Sin And Vengeance

by West, CJ

  Randy dropped his end on the third stair and the thud echoed in the stillness.

  Luckily the barrel wasn’t dented.

  “Hang on to that thing.”

  “Give me a break, I’m shit faced.” Randy grinned with the admission.

  “On a bottle and a half between us? You turning into a light weight?”

  “You think I was tap dancing while you filled all those barrels?”

  “Don’t drop it again. I can’t explain lugging a wine barrel around in the middle of the night.”

  “If your father sees what’s inside, he’s going to want a cut.”

  “Give him a break, will you? It’s no wonder you freak him out. You look like a tall, hairy chick and you spout off like a polygamist, anarchist zealot. Maybe he’d like you if you shaved, cut your hair, and kept your mouth shut.”

  “I don’t think so. It’s what’s underneath that he has a problem with.”

  They stopped twice to rest between the guesthouse and the barn. Randy begged to get the truck, but Charlie feared the engine noise would attract attention. They forged ahead into the barn, wheeled the barrel down to the pump and topped it off with twenty gallons of wine. There was no pause to evacuate the air with carbon dioxide and nitrogen, no antioxidant crystals, and no argon before they sealed it up. This wine was only camouflage and topping it off took less than two minutes.

  They stopped in the guesthouse for a rest and a fresh glass before hoisting the next barrel. By two o’clock, the three money-filled barrels were together on a pallet at the front of the shipment. They would be loaded first in the morning, safely tucked into the very back of the first container.

  Randy fell asleep on the couch while explaining how men could stabilize the American family by taking three wives instead of just one. It was one of his favorite topics. He was animated and quite convincing until he sputtered himself to sleep.

  Chapter Eleven

  Charlie woke up somewhere between the squeal of the air brakes and the chatter of the driver with an angry Frenchman. The light stung his eyes and his pulse throbbed in his temples as he threw off the bedclothes.

  The barrels!

  The money-filled barrels stood on the first pallet. Andre would be compelled to check any shipment before it left the winery, but this one would have his particular attention. Charlie imagined him inspecting the seals and tapping to be sure the barrels were properly filled. Charlie’s modifications might fool an untrained customs inspector, but not Andre. He’d been around wine his whole life. A few well-placed taps and he’d uncover the scam. There was no time for aspirin.

  Charlie rolled out of bed and rumbled outside. The bounce of every stair intensified the pounding in his head. The trot to the barn brought crushing pain to his knee and an even louder throbbing behind his eyes, but he kept up his pace, closing on the men arguing in the loading area.

  A slight man with dark, leathery skin turned toward Charlie as he approached. He’d spent years among the vines and even his bald scalp was tanned. He swung his hands wildly as if throwing his words at Charlie. “What is this, Charles?”

  “It’s my batch of sparkling. I’m taking it to Westport.”

  “You cannot move it from the Rhone and sell it! No! No!”

  “I can’t stay here for ten years.”

  “It is a disgrace. Shipping wine in metal barrels! It is idiotic!”

  “It’s decided. I’m moving it to Westport.”

  Sweat beaded on the surface of Charlie’s pounding forehead. Talking was painful; arguing with Andre was agony, but at least Charlie had distracted him from the barrels.

  Andre made a dismissive gesture with his hands. “Who are you to plan such a thing? You know nothing. You are a boy. Wine is a hobby to you.”

  “This is my wine and I’m going to see it through.”

  “Your father will hear about this.”

  Charlie waved an inviting arm toward the main house and he was glad the shouting was over when Andre stormed off. The truck driver was relieved when Charlie apologized and headed for the forklift.

  A moment later, he swung erratically around the corner and toward the pallets, the left fork crashing into a wooden support. The barrels shook, but didn’t fall. Charlie rubbed his eyes and his vision cleared. The lift rolled back for a second try and the forks slid in perfectly. The pallet rose and he spun the lift around and into the container. In a few trips, Charlie regained his touch for spinning the wheel and began scooting around at full speed.

  More and more barrels separated Andre and the money. Charlie rushed every maneuver, expecting Andre to storm back in and demand to inspect the load. As time passed and the truck was nearly full, Charlie began wondering what Andre and his father were discussing inside. He worried Andre would convince him to cancel the shipment and age the sparkling in Piolenc.

  When the container was full, Charlie rushed from the forklift and helped the driver seal the doors. He finally relaxed when the truck rolled down the long drive, and started his fortune on its long journey home.

  Andre stomped down the stairs cursing loudly in French at no one in particular. Charlie would have let him check the barrels then, but apparently father had overruled his argument. Defeated, Andre angled through the processing room rather than confront Charlie in the loading area.

  Charlie began loading the second truck at a less frantic pace. Each time he slowed to lift a pallet he could hear Andre rambling on to an audience inside the barn. Charlie recognized a few words from the high-speed banter. Andre thought him a stupid American imbecile and something was finished, Charlie wasn’t sure what. It didn’t matter. The future was in Westport.

  When Charlie finished, the truck driver took the signed paperwork, climbed up in his cab, and chugged away. Charlie managed only a dozen yards across the drive before he had to stop and rest his knee. He proceeded to the house with halting steps. Any weight on the knee sent a shooting pain up his thigh. He labored up the stairs supporting more of his weight on the railings than the treads. Charles was at the table making notes on some reports and his expression suggested they were from back home.

  His demeanor changed when he saw his son.

  “Good morning,” Charles said curtly.

  “Morning.”

  “Well, you’ve alienated the best winemaker I have and you’re looking more and more like that punk Randy. Any other plans I should know about? It’s still early.”

  Charlie looked down at the clothes he’d slept in. His mouth tasted like dirty cotton and he hadn’t shaved or touched his hair since waking up. Charles never excused such an appearance. The winery was a public place and in a few hours tourists would trickle in for tastings. Father believed no Marston should ever be seen without a clean shave and proper clothes. He even wore a button-down shirt during the crush, when everyone was pitching in.

  Charlie sat.

  “You need to project a better image when you get to Westport. You’ll be running that winery soon and a good impression is critical. You’ll have much older people working for you and you’ll have to earn their respect.”

  “I know.”

  “I’m not so sure. You need to let that derelict find another playmate. People around here already associate you with him.”

  “He’s not a bad guy.”

  “He’ll ruin you or get you killed. I’m not sure which.”

  Charlie lifted a glass of juice rather than argue Randy’s good points.

  Charles collected his reading and stood up. “When are you going back?”

  “Today.”

  “Good. Dump him at the airport. I’ll have you running things this fall.”

  “I’ll be on top of it in a few weeks.” As soon as Charles left the room, Charlie downed a tall glass of water, one gulp after another.

  Elizabeth walked in and kissed him on the cheek despite his bedraggled appearance. “Morning, sweetheart. I saw the trucks leave with your wine.”

  “I’ll be glad to get back home.”

>   “Did your father talk to you about the Westport operation?”

  “He did.”

  “And?”

  “I’m ready, Mom. I’ve been around this my whole life.”

  “I know you’re ready, but you’re going to have to show everyone back there that you’re not the same kid who was sneaking bottles from the warehouse and giving private tours at night.”

  Charlie reached over, picked up the water glass from Randy’s vacant seat, and took a large swallow.

  “Getting some distance from Randy will be for the best.”

  “What do you two have against him? Other than the way he looks?”

  “We see him for what he is.”

  “What’s that?”

  “An opportunist. When he sees something he wants, he’ll take it.”

  Charlie finished the water.

  “I know you have fun together, dear, but this is an important time in your career. You’re just getting started in the business.”

  “Don’t worry, Mom. I’ll take care of it.” He kissed her and left.

  Charlie felt lucky.

  Three days had passed since the fire and no French officials had visited. He imagined gendarmes peppering Deirdre with an endless stream of questions. She must have kept her promise. If she hadn’t, the gendarmes would have swarmed the chateau in minutes.

  All Charlie needed was a few more hours. The jet would arch up into the sky and carry him home. He prayed she’d hold out as he hobbled across the drive.

  Chapter Twelve

  Even with his eyes closed, Charlie could feel the white-haired lady across the aisle staring past him. She was intrigued by the clash of Randy’s black leather and haphazard grooming against the cadre of neatly dressed, well-mannered couples that filled the remainder of the first class cabin. Her eyes had settled on him even before takeoff and, except for a few long naps, she spent most of the flight gawking sideways. To her, the scraggly appearance combined with the money to travel first class was proof that Randy was a rock star. He reinforced the stereotype by talking three times as loudly as he should, overtly flirting with the flight attendant, and causing all sorts of commotion when he wanted something. The woman took no notice of Charlie, assuming he was an agent or some other businesslike associate.

  Randy was ranting about something and Charlie tuned in. “…sawdust. I can’t believe I almost went back in there. Boom! The whole place just exploded on fire! Flames twenty feet high! That was sick. You’ve got to teach me to do that.”

  Charlie elbowed Randy as he finished.

  Nothing could distract the lady across the aisle now. She leaned over her armrest, breathless for him to continue.

  The man seated ahead of them folded his book and listened.

  “We’re not supposed to talk about the stunts until the movie’s released.”

  Charlie’s cover story only fueled the interest of the eavesdroppers. It had no effect on Randy’s animated joviality.

  “Dude, it was so cool.”

  “I just hope the film crew does it justice,” Charlie said, glaring at him with a look that screamed “Shut the Hell up!”

  Randy ignored it. “I hope not. I’d love to see you do that again.”

  The lady reached across the aisle and tapped Charlie on the forearm. “Excuse me, young man. Are you boys movie stars?”

  “No, Ma’am. Wish we were. I’m in special effects. Randy here is a stuntman.” It was fitting even if it wasn’t true.

  The woman stared for a moment. Not knowing what to say, she turned and whispered to her husband, who had been looking out the window. The man ahead of them turned all the way around and peeked over the seat, but didn’t introduce himself. Charlie felt a half dozen other curious stares, but their interest faded since Randy had finally gotten the hint and stopped blabbering on about the fire. He fiddled with something in his jacket and after a few minutes, the eyes around the cabin returned to amusements in their own seats.

  The flight attendant circulated to collect glasses and ask the passengers to mind their seatbelts and tray-tables for landing. The older woman checked her buckle and returned to gazing across the aisle. The landing was smooth and the trip to the gate was quick since there was only one terminal at TF Green.

  “What’s the name of your film? I want to look for you boys,” the woman asked, intent even as everyone around her hunted for bags and belongings.

  Charlie smiled at her. “Neither of our faces is on camera. You might see my friend’s dark figure running away from an explosion, but that’s all.”

  “You can tell me. I promise I won’t tell a soul.” She leaned forward and aimed a pleading smile at Randy.

  Randy didn’t hesitate. “It’s Angel Avenger. It’ll be released in May.”

  The old woman lit up. “Sounds exciting.”

  “It’s one hundred percent action,” Randy said.

  The plane jerked to a stop at the gate and the first class passengers gathered their bags and slipped into the jetway ahead of the crowd assembled behind them. The old woman stopped Randy just inside the terminal and asked for his autograph. He signed her ticket clearly “Randy Black.”

  Charlie started away through the busy terminal, wondering if Randy considered himself invincible or if it was just plain arrogance that made him so bold. They passed two bars. It annoyed Randy to walk by without stopping for a drink, but Charlie was eager to get home. Randy complained until they reached the bottom of the escalator to baggage claim.

  Bags in hand, they stepped out into a chilly New England drizzle.

  Randy hesitated in the doorway. “Hey, Marston.”

  When Charlie looked back, he saw a small package spinning sideways through the air. When it was halfway to him, Charlie recognized the green and white pattern. He snagged it with his free hand and stuffed it in an inside pocket. “What’s wrong with you?”

  Randy stood in the doorway, a camera directly over his head. He was out of the picture, but Charlie was center-frame. Charlie froze, eyes focused on the lens recording his image somewhere inside the terminal.

  “I wanted to say thanks for putting me up. It was a great trip. If that’s not enough, I’ve got another fifty-K.” Randy reached inside his jacket again.

  Charlie raised his hand dismissively and turned to escape the camera’s view. His parents were right. Randy was going to self-destruct and suddenly Charlie wanted to get as far away from him as possible. Randy had carried sixty thousand dollars through customs for a thrill. The man he’d killed and the building they’d burned would have most people laying low, terrified of the law, but the experience only compounded Randy’s excitement as he defied its authority over him. Charlie wondered what he would do when that excitement wore off. He might get drunk and spout off about the fire or tell someone what was hidden in the barrels. He’d talked about the explosion and the fire loud enough for everyone in first class to hear. “Drop the bum at the airport,” his father had said. Charlie wished he’d heeded his father’s warnings before he lit that candle and mingled his sin with Randy’s.

  Randy caught up and walked shoulder-to-shoulder with Charlie to the parking garage. Not a word passed between them. Randy never offered an apology yet the lack of jokes and insults was acknowledgement that he’d crossed the line. Charlie wasn’t angry, but focused on brushing Randy off without angering a man who could send him to prison with a few phone calls. Somewhere between the elevator ride and spotting their cars a few spaces apart, Charlie decided he’d slowly fade from Randy’s life, like a cowardly boyfriend afraid to initiate a breakup. Charlie would get busy making wine and let Randy corrupt someone else.

  Charlie clicked open the trunk of the Volvo and stuffed in his suitcase. The S80 was an understated car, but with two turbochargers, it was plenty fast. Its quiet, elegant look was a fitting extension of Charlie’s personality. In contrast, Randy swung the door to his Mercedes SLR McLaren upright and threw his bag over to the passenger seat. Even at a standstill in a packed garage, the unique
ness of the SLR with its door six feet in the air stood out for all to see. It was as refined as a cigarette boat and twice as fast. Most importantly, it attracted attention from the right sort of women. If he revealed its cost, it would attract dozens more.

  Charlie stood behind the Volvo and watched Randy back out.

  “What are we doing tonight?” Randy asked through his open window.

  “Nothing. I’ve got to settle in.”

  “Come on. You’re not mad at me are you, sweetie?”

  “Someone’s got to make the wine. Remember?”

  “You do that. I’ll call you tomorrow.” Randy eased the Mercedes ahead, stopping his rear tire even with Charlie’s knee.

  As Charlie slammed the trunk shut, he heard the soft thump of the pedal hitting the floor. The engine gave a menacing roar and the tire churned in place, billowing foul, blue smoke. Charlie turned to find himself pinned against the Volvo as the SLR’s engine whined higher and higher. The wheel spun faster, inching toward him. Randy looked power-drunk behind the wheel, relishing Charlie’s terror.

  “Cut the shit!”

  Randy jerked the wheel and the tire hopped six inches closer.

  Charlie’s reaction was automatic and quite painful. He leaped backward and landed on top of the Volvo’s high trunk, with his good leg wedged against the Mercedes to keep himself from getting trapped between the cars. His right knee throbbed from the exertion.

  “Hey, watch the paint job,” Randy yelled.

  Just two inches separated the cars when the spinning finally stopped. The Mercedes eased ahead until it was clear, and then thrust forward, accelerating to a speed Charlie thought impossible to control between the concrete pillars and the sharply curved ramps. Tires squealed and the car dipped down and disappeared. The sounds of the revving engine and the squealing tires alternated until Randy broke free of the garage and whipped around toward the highway. Charlie massaged his knee, glad to watch him go.