how to please European collectors.
The deal had come together surprisingly quickly. Semper decided he’d think about it overnight before he deposited the check. He could always return it and make excuses. He’d think of something.
These Latino mafia wanted a clean deal, a path to respectability. Semper was holding the door open for them. They were paying 20% above market. They both knew that. And the $5 million for the European operation was another gift. He knew that.
On the other hand, he was eminently capable of launching the new enterprise. The grease balls couldn’t get a phone call returned in Europe. Semper had the chops. And then, he was probably the only guy in Sonoma who’d sell his winery. The other owners were in it for generations, drunk on their self-importance and the perceived lifestyle. Semper was smarter than that.
Soon he’d have the money to prove it. Maybe he could rent a few cute boys in Algeria and live on Corfu for the winter. Semper’s imagination and depravity shifted into overdrive, while the deposit check burned a hole in his pocket.
Where was his little kewpie doll? He dialed Vannie’s cell phone as he scanned the $400 lunch bill. “Van-ness-ah,” he trilled. “What are you doing?”
“Hi, Doctor Semper, I’m still in the office.” She sighed in his ear.
“My treat. We must celebrate. Just closed the Panama deal. I insist.” He paused to hear her praise, but she was silent.
“How about this. Take a long hot bath in my boudoir with lots of bubbles. I’ll be back to bring you a glass of champagne in thirty minutes. Ta-ta!” He clicked off.
Vannie began filling the tub with warm water. She splashed in a handful of foamy green bath salts and peeled off her clothing. She settled on an inflatable pillow and allowed herself to melt into a mild stupor, relaxing as the hot water brightened her alabaster skin to a rosy glow. She dozed and dreamed of nothing waiting for her wine.
Semper trotted into the office. He could smell the scented steam from Vannie’s bath. It had fogged the windows. He bellowed, “Vannie? Where are you?”
He moved to his desk and prepared her special cocktail, a dash of coke, Ecstasy and a cap and a half of Rohipnol, which he kept in a clear plastic squeeze bottle in his locked desk drawer.
He dipped a fingernail back into the white powder and freshened his own inhalations. And then he did it again. He carefully wiped his nose on a handkerchief. He swallowed three Viagra pills. Semper was ready to party.
He swirled her champagne to mix the ingredients, and set it down on his desktop. He stood, dusted his clothing, removed his jacket and draped it on his office chair. He kicked off his shoes and peeled off his socks. He reached for her glass, and his, and walked toward her voice. He was intensely excited. He was already imagining his kinky pleasures.
He opened the bathroom door and his face was enveloped in steam. He closed the door and moved toward Vannie in her bubble bath. He bent down and handed her a goblet. Her finger tips broke through the bed of bubbles floating on the surface to reach for her glass.
She sat up, exposing her flawless breasts, now turned pink and covered with foam. Koch unzipped and began to touch himself. Vannie gulped from her glass and slid back into the warm bubbles. Soon her eyes glazed. She smiled and sighed.
He lusted for her as he stared at the skin across her neck, breasts and chubby ankles resting on the edge of the tub. He sat and caressed her foot, admiring her bright pink toe nails. He watched as Vannie absently covered her sex. Then her eyes closed and her head lolled to the side.
Semper stood and peeled off his clothing.
Vannie stirred and her eyes opened. She burped. “I’m so relaxed now, Doctor. I’ve been waiting for you.” She gulped her drink and finished it. “This is too naughty Doctor Semper.” Her eyes close again.
Semper stroked her wet hair and fondled her. He smiled into her sleepy, bleary eyes.
“Let me dry you, Vannie.” She stood as commanded and held onto his shoulders to steady herself. He rubbed her tenderly with a towel, touching her intimately.
“There now, squeaky clean.” Vannie began to sag at the knees. He helped her step out of the tub.
She mumbled, “No more Doctor…” and passed out into Semper arms. He hustled her limp frame to his bed. The drugs in her drink simply turned out her lights.
Semper began a row of love bites on her neck as he rubbed against her warm butt. He opened a bedside drawer and lifted out a small tub of Vaseline. Semper slid a pillow under her little pink butt, and parted her cheeks for a kiss.
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CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
At first light Vannie woke in Semper’s bed at the winery. He was gone.
She was nude. She looked into the trash can by the bed and saw an empty tub of Vaseline and three used condoms. She vomited.
Light-headed and hung-over from champagne and drugs, she stumbled out of bed. Where were her clothes? Her Mother would be furious. Vannie knew she’d been up all night praying and worrying. Vannie limped into the bathroom, found her clothes and realized her butt wasn’t right. It ached from inside.
She explored herself with a gentle finger and realized what Semper had done to her. She dressed quickly. She’d never given herself that way before. This was not the career she wanted.
In that moment, Vanessa decided no man was worth ‘comatose anal’ and no job was worth that either. The joy of having ‘wine’ on her resume evaporated. She raced through a series of emotions, from self-pity to pathetic, and settled on cold fury. And she decided to act on it.
At her desk she scooped her personal items into a shopping bag. She was blushing and didn’t give a damn. It was time to show Doctor Semper she was not his little butt toy.
She opened a drawer in the kitchen area and found her tool for revenge. She walked to Semper’s desk and raised a steel-shaft hammer over her head. She smashed it down on a bottle of wine that shattered glass and red wine over the carpet. The next bottle pooled on his desk. The next one splashed burgundy down the wall. In a rage now, she smashed six more bottles, screaming, “Up your ass.”
Vannie stepped back and surveyed the red wine stain that covered Semper’s carpet and work area. The wine pooled under his desk. The carpet was ruined. Shocked at what she’d done, she almost poured salt on the stain.
Instead, she burst into tears, grabbed her bag and took small determined steps to her car. Vanessa decided she’d never again be anybody’s door mat.
She drove off the winery property as quickly as she could, fearful that Semper or Bill would appear out of nowhere and chase after her. Where does a girl get help at five in the morning?
She pulled over under the freeway overpass, locked her doors and cried herself empty. She called her mother and told a lie. She’d been drinking with her friend Tanya and slept at her place. She was sorry. She was on her way home.
Back at her mobile home, her mother screamed, cursed and cried for thirty minutes. Vanessa didn’t even try to defend herself. Then her mother had to go to work at the grocery store. Vannie took the longest shower of her life and washed her hair three times.
***
Jake felt out of his league.
The stone-and-marble edifice of the St. Francis Hotel spoke of San Francisco’s moneyed past, a city of Victorian redwood facades, crafted by cheap Italian labor fueled by gold nuggets. Inside, the hallways of the St. Francis displayed elegant white marble balustrades, gold-leaf accents, and thick Oriental carpets. The well-heeled gentry of San Francisco came to play here.
Jake registered as a bidder at the wine auction. The clerk required an imprint of his credit card against any potential purchases. She handed him a bidding number printed in black on a large card, and a catalog of the wine lots for sale.
Jake sat behind two elderly men who looked like retired bankers. They engaged in animated discussion about items in the catalog.
He spotted Semper and Bill across the hall, closer to the podium in reserved seating. The whack-job had cleaned up—shaved, cut his hair and put on a suit. He sat quietly with his arms crossed. Semper prattled away to a crowd leaning in for his every word. Jake slid down in his seat and hid his face in the auction catalog. Fransec had five lots of wine for sale, in units of twenty cases. The catalog price: one hundred fifty dollars per bottle.
The auctioneer, an attractive Asian woman in a white silk dress and a rope of gold necklaces, introduced herself as the director of wine sales at Barron’s, a high-end auction house. She’d been buzzing around the room earlier, smiling and nodding. Half the buyers probably considered themselves her special friends. Eventually, she banged her gavel for quiet, allowed time for people to sit, and reviewed the rules.
The auction would be streamed in real-time over the Internet. Bids could be submitted by phone and through the Barron’s website.
As she began to describe the first offering, the back doors opened. Lieutenant Governor Werner Belesto and three of his assistants marched down the center aisle toward reserved seating in the second row. Belesto grinned, chuckled and waved at several friends. The audience applauded him.
Thoroughly interrupted, the auctioneer asked if he’d like to say a few words. Belesto walked to the podium.
“You are too kind,” he began. “As many of you may remember, I was once the mayor of San Jose. I know San Francisco well. This is a wonderful city and a spectacular venue here at the St. Francis. Allow me to thank the good folks at Barron’s for their hard work and commitment to maintaining the premium value of our excellent California wines.”
He paused and picked faces out of the crowd. “The best California wines makers are here today. Cissy Jayson from Jayson’s Vineyard,” he nodded toward a silver-haired woman sitting in the front row. “Dotty Raynard from Raynard Estates in Napa.” An elegant blonde woman stood briefly for her bow.
Belesto continued: “David Wickline, an up-and-comer on the Silverado Trail.” David stood, waved to everyone in a 360-turn and sat.
“And the eminent John MacDonald, winemaker at Calistoga Springs.” John, a leather-skinned man in a blue beret, stood and beamed at the audience. He received a round of applause.
Belesto turned and looked at Semper who sat in the second row. “May I introduce the man doing the most for California wine exports, Koch Semper of Fransec in Sonoma.” Semper stood, grinned at Belesto and bowed to the crowd. Jake watched the man swell with self-importance.
“Now folks, I’m playing hooky from Sacramento today. I’m here as a private buyer for my wine company, Bacchus. So let’s get down to business.” With that, Belesto relinquished the microphone and moved to his seat as the audience applauded.
The auctioneer lifted her gavel, banged it for quiet, and drove the auction at a brisk pace. The first few lots sold for 15% below their listed prices. However a mixed lot of ten cases of 1985 red wines from Napa started a feeding frenzy. The winning bid was more than $50,000, above $500.00 per bottle.
Jake could smell the money in the room. Spending it appeared to be a ping-pong game with check books for this crowd. Jake’s limit was twenty dollars for a birthday bottle of wine.
Belesto made a show of multiple bids on the first twenty-case lot of Fransec, but he failed to respond to the final raise from an Internet buyer. The bid closed above two hundred dollars per bottle, or $44,000 for the twenty-case lot. Belesto made a show of losing and Jake heard him mutter, “Damn. Too steep.”
Was Belesto staging his interest in Fransec to drive up the bids? Barron’s appeared to have buyers in digital-land prepared to pay insane prices.
Belesto participated in the early bidding for the next two 20-case lot of Fransec. He never ventured above $140.00 per bottle. The earlier lot had set a high bar and the next two lots closed above $160 per bottle. Jake calculated that Semper cleared above $200,000 at the event, after expenses and Barron’s commission.
He’d seen enough. It was lambs to slaughter for cooked wine. Jake moved toward the exit door when a man he didn’t know approached him.
“Jake Knight, number seven-zero-eight?” he asked, referring to Jake’s bid number.
Jake held the matching bid card in his hand, so he confessed: “Correct.” He studied the man and guessed he was a cop. He did not appear armed.
“Join me in the hallway for a minute please.” He guided Jake outside.
“I’m with the Belesto’s office. Ron Timmons is my name.” He handed Jake a business card that displayed the seal of the state of California and the Lieutenant Governor’s office address. Under his name, his title read: Special Investigator.
Jake studied the man’s hands. They were clean with manicured finger nails. Jake noticed old white scars across his knuckles. This man
had been a brawler once.
“I happened to see your name on the list of registered bidders. Werner asked me to look into the letter you and Wally submitted to the wine board. You had some suspicions about Fransec?” He paused, clearly fishing. Jake did not take the bait.
Timmons waited; Jake waited longer. “The Lieutenant Governor has taken a keen interest. Thank you for writing. But we haven’t been able to verify your report. Our analysis showed nothing suspicious.” He paused, but Jake remained tight-lipped.
“As you saw in there, Fransec is a highly respected wine. One of Werner’s favorites, in fact…. The wine board reviewed your letter. We determined that your complaint has no merit.”
As Timmons stared at Jake, his nostrils flared. He puffed out his chest and slid both thumbs under his belt. Jake leaned closer.
Timmons added, “Is that clear? I don’t want to see you making any mistakes now.” His tone had shifted. Jake stared into Timmons eyes for a few seconds longer and slowly nodded his head, Yes.
He assumed he was being threatened, so he best act afraid. Jake stepped back a half step and cleared his throat.
“We’re a couple of dairy men from Sonoma. We love our wine. Perhaps we got a bad bottle. Maybe it was a low-fill… improperly stored or sun damaged. Wally is keen to analyze things. He’s a chem grad from UC Davis. So, too much zeal on our part?”
Timmons cut Jake off. “So that’s the end of it then? No more reports, okay? Werner, as you heard, is committed to the reputation of California wines.”
Jake nodded. “Your lab has more experience. We defer to your investigation.”
“I’ll let Werner know we’ll hear no more about this. Remember, Mr. Knight, Mr. Semper is fiercely loyal to his brand. If this were to come to his attention, he’d seek a legal remedy. He’d crush you like a raisin. That’s expensive. Don’t risk your dairy.”
On that note, Jake cut Timmons off. “That won’t happen. And we both know Fransec stinks. That’s not how we do things in Sonoma.” Jake’s eyes drilled into Timmons until he turned away. No handshake was offered.