by Tom Pitts
“Sorry, kid. I did what I could. Now what do you want to do?”
Steven looked through the windshield at the bus. It was a good question. He had no idea. Without that backpack he was lost. No cell phone and no numbers to call anyone, he wasn’t sure how to reach anybody without his phone contacts. He wasn’t sure why this stranger had helped him. The man had a gun and a bottle of whiskey in the glove box of his truck, for Christ’s sake. Steven knew trusting someone like this might be a mistake. But, he didn’t want to get out of the truck either. Standing on the side of the highway, broke and alone, sounded even worse. Quinn didn’t seem that bad, really. He kind of reminded Steven of his older brother. “I don’t know.”
“Tell you what,” Quinn said, “I’ll see that you get to the city. I’ve got to make a little stop, though. Keep me company, maybe you can give me a hand.”
Far from home, pockets empty, no way of calling friends or family, Steven said, “Sure.”
“All right, then. You ever been to wine country?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “No? Napa Valley here we come.”
Chapter Two
“So tell me more about the drug running business.”
They’d been on the highway heading south for only a few miles. The few remaining redwoods had dissipated and the hillsides were lush with green grass punctuated with clumps of oak and poplar trees.
Steven was looking at his contusions in the mirror behind the sun visor. He was caught off-guard by Quinn’s direct question. “Huh?”
“Yeah, you know, the drug running business. You’re a mule on the green highway. I saw a segment on the news at the motel the other night. You little fuckers are the scourge of Northern California.”
“I don’t know anything about that. I’m only trying to put together a few bucks with a friend.”
“Amateur, huh? In on the ground floor of the next big thing? That’s okay too, I guess. I didn’t figure I had Pablo Escobar here in the truck with me. I only thought you might teach me something I don’t know.”
Steven didn’t respond. He didn’t know how to reply, not sure whether this guy was teasing or had turned on him.
“I’m always interested in how people make a living. ’Specially up here. Don’t look like there’s shit for money and even less opportunity. Fuckin’ trailers and broke down pickups. Looks like one big, sad country song.” When the comment failed to elicit a response, Quinn said, “You know what I’m talking about. You’re from around here, right? Up north?”
“How do you know where I’m from?”
“Deductive reasoning, kid. You should try it some time. If you were a little more tuned-in on that bus you probably wouldn’t a gotten bopped on the head back there in Willits.”
Steve looked up at his swollen forehead in the visor’s mirror.
Quinn said, “You know, you staring at that big ol’ lump ain’t gonna make you feel any better. I wish I had something to give you, but I don’t. Why don’t you take a hit off that Jack in the glove box?”
Steven shook his head ever so slightly. “I’m not much for whiskey.”
“No? Then I will. Hand me that thing, will you?”
Steven did and Quinn unscrewed the cap with his teeth once more, took a swallow, and handed the bottle back to Steven. “Go ahead. It’s medicinal. I won’t tell Mom and Dad.”
Steven took a pull, winced at the burn, and placed the cap back on the bottle. Then he flipped the visor back up and steadied his gaze on the road.
“Let me guess, hippie parents, never kept the hard stuff around but had no problem smoking dope in the living room every night. Seemed loving, but permissive, and ultimately didn’t give a shit?”
Steven’s voice rasped from the alcohol. “More deductive reasoning?”
Quinn laughed. “No, if you’re from up here, then it’s just playing the odds.”
The road burned on south. The sparsely wooded areas had opened up and they drove through wide valleys. The green hills would only stay that way for a few months before they turned brown under the California sun. It was lush and cool and soon vineyards began to crop up, their vines young and sprouting, clinging to the acres of wire frame that stood in clean rows combed across the land.
Quinn finally turned off the 101 and got on Highway 128, a smaller road where the vegetation first clung to the edges of the asphalt, then it too opened up to the rolling hills filled with grapes. More and more grapes.
“Where’re we heading?”
“A friend of mine’s. He’s gonna lend us his car. A little more stylish than this thing.”
Steven fell silent again and watched the pastoral view. The road was smooth but the slightest jostle made his injuries flare up and he found himself pushing his back into the seat to absorb the shock. Although the sun was shining through the windshield, he grew cold as his body worked to push blood to all his throbbing bruises.
After a few more miles, just past the town of Calistoga, Quinn pulled the truck off the highway onto a smaller road. Their path remained paved, but gone were the painted lines on the sides or middle.
“I thought you said we were going to Napa?”
“Napa County. Not the town. Place we’re headin’ is a little farther up the road here. You all right? Hanging in? You gotta piss or anything?”
Steven shook his head. He was hungry again, but, even if they had any food, his mouth hurt too much to eat. He wished he’d been able to finish the burger in Willits. He was thirsty too, but the only thing to drink in the truck was whiskey.
“This’ll only take a few minutes. Then we’ll be on our way.”
“And you’re still gonna take me to the city, right?”
“You bet.”
The road wound away from the valley and soon Quinn pulled the truck onto a long thin asphalt driveway. A white sign hung by the gate announcing Oulilette Vineyards. They passed a few workers tending the vines in the fields. Quinn rolled down his window and gave them a big open wave. They waved back.
They rolled up the drive to a Spanish-style villa. It was wide and low, white stucco with red clay tiles and a broad cement staircase curving up to its large oak doors. It reminded Steven of one of those old California Missions.
To the right of the house was a matching garage with four sets of double doors. Vehicles parked in front of every one. Most of them pickup trucks Steven assumed belonged to the workers. A couple of nice ones: a Mercedes, a BMW, some sort of sports car Steven didn’t recognize. To the left was a tower at least three stories high. It was positioned to look out over the fields. It, too, matched the house and garage.
“Nice place, huh? Fucking pool in the back, hot tub, handball court and gym in the basement. This guy lives like a king.”
“And he’s a friend of yours?”
“A good friend.” Quinn let the truck roll to a stop and pulled the emergency brake. “Open the box and hand me that .45, would you?”
Steven paused, looked at Quinn, trying to read him, wondering why he needed a gun to visit a friend—a good friend.
“Sorry, kid, but as many miles as we’ve traveled, I’ve barely gotten to know you. I don’t leave guests in my truck with a loaded weapon. Bad etiquette.”
Steven wasn’t sure he knew what “etiquette” was. He opened the glove box and handed over the weapon.
Quinn said, “Help yourself to the whiskey, though. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
Steven watched Quinn walk up to the large double oak front door and reach to the right to hit the bell. He heard the rich chime from where he sat. He could see the butt of the .45 sticking out of Quinn’s pants at the small of his back. After a moment, the door swung open and Quinn went inside. He sat in silence, a light breeze floating up from the fields. He turned his head to see the workers toiling out there. They were busy, far away now, and ignored the truck.
***
“What brings you all the way out here?” the man said. He was portly and tanned from being out in the sun. He wore round spectacles and a w
hite linen dress shirt.
“You knew I’d be stopping by.”
“No, I didn’t actually. I thought I was all done with Richard. I’ve steered clear of that bunch for years.”
“Nice place you got here. You really bottle the shit or is this all for show?”
“What do you mean? Of course I bottle. The product is excellent. May I offer you a taste?”
“Of course. That’d be swell.”
“Swell? Okay. Same old Quinn. Let me get you a glass.”
The man walked toward the kitchen and Quinn followed. The kitchen was large and modern with an island in the middle that boasted eight burners and a grill. They were spotless and looked as though they’d never been used.
“This is a vintage from a few years back. Right amount of sun. Right amount of rain. I was extremely lucky that year.” He reached up and took a crystal wine glass from a cupboard and set it on the counter in front of Quinn, then bent down and opened a large wine fridge built into the cupboard beside the dishwasher and selected a bottle.
As the man bent over, Quinn reached across the counter and plucked a large carving knife from a magnetic knife block sitting beside the cutting board.
The man straightened, turned, and saw Quinn with the knife.
“What’s that for?”
Without hesitation or explanation, Quinn reached forward and slashed the right side of the man’s neck. The man’s eyes lit up behind his glasses. He dropped the bottle to the kitchen floor where it bounced without breaking. Both his hands went toward his neck. Blood was pulsing out, spurting between the man’s fingers. He made a sound with his mouth that was really no sound at all.
“What a mess,” Quinn said. “Let’s stop that heart from pumpin’ out all that blood.” Quinn thrust forward and stuck the knife into the man’s chest. As he pulled it back out, the man fell, first to his knees, then onto his back with his legs folded up underneath him.
Quinn checked himself for blood and didn’t see any. He walked to the sink and grabbed a paper towel before turning on the faucet. Then, with some dish soap, he washed his hands and the knife. He dried his hands with the paper towel and let the knife clatter to the stainless steel basin. He tore off another paper towel and turned to walk out.
There was a long coat rack nailed to the wall by the front door, and next to it was a pegged board with several sets of keys. Quinn studied the keys without touching them before he selected a set.
With the towel, Quinn opened the front door and checked on Steven sitting in the truck. The boy sat with his head turned toward the fields. Quinn gave the doorbell a quick swipe and walked toward the truck.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?”
The sound of Quinn’s voice startled Steven. He turned and saw Quinn grinning at him through the open window, sunglasses back on.
“You know how to drive, right? I forgot that I told someone I’d lend him the truck after I stopped by here and picked up the car. Tell you what, why don’t you follow me. I’m gonna head back into Calistoga and meet my friend at the golf course there. We can grab another bite and then be on our way. What’d you say?”
Steven said, “Sounds good.”
Quinn walked back to the row of cars parked in front of the garage. He walked slowly down the line as though he were picking one out. Finally he stopped at a brown BMW coupe, opened the door, and got in. Quinn warmed the engine for almost a minute before pulling back and parking beside the truck. He left it running, got out, and returned to the truck window.
“Hey, what’re you doing? Let’s go. Slide over.” He tossed Steven the key. One ring with one key.
Steven grabbed the steering wheel and used the leverage to pull himself across the seat and into the driver’s position. He started the truck just in time to watch Quinn head down the driveway to the main road.
As they left, Quinn honked at the workers from the BMW and waved his arm out the window. The men in the field waved back.
They drove in tandem back into Calistoga. Quinn led the way through town to the St. Helena Golf Course. It was a small course that curved around the Calistoga Speedway. On Grant Street an entrance led into a parking lot that sat adjacent to an RV park. Quinn pulled the BMW in and pointed to a parking spot for Steven.
After Steven had parked, he rolled up the windows and ran over to the BMW. “What do I do with this?” he said, holding out the key.
“Hop in,” Quinn said. “I’m starving.”
Steven climbed into the passenger seat and they pulled out.
“The key?”
“I just asked you what you wanted me to do with it.” Steven again held the key out in his palm.
“Shit.” Quinn pulled over by the side of the entrance and said, “Be right back.”
He took the key and jogged back to the truck.
Inside, Quinn wiped everything he could find. Steering wheel, dashboard, radio. He emptied the ashtray into a plastic bag and took the bottle of Jack from the glove box. With a paper towel, he pulled forward the back rest and pulled out a heavy black doctor’s bag and set it on the gravel outside the truck. After that, he locked and shut the doors. He walked to either side and gave the door handles a wipe, too.
When he was done, he tossed the plastic bag in a trash can near the entrance and trotted back to the BMW. Before he got in, he popped the trunk with the key fob and dropped in the leather doctor’s bag.
“I saw a place up here on the left that looked okay.” Quinn pulled the car back into the street. “Ain’t much in a burg like this, but I usually have a good sixth sense when it comes to food.” He turned his head and smiled at Steven. “And a lot of other things.”
Chapter Three
“I’m here now. I’m standing in his kitchen, lookin’ at him.”
Maurice Tremblay was standing over Oulilette’s body, talking on his cell phone. He was big, sturdy, and looked like a cop. Only he wasn’t a cop. Not recently.
“I must’ve got here just after he left…No, they didn’t see nothing. Bunch of fucking beaners, what’d you expect?” He listened to the phone. He felt like a cigarette, only he knew it’d be best to wait. It was a crime scene now and the less he did in there the better. He stepped back from the body to get a better viewing angle, careful not to step in any blood. “I gotta call the locals now, that’s what…Yes, I have to. It’s a fucking murder…We have to do the right thing here or it may come back to bite us, trust me…I dunno, I’ll think of something.” He looked down at Oulilette and the puddle of blood still growing around his body. The blood was thick, dark, but had not yet congealed. Oulilette’s eyes remained open and had clouded slightly; they still held the look of surprise. Tremblay squinted at the opaque pupils as though they might tell him something. “C’mon, you knew he was coming…I don’t know, but I can guess where he’ll end up. He’s going to try to get the girl.” Tremblay sighed. “I don’t know. She wants to be found about as much as he does.”
The conversation ended without another comment. Tremblay looked around the kitchen some more. He saw the knife in the sink, the empty glass on the counter, and the spilled bottle of white wine on the floor. He walked to the house phone and dialed 9-1-1.
***
Tremblay watched three squad cars file in, lights and sirens on. Probably going to be the biggest thing this town had seen in a while. He sat on the cement stairs smoking, waiting ’til all three had pulled up to the house before getting up.
“Are you the one that called?” The first officer looked to be in his twenties. Tremblay could see he was both nervous and excited.
The young patrolman walked toward Tremblay with his hand extended. When Tremblay didn’t shake it, he asked, “Where’s the body?”
Tremblay hooked a thumb behind him. “Kitchen.”
The officer nodded. “Have you touched anything in there?”
“Phone.”
The officer turned to his partner on the left. Same age, same mustache, same build, could have been his clone. “Peters, take th
is man’s statement. I’m gonna have a look.”
Peters sighed at being relegated to the role and took out his notepad. “All right. What’s your name?”
As Tremblay told him, two more officers trotted up the cement stairs. Another pair stood near the patrol cars, facing the open and empty fields, as though it were their duty to keep back invisible crowds.
“How do you spell that?”
Tremblay spelled it out slowly.
“How did you end up out here today? Do you know the victim?”
“Yeah, I’ve known him for years. I had some personal business in Napa; I was gonna pick up a case of wine for my ex-wife. Try to appease the old hag. Figured I’d drop in on my old buddy and see how he was doing. Maybe get a deal on some vino.”
The young policeman dutifully jotted down notes. “When is the last time you saw the victim?”
“Shit, I don’t know. Years ago. I told you, he was an old friend, not a close one. How long you been on the job, Peters? Did I get that right? Peters?”
“Yes, that’s right. If you don’t mind, sir, I’ll ask the questions.”
“This’s your first homicide, huh?”
Peters stopped writing and looked at Tremblay. Gave him his hard look.
“Take it down a notch, son,” Tremblay said. “I’m ex-police. San Jose Police Department. The reason I mention it is: you haven’t even asked what time it was I got here.”
Peters relaxed a little, his tone softening as though he were now addressing a confidant. “To tell the truth, I don’t think they’ve had one the entire time I’ve been with the force. This stuff doesn’t happen too often up here.”
“You mind if I smoke?” Tremblay shook one out of his pack before Peters answered him. The veteran cop acting cool and above it all. “San Jose, summertime, sometimes we’d get one, maybe two a week. Murder loves the heat. Mexican gangs mostly, but a one-eight-seven is a one-eight-seven, right?”
“We got the Mexican gangs up here, too. Plenty of ’em. But they’re not shooting each other, far as we know.”
