by Matt Kincade
Alex exchanged glances with Carmen then said, “‘Fraid not, Professor. Wish we did.”
“Well, if you find out, please let me know. Perhaps someone has this growing wild in their yard. It’s even possible that some little winery around here is growing a vineyard of this stuff. They might not even know what it is. I could probably publish a paper about it. And I’d love to try a bottle. It would be like taking a sip of history.”
“We’re a little in the dark ourselves,” Alex said, “but if we find out, we’ll let you know. Thank you for your time.”
Back in the hall, Carmen said, “Wine.”
“Right? Somehow that fits. Can’t explain it, but it feels right.” Alex took off his hat, ran a hand through his hair, and replaced the hat again. He lowered his voice. “Now all we gotta do is find out which winery is growing an extinct grape, and we got our vamp. How hard could that be?” He turned and leaned his head back into the office. “Say, Professor? You know offhand about how many wineries there are, around here?”
“In the state of New Mexico? Well, as far as commercial wineries, fifty or sixty. Smaller places, who knows? Hundreds.”
Alex turned back to Carmen. “Well, shit.”
***
They reached the car again. Carmen turned to Alex. “Hey, remember what we found with that grape?” She pulled out an accordion file and rifled through it until she found a photo of the folded piece of label. “Do you suppose this could be part of a wine label?”
Alex examined the photo. It was a cream-colored label with a scrap of border on it. A black line, a red line. Farther up, the very tip of some kind of logo. “Maybe, darlin’. Maybe. Gonna be harder to find than a black jellybean in a rabbit hutch.”
Carmen shook her head. “Do you just make these lines up?”
Alex grinned. “Yeah, maybe. Well, c’mon. Let’s find us a wine store.”
***
The bell on the doorway dingled as they entered the Oaken Barrel Wine Bar. Carmen looked around and took in the scene. Practically every surface of the place was polished wood. A wooden bar ran across one wall, lined with wooden stools. Wooden half barrels stood on a hardwood floor, filled with displays of wine bottles. Wooden wine racks lined the other two walls. Brazilian jazz played quietly in the background. The store was empty, save for a pale, bookish bartender. He paused from wiping down the bar, pushed up his wire-rimmed glasses, and said, “Welcome. Can I get you anything?”
Alex tipped his hat. “No, thanks. Just lookin’ around.”
Turning to Carmen, Alex pulled the photo out of his pocket. “Well, best get started.”
Carmen pointed to a wall labeled local wineries. “Over here.” She picked up a bottle. “Well, not that one.” She tried another. And another.
Ten minutes later, still no luck. The bartender watched them curiously. “Is there something in particular I can help you find?” he asked.
“Thing is…” Alex started.
“We were at a dinner party the other night,” said Carmen. “The host had some wine we really enjoyed. He said it was locally made, but we can’t remember what the name was.”
“Had a bit too much,” Alex said with a goofy grin.
“But we’re sure we’d recognize the label if we saw it. Are these all your local wines?”
The bartender straightened up. “We have the best selection of locally produced vintages in Las Cruces. If you can’t find it here, it doesn’t exist.” He looked them up and down, pausing at Alex’s polished snake-skin boots, and made some sort of internal judgment. He said, “We do have another display room, where we keep some of our higher-end selections.”
He led them through the back door and into a small wood-floored room, lined on all sides with bottle racks.
“Do you mind if we look around?” Carmen asked.
He answered with a “go ahead” gesture.
The only furnishing was a small oak table. The bartender leaned nervously against it as they pawed through the inventory.
After a few more minutes, Carmen pulled out a bottle. The border consisted of a red line outside a black line. The logo was a heraldic drawing of a dragon, its wings curled to form a round border. “Alex,” she said. “Look.”
“Well, goddamn,” he breathed. He pulled out the picture of their scrap of label and held it up to the bottle. The edges matched up perfectly. “Goddamn.”
The label read, “Mondragon.”
“This is the one,” said Carmen. “We’ll take this one.”
The bartender took the bottle gingerly in both hands. He admired it as if it were a newborn infant. “You had this at a friend’s party?” he said. “Those must have been very good friends. This bottle is three thousand dollars.”
“Three thousand? Fer a—” Alex began. Carmen elbowed him.
“We’ll take it,” she said. “What can you tell us about this winery?”
“Mondragon is rather mysterious.” Holding the bottle carefully with both hands, the bartender made his way up to the cash register. Alex and Carmen followed behind him. “I’ve heard that it’s the oldest continuously operating winery in New Mexico. Perhaps in the whole country. But that’s just talk. You see, they don’t have any official publicity. No winery tours, no advertising, no anything. They discourage publicity. No one is even certain where the place is. So everything I’ve heard is just…rumor. Supposedly they’re on the outskirts of Las Cruces, in the mountains. But they don’t even sell their wine domestically. It goes straight to Europe. I had to buy these bottles from a wholesaler in England.”
“No one’s ever tried to find them?” Carmen asked.
“A few years ago, a writer for a wine magazine was on a crusade to find them, but he never got to finish. He was killed in a terrible car accident.”
The bartender reached the front counter. While he talked, he reverently wrapped the bottle in layers of brown paper, taped it, and dropped it into a wine-size paper bag. “People say the Mondragon family is one of the oldest in the state,” he continued. “I’ve heard the land the vineyard is on has been in the family so long that it was given to them by the Spanish crown, under the land grant system. Again, just hearsay and rumor. But supposedly they do everything the old-fashioned way. No chemistry to test the wines, no artificial fertilizer, no cultured yeasts, no sulfites. Just earth and grapes and the vintner’s instinct. But it’s marvelous stuff. They let the wine speak for itself. They seem to pride themselves on the mystery of it all. The cachet. The only winery I’ve ever heard of that has paid not to be mentioned in a wine magazine. But people who know wine know Mondragon. I was lucky to get any bottles at all. And three thousand dollars is for last year’s vintage. Some of the older ones…well, they sell at auctions, not places like this.”
“That’s absolutely fascinating,” said Carmen. She flashed him a brilliant smile. To Alex, she said, “Pay the man, darling.”
The man squinted carefully at Alex’s fake ID and held on to the bottle until the credit card cleared. “Thank you very much!” he said. “Come again anytime. And tell your friends!”
“Thank you! We will!” said Carmen. The little bell tinkled again as they left.
They exited the store and stepped onto the covered brick sidewalk that ran past a row of faux-adobe buildings in the Las Cruces historical district. “Jiminy Christmas, we didn’t have to actually buy the bottle! Three thousand bucks for a bottle of rotten grape juice—”
“You don’t like wine?” said Carmen, as they walked down the sidewalk, past a store selling crystals and metaphysical books.
“Just think it’s overblown is all. Bunch a highfalutin rich folk wantin’ to think they’re better than everyone else on account of they can afford to pay more money for the same bottle of grape juice. Bet most of the folks who buy these sorts of wines couldn’t tell this from the five-dollar bottle you’d buy at Rite Aid.”
Carmen smirked. “Well, have you ever tried three-thousand-dollar wine?”
“Can’t rightly say I h
ave. But I can’t help thinkin’ how many cold beers I could buy with that kind of scratch.”
“I haven’t tried wine this expensive either. But this seems like as good a time as any. Let’s call it research.”
“So where we goin’ now? Truck’s back that a way.”
“Well, if we’re going to drink wine that costs as much as a used car, we’re going to need some wineglasses. And maybe some cheese and baguettes.”
Alex rolled his eyes but smiled as Carmen snaked her hand around his waist. “Highfalutin nonsense.”
***
Sunset. The remnants of a late-afternoon rainstorm lingered in the sky, burning bright pink and orange as the sun dipped under the western horizon. The deck boards were still beaded with water, and the air smelled of moist earth. Sitting on the top step of the stairs, Alex twisted the corkscrew in and pulled out the cork with a hollow pop.
“We smell the cork now, right?” said Carmen, sitting next to him.
He smirked. “You’re askin’ me? You’re the fancy college girl.”
“I seem to remember that wine wasn’t what most people were drinking in college,” she replied. “More like Pabst and Coors Light.” She picked up the corkscrew along with the impaled cork and brought it up to her nose. “It smells like a wine-soaked cork.”
“Ain’t that a shock?” Alex poured the wine into two brand-new wineglasses. They touched the glasses together. “Cheers.” He put his nose in the glass and inhaled, then took a sip.
“Well damn,” he said. “Ain’t that something?”
The wine flowed over his tongue, insinuating itself into his taste buds, coating his throat. A dozen scents bloomed in his nose, each one crisp and distinct, yet blending perfectly together. The smell of a hot summer night. Cinnamon. Damp earth. Dry, seasoned wood.
“Wow,” said Carmen. “I mean, I’ve had wine before, but…”
“But not like this,” Alex finished. He took another sip. A new crop of flavors blossomed. Mesquite and wood smoke. Fine tobacco. “I guess this is what three-thousand-dollar wine tastes like.”
Carmen ran her tongue over her lips. “I’ve heard people talk about different flavors in wines, but this is the first time I’ve actually tasted what they were talking about. It’s like it changes every time you take a drink.”
The last ripple of sunlight disappeared over the hills, leaving the sky azure and pink. The crickets began their nightly symphony. Carmen leaned against Alex, the warmth of his body a shield against the growing chill of the evening. She sipped at the wine. One by one, the stars bloomed into existence. She emptied the glass and leaned her head against his shoulder.
Alex, as always, was intoxicated by the sensation of her silky hair against his cheek and neck. He breathed in, smelling the faint flowery smell of whatever she washed her hair with, and the real smell of her underneath, something faint and clean and musky, almost below the level of conscious perception. He kissed her softly on the temple, then the ear, then the gentle curve where her jaw ended. Her breath hitched as he reached the welted line on her neck, lightly grazing his lips against the scar tissue.
Carmen leaned her head back and away, closing her eyes in contentment as she exposed her neck to him. He slid his arms around her waist, and she reached one hand up, ballerina-like, to caress the stubble of his cheek. She leaned back against the deck, and he followed, rising over her. He watched her there for one perfect moment, her black hair haloed around her head, lips parted, eyes half-shut. He touched his lips against hers, tenderly, tentatively. She responded, lifting her head to meet his, running one hand against the contours of his chest. She felt his hand, the casual strength in his fingers as he caressed her belly, sliding up to her ribs, ending with his hand encircling her left breast.
She pressed her own hand down to his jeans and found him ready. Her other hand was wrapped around his neck. She slid it around to his chest and gently pushed him away, pleased at his responsiveness. He opened his eyes. In the dim light, she saw them flick from her eyes to her lips and back again, waiting for a sign.
Carmen’s chest heaved under Alex’s steady hand. Her breath came so fast and heavy in her throat that she could hardly get the word out. “Yes,” she said.
He paused for a moment, as if still processing the word. She rose up to kiss him, and he responded urgently. She stood and pulled him along by the hand, across the deck and toward the house. A wineglass tipped and shattered. They made it to the sliding glass door before their clothes started to come off.
Alex pushed her against the doorframe, somehow rough and tender all at once. She shuddered with pleasure as he pressed himself against her. She found the edge of his T-shirt and lifting, running her fingers along his body as she pulled it over his head. He responded in kind, deftly undoing the buttons of her shirt.
Clothes fell to the floor as they stumbled through the house. They tumbled onto the bed. His mouth was everywhere. She moaned and ran her hands through his dirty-blond hair, squirming in ecstasy as he explored her belly with his lips. He moved lower still and undid the button fly of her jeans.
Carmen let out something between a sigh and a whimper as he pulled her jeans down.
***
Later, as the sweat evaporated off her body, she watched Alex sleeping next to her, one broad hand resting across her belly. She used a finger to comb his messy hair behind his ear. He smiled without opening his eyes. She smiled as well, and drifted off to a contented sleep.
As they slept, entwined and exhausted, a couple of raccoons came out from under the porch and devoured the plate of baguette and fine Brie cheese. They tipped the wine bottle over. Approximately $1,500 worth of world-class wine dribbled between the boards of the deck and soaked into the thirsty New Mexico soil.
Chapter Sixteen
Carmen awoke alone. She got up, threw on one of Alex’s button-up shirts, and stumbled out of the bedroom. She found a pot of coffee and a stack of pancakes waiting. Alex sat at the kitchen table, working at his laptop while he sipped his coffee. “‘Mornin’, darlin’,” he said. Carmen leaned over and kissed him. His hair was still wet, and he smelled like soap.
“Good morning.” She poured a cup for herself and sat down in front of the pancakes. “You’re working early.”
“What can I say? I been energized.” He smiled over his mug at her. “I was just about to try and find something about this Mondragon winery.” He typed some words into the search bar. “Well, aside from wine catalogs and auctions, the only thing that looks interesting is this Google Books result.” The book was published in 1916 and was titled A History of the American Southwest and Former Spanish Territories. He clicked on it, and a scanned page appeared. The word Mondragon was highlighted in yellow.
Alex read aloud, “‘Little is known about the early life of Carlos Mondragon, a young soldier who traveled to the New World in the 1600s. His birth date is recorded as 1482, but this is highly disputable, since this would have made him more than a hundred years old during his verified actions following the New Mexico Pueblo Revolt. It is also possible that later actions were actually undertaken by his son or grandson. In any case, Mondragon fought in several campaigns against native tribes in the Americas following Hernán Cortés’s conquest of Mexico. Having achieved the rank of captain, Mondragon was granted the title of “Don,” as well as land holdings, in repayment for his actions to retake the territory of New Mexico for Spain following the Pueblo Revolt of 1680. The land holdings are still owned by the Mondragon family, who produce wines which bear the family name.’”
“Well, that’s fascinating.” said Carmen. “Try finding more about the land grant.”
Alex typed in, “Spanish land grants in New Mexico.” An official New Mexico state website appeared. “Shit, this is a lot of information to sift through.” There were lists of a dozen private collections of letters and documents. Alex scrolled through them slowly, skimming over the titles.
“Wait a minute,” said Carmen. She pointed at a name. “Cheste
r Dunbar Collection.” Why does that name sound familiar?”
“I got it.” Alex stood up and retrieved the packet of Mack’s papers. He flipped through it until he found a scrawled note that said, “C. Dunbar.”
He clicked on the link. A page of thumbnail-size documents appeared. Alex skimmed through the pages. “Says here Chester Dunbar was a lawyer, dealt with property rights’n such.” There was a thumbnail document titled “Mondragon v. Dominguez.” Alex clicked on it and read through it. “Says the Mondragon claim was in dispute after Mexico lost New Mexico to America in the 1848 Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo. Lotta records got destroyed, and folks weren’t sure if land given out by the Spanish still belonged to the original owners. Fella by the name of Ricardo Dominguez tried to claim the Mondragon land under US settlers law. Hired this Dunbar fella to represent him. And whaddya know? Mondragon was represented by a lawyer named Ernesto Sandoval.” Alex smiled. “And here’s the kicker. Paperwork states the land in question. Listen to this. In Mr. Dunbar’s words, ‘The property in question is a verdant valley fed by an artesian well, practically lost among the mountains and canyons of the New Mexico territory, and given by the locals the somewhat ominous name of La Boca del Diablo.’”
“La Boca Del Diablo,” Carmen said. “The Devil’s Mouth.”
“Well, now. If that don’t describe a vampire, I don’t know what does. And whaddya know? The lawsuit lists coordinates. Township and range.”
Alex wrote down the coordinates. A quick trip to the New Mexico State Land Office website translated the information to latitude and longitude. He opened Google Earth and typed in the coordinates. “Yeah, well there’s somethin’ there. Just a little place. Tucked away in the hills, just like the lawyer said.” He zoomed in to maximum. “Almost looks like a little town, but there ain’t no name on it. Only one road in or out. And look there.” He pointed to a green hillside that formed a crescent around the little cluster of buildings. “Looks like terracing. Betcha anything that’s a vineyard.”
