Lorenzo Vannucci was Valentino Vannucci’s second son. Lacking the business acumen of his father and his older brother, Lorenzo had been blessed with an extra helping of empathy and good humor. Tall, thin, and exceedingly handsome for a man in his late fifties, Lorenzo was Vannucci’s go-to guy if anyone had a work-related problem he or she wanted to talk about. The female employees loved him, and all the male employees, except one, looked upon Lorenzo as a close friend and confidant.
Lorenzo advised Carlo that their supplier had made a delivery that morning and he would check to make sure the requested items were available.
“Mr. Mathewson, I’m sorry for the wait,” said Carlo. “The afternoon chef is checking on our supply. May I call you back in just a few minutes?”
“Sure,” said Clark, providing Carlo with his phone number.
“Very good.”
Lorenzo walked into the cooler and inspected eight freshly processed turkeys, all placed in a row on a waist-high, stainless-steel shelf. Six of the turkeys weighed over twenty pounds, and two were in the ten-pound class. Lorenzo reached inside the body cavity of the first turkey and pulled out a two-and-a-half-pound duck, neatly wrapped in cellophane. Removing the cellophane, Lorenzo noticed that the duck had been professionally picked and cleaned, with not a single pinfeather left on the bird’s supple, fat-laden body. A small section of orange skin had been left at the heel joints, allowing Lorenzo to easily identify the duck as a mallard.
“Nice and plump, just the way we like ’em,” mumbled Lorenzo. “This one’s definitely been feeding on rice.”
One by one, Lorenzo retrieved a single duck from the body cavity of each turkey. Based on size, shape, and skin color, he confirmed that four mallards, two pintails, and two green-winged teal had been delivered that morning.
Wearing a traditional white toque, white coat, and white apron, Lorenzo walked into the dining room and whispered to Carlo, “Ne abbiamo sei grandi e due piccole.”
“Excellent,” said Carlo. Carlo understood that grandi generally indicated mallard or pintail and piccole meant green-winged teal. Vannucci’s had been one of San Francisco’s top-rated eating establishments since it first opened many years before. As such, they refused to offer anything but the highest quality and most sought-after variety of wild ducks to their “special” customers. Mallards, pintails, and teal were the ducks of choice. Canvasbacks had been popular during the restaurant’s early years, but since numbers of this once-coveted species had plummeted, they were no longer a reliable alternate-menu item.
“Be sure to ask if they want them roasted with skins on or skins off,” said Lorenzo, walking back to the kitchen.
The telephone rang at the real-estate brokerage office of Clark Mathewson.
“Mathewson Real Estate Group,” answered the receptionist. “Dorothy speaking.”
“Yes, this is Carlo at Vannucci’s Restaurant. May I speak to Mr. Mathewson, please?”
“Yes, Carlo. He’s been eagerly awaiting your call.”
“Carlo, my man! Thanks for getting back to me.”
“You’re in luck, Mr. Mathewson. We will have no problem completing your order.”
“That’s great!”
“I have a couple questions so we can make this a perfect evening for you and your guests.”
“Sure, go ahead.”
“Will there be ladies present?”
“Yes. My wife and our friend’s wife.”
“Sometimes the ladies prefer a smaller bird. Will that be the case with your party?”
“I think the ladies would prefer the smaller birds. I know Barbara is always watching her weight. Don’t tell her I said that.”
“I won’t,” said Carlo, chuckling. “Would members of your party prefer the birds roasted with the skins on or skins off?”
“With skins on. That’s the best part. My mouth is watering already.”
“We usually serve this special meal with wild rice and vegetables. Will that be satisfactory?”
“Absolutely.”
“The reason I’m asking these questions is because the items you’ve chosen take ninety minutes or more to prepare. Giovanni wants your meal to be perfect in every way. It will be necessary to begin your order long before you arrive at seven o’clock.”
“Everything sounds wonderful,” said Clark. “We’ll be looking forward to this evening.”
Hanging up the phone, Carlo rushed back to the kitchen and advised Lorenzo of the customers’ preferences. Lorenzo walked into a small corner office and wrote down instructions for Giovanni Sabatini, Vannucci’s head chef. Giovanni usually arrived about 3:00 p.m. to begin preparations for the evening’s meals.
Fifty-six-year-old Giovanni Sabatini enjoyed the well-earned reputation of being one of the Bay Area’s finest chefs. Feasting on one of his exquisitely prepared wild ducks was a culinary delight that kept most of Vannucci’s “special” customers coming back again and again.
Giovanni’s exemplary cooking skills were exceeded only by his exaggerated opinion of himself. Loud, brash, and unapologetic, Giovanni showed little or no concern for the feelings of others. One afternoon he had arrived early to prepare a duck dinner for some important political figures when Frank, a bright young chef’s apprentice, said, “Giovanni, are you ever concerned about getting caught?” The buying or selling of wild ducks was a violation of state and federal law, and everyone at Vannucci’s knew it.
Without so much as an explanation, Giovanni burst into a rage, lambasted Frank with a tongue lashing in Italian, then turned and walked away.
Lorenzo, who happened to overhear the conversation, patted Frank on the shoulder and said, “Follow me.” Both men walked outside, where two dishwashers were leaning against the back wall, smoking.
“Larry,” said Frank, still reeling from Giovanni’s rant, “what did Giovanni say?”
“Before I tell you, let me explain a few things.”
“Sure,” said Frank.
“I know you are my nephew and used to calling me Larry, but inside the restaurant, it’s better you call me Lorenzo. It goes with the ambiance of this fine old Italian restaurant, and the customers love it. Outside the restaurant, you may call me Larry or Uncle—anything you want. That goes for just about anyone who works here, except Giovanni: being the arrogant asshole that Giovanni is, he prefers to be called Chef Giovanni by his kitchen staff.”
“What are they laughing about?” said Frank, looking in the direction of the dishwashers.
“Never mind,” said Lorenzo, waving at the dishwashers to go back inside and get to work. “You’re gonna make a fine chef someday. Everyone likes you, and Victor and I are impressed by how quickly you’ve learned. If you have questions about anything that goes on here at the restaurant, come to me first.”
“I will,” said Frank, smiling and feeling much better. “But you still haven’t told me what Giovanni said.”
“Oh, let me think,” said Lorenzo. “As best as I can recall, Giovanni said, ‘My grandfather was a duck poacher, my father was a duck poacher, and my brother still poaches ducks. I don’t kill ducks, I don’t sell ducks, I just cook them.’”
“Is that all he said?”
“No, he also told you to wash the pans and stop asking stupid questions. I think Giovanni is sensitive about the duck thing and doesn’t want to talk about it.”
“Is it true what Giovanni said?”
“Is what true?”
“That his family was a bunch of duck poachers?”
“We have some time before the rest of the crew gets here, so I’ll tell you a little story. You must promise not to breathe a word of it to anyone.”
“I promise,” said Frank.
“First, his real name isn’t Giovanni.”
“What’s his real name?”
“It’s Ed.”
“Ed?”
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br /> “Yes,” said Lorenzo, chuckling. “When the person we know as Giovanni was born, his mother wanted him to have a genuine American name, so she named him Ed. Not Edmondo, not Edward, just Ed.”
“How did you find that out?”
“A couple years ago, we were closing up after a busy Sunday evening. People had been partying heavily and left half-empty wine bottles all over the dining-room tables. It was customary for the clean-up crew to bring the leftover bottles into the kitchen, stack them next to the sink, and pour them out before tossing them into the dumpster outside. ‘Hey, someone forgot to take care of all these wine bottles,’ Carlo said, after everyone except Giovanni and I had gone home. ‘I’ll take care of them,’ I said, ‘but before I do, why don’t we have ourselves a drink?’ ‘Good idea,’ said Carlo. ‘Tomorrow’s our day off, so we should all relax a little.’ I poured Carlo and me a glass of Chianti from one of the bottles. ‘Hey, Giovanni, come and have a drink with us,’ said Carlo. Giovanni was in his office doing something. ‘I’m busy,’ said Giovanni. ‘Come on,’ I said. ‘You’re never too busy to have a drink with your friends. Get your stuck-up Italian ass in here!’ ‘Okay,’ said Giovanni, ‘but only one, then I have to go home.’
“So, did Giovanni have a drink with you?” said Frank.
“The three of us drank Chianti, Brunello, Barolo, Frascati—you name it. By the time we had finished off four or five bottles, Giovanni was feeling no pain. A few more drinks and he wanted to tell us his life’s story.”
“What did he tell you?”
“First, he told us his real name was Ed. He said he chose the name Giovanni because it had a better ring to it than Ed Sabatini, famous Italian chef. I thought Carlo was going to hurt himself, he began laughing so hard. I told Giovanni I could see his point. Ed was better suited for some shithole coffee shop out on Highway 80. That’s when we all started laughing and didn’t stop until almost daylight.”
“Did he mention his family and all the duck poachers?” said Frank.
“Yes, before the night was over, Giovanni told us his entire family history. His grandfather had lived on the East Coast and was what Giovanni called a market hunter. These market hunters slaughtered ducks by the thousands, stuffed them into barrels, and shipped them off to big cities like Chicago and New York.”
“What else did he tell you?”
“He said the market hunters eventually killed off all the canvasbacks, making it difficult for his grandfather to earn a living.”
“So, what did Giovanni’s grandfather do?”
“Apparently, Giovanni’s grandfather had some cousins who lived here in the Bay Area. They wrote and told old man Sabatini that hunting was great in the Delta. He could move out here, join them, and take up where he left off.”
“What year was this?”
“I think it was just after the turn of the century. Anyway, all Giovanni’s grandfather knew how to do was kill ducks, so he packed up the family and came out to California. Giovanni’s father would eventually learn the family business and teach it to Giovanni’s older brother.”
“What about Giovanni? Did he become a duck poacher too?”
“No. He said he had no interest in guns and chose to look away when his father and his older brother arrived home with a load of ducks and geese. Giovanni loved to cook. Even as a child, he dreamed of being a famous chef.”
“That’s a great story,” said Frank. “Do you mind if I ask you one more question?”
“Go ahead. Then we better go inside.”
“How do you feel about illegally selling wild ducks? Aren’t you worried about getting caught?”
“You’re a very inquisitive young man. Where are all these questions coming from?”
“We’re studying conservation in one of my college classes. Last week, the professor took us on a field trip to the Suisun Marsh and spoke to us about waterfowl conservation.”
“Anything that goes on here at the restaurant, you must keep to yourself,” said Lorenzo. “Your father worked here for many years, and it’s because of his loyalty and hard work that Victor gave you this job.”
“I understand. You don’t have to worry about me saying anything.”
“That’s good. Here’s the way I look it. Valentino Vannucci, my father, has probably had ducks on the alternate menu off and on for the last thirty years. When I say alternate menu, I’m talking about the one we show only to customers we know and trust. Most of those customers are wealthy businessmen or important government officials. We are able to charge exorbitant prices for Giovanni’s duck dinners because, for these people, money is no object.”
“Like the couple who pulled up in a limo last week?”
“Exactly. I don’t think we sell more than a hundred duck dinners a year. It’s only during November, December, and early January that our supplier has them available. I know of at least five other restaurants here in the Bay Area that sell several times that many.”
“Who is our supplier?”
“Haven’t you seen that refrigerator truck out back on Thursday mornings?”
“You mean the one with the chubby kid on the side eating a drumstick?”
“That’s the one. Sometimes they deliver more than just turkeys.”
“What if you get caught?”
“If we get caught, we’ll pay the fine and say we’re sorry. About fifteen years ago, several restaurants got caught. Their fines were minimal, and they wrote it off to the cost of doing business.”
“I guess it’s worth the risk, huh?”
“Business is about making money, young man. If there’s enough money to be made and we can make a few special customers happy, it’s worth the risk. Now let’s go to work. You still need to wash those pans Giovanni left for you.”
THREE
Ardis “Dud” Bogar had engaged in the dirty business of duck dragging since its heyday in the 1930s. Still actively poaching ducks in his fifties, Dud taught his then eighteen-year-old son, Hollis, and Hollis’s high-school buddies Blake Gastineau and Jimmy Riddle everything they needed to know about creeping up on thousands of feeding ducks in the middle of the night and killing hundreds of the vulnerable birds at the same time. “Pick up the dead ones, especially the mallards and sprig, and don’t waste time chasin’ after all them wounded birds,” Dud would tell the boys. “You’ll need a driver you can count on. He’ll drop you off, pick you up, and act as a lookout. Ain’t no way the game warden’s gonna catch ya if you make the pick-up spot a mile or two from where ya done the shootin’. If ya see the game warden a-comin’, just start a-runnin’. Game wardens ain’t gonna catch nobody in them heavy rubber boots they wear. And whatever ya do, don’t get caught with all them ducks. Hide ’em in a ditch or someplace safe, and come back later when the coast is clear.”
Five months before succumbing to a combination of serious lung and liver ailments, Dud Bogar asked Blake Gastineau to meet him in the King’s Market parking lot in Gridley on a hot morning in July 1954. Once an imposing hulk of a man, Dud had been reduced to a mere shadow of his former self by his illnesses. His dark, leathery skin had turned white as a sheet, and his booming voice was now weak and raspy.
“What’s this all about?” said Gastineau, pulling up in one of his father’s flatbed trucks.
“Hop in, and we’ll take a little ride,” said Dud, coughing heavily.
“Man, you look like shit,” said Gastineau, climbing into the passenger seat of Dud’s 1947 Studebaker sedan. “You still driving this old junker?”
“It gets me where I wanna go. Besides, I don’t want people thinkin’ I got lots a money.”
“You don’t have to worry about that. Are you gonna tell me where we’re goin’?”
“I might not be around much longer,” said Dud, interrupted by a coughing spasm.
“Hey, man, I didn’t catch that.”
“I sai
d I wasn’t gonna be around much longer,” repeated Dud.
“Oh. I kinda figured you weren’t feelin’ too good.”
“I want ya ta meet my connection.”
“Your connection?”
“Yeah, did ya think I been sellin’ all them ducks we killed myself?”
“I guess I never thought about it.”
“Well, it’s time ya did.”
“Why me? Why not Hollis?”
“Hollis is my boy and all, but let’s face it, he ain’t the sharpest tool in the shed. If I leave Hollis in charge, you’ll all end up in jail.”
Bogar and Gastineau continued into Yuba City and east, through Marysville. Passing the Bryant Baseball Stadium, Dud asked Gastineau if he’d ever played ball there. Gastineau said he hadn’t played much baseball but had been recruited to play football at Yuba College.
“What happened with that? I ain’t seen you play football since you and Hollis won the league championship your senior year in high school.”
“Duck draggin’ happened. My first year at Yuba College was the same year the entire Butte Sink was swarmin’ with ducks. Instead of goin’ ta football practice, I was out scoutin’ the rice fields with you and Hollis. After killing ducks all night, I didn’t feel much like goin’ ta class or football practice the next day.”
“Yeah, but we made a potful a money. You boys are gonna make even more when I set you up with my connection.”
“Wha’d you say his name was?”
“I don’t think I ever mentioned his name. I done business with his pappy for almost twenty years. When old Clyde Butler bit the big one about five years ago, I started sellin’ to his kid.”
“So, what’s his kid’s name?”
“He ain’t really a kid no more. I’m guessin’ Pinky’s pushin’ forty.”
“Pinky?”
“His real name’s Clarence. His pappy used ta call him Pinky ’cause he’s got this freckly, white skin that turns pink when he gets mad.”
“Can we trust this Pinky?”
The Case of the Missing Game Warden Page 2
