by L. J. Martin
"Except for shooting through the glass."
"That's a factor. But I'll bet it was a fifty cal, and the glass wouldn't have been much, if anything, in the way of deflection."
"I see you had some sniper training in the Corps?"
"I did." Then I'm wondering, so I ask, "You wear the green?"
"I did, a dozen years. I served some of the same time you did."
"So you know I wouldn't have missed."
"You're not a suspect. You’re also not part of this investigation. So stay away. Leave the Castianos alone, and take a ride back to Vegas. I'll call you if you're needed…not that I can imagine why. That's it. And don't distract Ms. Thompson anymore. She's needed here."
I rise. "Nice meeting you, agent."
"So, back to Vegas?"
"I've got business in California."
"Nowhere near my business if you're smart. I'd hate to bust a fellow Marine for obstructing justice."
I salute her but don't get one in return. I round the table and give Tyler a peck on the cheek.
"You'll call?" she asks.
I wave over my shoulder as I head for the door. "I'll call."
"After this is over," Quintana snaps.
"Semper fi," I say, and give her a wave over my shoulder. Elbow past the fibbie at the door, and I’m gone.
I no more than fire the Vette up when my phone rattles with an unknown caller ring.
"Reardon," I answer.
"Castiano here," the gruff voice replies.
"To what do I owe the dubious pleasure?"
"I understand you get things done?" he asks.
"Legal things…" then I qualify, "Or at least things I consider right."
"The assholes snatched my old lady."
"Margo?"
"Yes, Margo. I ain't no raghead. I only got one."
"And?"
"And I need your help. Are you still in California?"
"I'm a half mile from your place."
"Come on over. As they say on TV, let's make a deal."
"On my way. I gotta drive into Malibu first, so I’ll be a while."
Tyler takes me to get my Vette and gives me a wet kiss when she drops me off.
The pencil-neck gateman waves me right on through. Tony eyes me dubiously as I park the Vette. Without so much as a good afternoon he shows me inside, this time to a library with ten-foot shelving and one of those rolling ladders, all surrounding a full-size snooker table with red felt to match red carpet but the carpet is patterned with fleur de lis in gold.
Tony shows me into the room, then leaves. Sammy has a tumbler of something in hand, and is leaning on the table. My new buddy Sergio is at the far end of the table, a pool cue in hand, looking like he'd like to use it on my noggin.
In a leather chair, with his knee in a cast, propped up on a bolster, is the guy whose knee I stomped, and he's not exactly giving me a welcome look.
"You met Sergio and Franco," Sammy says, and gives me a wink.
"Not officially," I say, and give both the boys a nod.
"Give us the room," Sammy says to his boys, and it's not a request. The one he called Franco stands with the help of Sergio and a crutch, and gimps out of the room with Sergio close behind.
"What can I do for you, Sammy?" I ask.
"You can do something for both of us."
"How's that?"
"The same guys who snatched your client snatched my old lady, so you can help us get them both back."
"You want me to work with frick and frack, and frack on crutches. No thanks."
"A quarter mil, you bring my old lady back. There's five of them. Fifty grand apiece for each one of them you put toes up. And there's a half dozen more over in Vegas, same price on their heads."
"These are the Albanian boys?"
"How'd you know that?"
"I've got my sources. How much do you owe them?"
He stares at me a moment, then mumbles. "Ten mil, plus the vig. They make it almost fifteen."
"And you loaned Coogan a mil when you owed the Albanian boys ten plus and you want me to believe you'll pay me a half mil, up to eight hundred or more, if I do your dirty work for you."
"It ain't just my dirty work. It's yours too."
"Why's Coogan in Nashville?"
"He's trying to cash a check drawn on Tammy's account. But it ain't gonna happen."
"Why not?"
"She's got plenty in the account, but he forged her sig and they ain't gonna cash no check without direct verbal authorization, probably at least a Skype face to face thing, from her. Coogan has a rep back there, and it ain't a lily white one."
"So, where are Tammy and Margo?"
"I got a good idea where, but we gotta shake first."
"She's in the country?" I ask.
"They are in the country, in fact if I'm right, in the state and not all that far. You gotta get my old lady…I don't give a rat's ass if you get Houston or not. That's your gig."
"Easy to say, but remember she's probably the only source of the mil plus Coogan owes you and you owe the Albanians."
"True, so save her sweet ass too."
I don't have anything to lose, so I walk around the table and extend my hand.
"We got no time to lose," Sammy says.
"I've got to go to Barstow in the morning. I'll be back late afternoon, and ready to rock and roll."
"Bullshit," he snaps. "We got no time to lose."
"I'm picking up some gear I'll need. Better to go prepared. Speaking of prepared, where do you think they are so I can get some recon started?"
"You know Paso Robles?"
"Sure, cow town turned yuppie wine town."
"I deeded them over the equity in a winery I owned up there, worth at least five mil for a chunk of what I owed them before…it started out at fifteen mil, I paid it down but it’s back there again…and I have reason to believe that's where they got the ladies stashed. I still got some friends…old employees…up there. The scumbag Albanians gave me another seventy-two hours before they start sending Margo and Tammy back in chunks."
"Give me an address on the place and I'll get my people to work."
"I'll do better than that, I'll give you a set of plans. I built the place a dozen years ago."
"And the address, and the names and numbers of your 'friends' at the winery. When are you supposed to hear from Coogan to see if he's got some dough for you?"
"I'm surprised I haven't heard by now."
"I'm going to move up my meeting in Barstow." I glance at my watch and see it's almost five PM. "I'll be back here by two AM. Have the plans here and we'll go over them in the morning…early."
"Sergio and Franco will back you up."
"No deal, Sammy. My people will back me up."
"How many you got?"
"Two, besides myself, if I can get ahold of one of them. If not, then there'll only be two of us."
"These are bad motherfuckers," Sammy says, shaking his head.
"They may be bad, but my buddy's bad at a thousand yards. You gotta give me your word that Sergio and Franco will stay out of my play."
He looks dubious, but shrugs and nods his head. "I got seventy-two hours, I'll give you forty-eight."
"Get me the address."
"I got a plane at the Oxnard airport. Unless you gotta drive for some reason, how about my guy flies you to Barstow?"
"That'll work. You store my Vette and someone drives me to Oxnard. I'll drive myself back from Barstow in my rig."
"What's so important about this so-called rig?"
I laugh. "It's well rigged, that's what."
"Tony will drive you to the plane."
"Get me that address, and the names of anyone at the winery who might help."
13
I call Pax on the way to the Oxnard airport and get things started, making sure he loads my Harley Iron in the van. All those lanes and two tracks in the vineyards and orchards, the bike might just come in handy. I also call my buddy Skip, who I call the Viking. Skip w
as with us in Desert Storm and went through some very bad stuff. He stays a little close to the bottle and has been known to test the water of hard drugs, but he's one of us and if I ask him to stay straight he will. And hand to hand I'll put him up against any four normal guys, bad or not. He also knows every weapon in our arsenal.
Sammy, my new employer, travels in style.
A turbo King Air is about as nice as it gets and I feel a little guilty riding in the back, alone, like some potentate so I right-seat it beside the pilot. He's a stoic cat who pays little attention to his passenger but lots of attention to his job, so I don't bother him with small talk.
Besides, it gives me time to think.
I got Sol on the way with my van after Pax loaded it up with select items from my ministorage, and put Pax onto the Castiano winery which is out Highway 46 only a few miles east of Paso Robles. Sol will bring the van directly onto the tarmac of the fixed base operator at Barstow so the pilot will be able to taxi right up next to the van, and I've talked Sammy into giving my little buddy a ride back to Vegas in the King Air. Sol will be pissed not to get the Vette to drive, but stoked about getting a ride in a classy airplane. And I put Pax onto a couple of Abanian names Sammy's provided me with.
Armand Ahmeti and Edvin Gashi are reported, by Sammy, to be number one and two in the Albanian Vegas hierarchy. And they have two dozen or more soldiers, a half-dozen of whom Pax has provided me with dossiers full of pictures and background info.
It's interesting how loyalties change. I was at odds with the Castiano family, and am now in bed with them, so to speak. A classic case of the enemy of my enemy is my friend. It'll be interesting to see if things have now leveled out and we know who the enemy actually is.
Not that Sammy is a friend, but he is a potential payday, and he is the enemy of my enemy, and that's close enough for the job at hand.
When I get back to the Castiano compound after the long drive and listening to a dozen country albums, some Katie Perry, and the total repertoire of the queen of the blues' Mamie Smith, who has the distinction of being the first African-American to record a vocal blues song, it's very late. The rusty old gal has a mystical quality about her voice and helped keep me awake. Someone did a great job of cleaning up recordings from 1920.
It's one thirty AM when I pull in the driveway and I'm pleased to see that Tony is waiting up for me. He offers to cook me something but I grabbed a burger on the way, so I pass. Not only did the plane make me feel like a potentate, but the guest room I'm ushered into is equally regal. Tony informs me he's already set the bedside alarm for five thirty AM as I'm to meet with Sammy for breakfast and to go over the plans at six.
Five thirty comes pretty damned early, but I shower and shave—I hate to go into an op unshaven as the thought of some mortician shaving me gives me the willies—and dress in jungle camo as I suspect I'll be doing some recon from out in the vineyards. Skip is flying into Paso in the late afternoon and Pax will charter over if I can't get Sammy to send a plane for him, should I decide I'll need him. And I'm sure I will.
Sammy is a detail guy, and we go over the plans…hide, hair, bones and all. He also fills me in on his former ranch manager who stayed on to work for the Albanians and still lives in a foreman's house on the easterly of the two sections of Castiano Winery. Only four hundred or so acres are developed to Zinfandel, Cabernet Sauvignon and Merlot, while one-sixty is planted with apples. By the Google Earth pics, I've looked at the apples and the vineyards are mature. Sammy had plans to get into hard cider as well as wine. The balance of the property is covered with scattered oak and grazing land.
Sammy talked about the place with reverence and it's clear it tore a chunk out of his fat heart when he had to give it up.
I'm enjoying the ride up the coast through Malibu, inland past Oxnard, the coast again from Ventura to a few miles north of Santa Barbara, and then slightly inland at Gaviota Pass, past the quaint town of Solvang, on to Santa Maria, the five cities touching the coast again, then inland again to San Luis Obispo, past Atascadero and finally roll into Paso Robles. The Pacific I've passed is quiet, slow heaves of ocean dotted with floating kelp and occasional seabirds floating while others skim the water close enough that if they dropped their feet they’d be wet. Far out there's a bank of clouds, and it portends a change in the weather. I was kind of wishing I were riding the Harley, but the possible change in weather is changing my thinking. I'm on Highway 101 all the way until, almost through Paso Robles, I turn east onto Highway 46 where Castiano Winery resides, one of the largest of two dozen wineries flanking both sides of the highway.
I'm a wine fan, nothing like a great Cab Sav or Malbec with a thick steak, but I'm no snob. Many ten-buck bottles I've enjoyed more than one some snob has paid a Franklin for. However, I'm looking forward to taking a tour of the Castiano operation. Some wineries have rodent problems and I plan to clean the rats out of this one if they get in my way.
I made a drive-by of the place, impressed with a stone gate and rose-bush-lined wide driveway leading to a tasting room of the same stone that formed the wide-arched entry gate. There's a stylish twenty-foot-wide sign announcing "Wine tasting and tours." A half-dozen cars and an RV are in the lot, I presume partaking of the goodies and being softened up so they’ll overpay for some vino. A hundred yards beyond the tasting room is the winery itself. I drive a half-mile beyond the gate and spot a service road and what I know from Sammy is the vineyard manager's residence. It’s a simple stucco with a composition roof, probably three bedrooms and one bath for Enrico Ramos and his wife and three kids. Bikes and trikes and a plastic kiddy pool litter the yard. My contact, hopefully, at Castiano.
I return on the far side of Highway 46 and pull off on a crown in the road where I dig my binocs out of the center console and can see over the vineyards, now flush with bright green spring growth.
The winery building is at least a half-acre in size, and stone too, at least on the side facing the road. It backs up to a bank rising about thirty feet, and is partly dug into the hill. I know from studying the plans that they've dug a cave into the hill—what's a winery without a cave—where they age wine in scorched French oak.
Next to the winery building is a crushing pad with a ramp where trucks can dump the harvest. The fruit travels via conveyors into a stemmer crusher and the juice moves on via stainless steel piping into thousand-gallon stainless fermentation tanks. Then maceration takes place and the mixture of juice and skins are heated to release color from the skins in the case of red wines. The pressing of the mixture releases pure red juice, which still needs to be filtered.
On the west side of the building are two three-sided six foot high bins of concrete block, each containing a few tons of material. Diatomaceous earth makes up one huge pile, used for filtering; bentonite clay another, used for fining or giving the solids in the wine something to cling to so they'll sink to the bottom of the fining barrels or tanks. Only after some additions does the wine go to oak barrels to be aged. On top of the rise three hundred yards to the west are a half-dozen cottages which must house farm labor. Not fancy, but clean and neat.
In the distance, with only a tile roof visible from the highway, is a residence and guest house surrounded by large California sycamore trees. I know the residence to be at least seven thousand square feet, two stories in its middle section with two one-story wings jutting out at forty-five degree angles, and a guest house on the far side of a large swimming pool and Jacuzzi. The guesthouse I know from the plans to be a two bedroom affair, two in-bath suites separated by great room, kitchen, and dining room.
I can understand why Sammy was remorseful.
After a cursory drive-by, a u-turn, another drive-by and stop with the binocs, I move on up the highway back toward Paso Robles. Wanting to kill a little time as the same van going back and forth might attract attention, I go to a drive-thru and get a fish sandwich and a cup of coffee, then return and again drive past the main entrance a half-mile to the drive leading to the Ram
os residence. I pull the van off the road and raise the hood so it appears that I have car trouble, then hoof it the two hundred yards to the house.
Mrs. Ramos is a pleasant, rotund little woman with bright black eyes and a pair of kids peering out, one on each side of flaring hips wrapped in a stained apron. She has flour on her hands, and brushes them as she smiles at me.
"Is Mr. Ramos in?" I ask.
"Señor Ramos...garage," she says, and points to the side of the house. It's obvious to me her English is limited. I smile and nod and walk the way she's pointed. A white pickup, new with Castiano Winery and a bunch of purple grapes emblazoned on the door, is parked in the house driveway in front of a single-car garage door, but beyond is a thirty by sixty foot shop building and two guys are working on a tractor-pulled spray rig with high booms that would cover at least three rows on either side of the rig. So I head that way.
"Mr. Ramos," I call out as I approach, as either of them could be.
A solid-looking Hispanic, six inches shorter than me but equally as wide, and with callused and scarred hands that look like they started with a shovel handle when he was about nine, steps forward and offers one of those stubby hands.
He's a gentle shaker but I get the impression he could crush rocks if he had the urge.
"Sí," he says.
"You got a moment? I need to talk."
He nods and we walk thirty feet to the shade of a fruitless mulberry, leaving the other guy to his work.
"I'm Dick Strong, a friend of Mr. Castiano," I say, by way of introduction.
"Señor Sammy, he called me," he says. "But he said Mike somebody was coming?"
I ignore that, and continue. "He's worried about Mrs. Castiano. He thinks she may be here, held against her will. Have you seen her...and another young blonde woman?"
"I no see, but I think maybe...."
"Maybe?"
"Maybe she here."
"She, or two ladies?"
He shrugs.
"So," I ask, "why do you think she might be here?"
"Cars come and go late at night. When no workers. Food is taken to the aging cave and no one allowed to the deep storage."
