“I haven’t seen you playing with the navigation unit since we left King’s Court. How do you even know about this place, Lee?”
“Patience is a virtue, Sis.”
***
After traveling a few blocks north, the downtown core gave way to residential. Shortly thereafter, fields and treed lots dominated and North Lake Street became Freeport. As the intersection with east/west-running Lake Road came into view, so did Lake Erie. Only it wasn’t quite defined yet. It presented as a bright blue haze that dominated the horizon from left to right for as far as the eye could see.
Riker said, “Your wish has been granted, Steve-O.”
Steve-O was still parked between the front seat with his elbows braced on the headrests. “That’s Lake Erie?”
“The weather is breaking,” noted Tara. She looked out Riker’s window and saw the gray smudge hovering over northwestern Pennsylvania. Swiveling her head right, she saw blue sky dotted with fast-moving clouds.
“Looks like the system is moving south by west.”
“Which is in our favor,” said Riker as he waited for a motor coach to pass by on the aptly named Lake Road.
He turned right and they followed the tour bus along a windy two-lane with the lake keeping company off to their left.
Seeing a large sign advertising a nearby vineyard, Tara said, “Lake View Winery. I didn’t realize Pennsylvania was the right climate for growing wine.”
“My mom and dad didn’t like wine,” asserted Steve-O, his voice trailing off at the end.
Riker and Tara exchanged glances. “Wish I could say the same,” admitted Riker.
“Mom could open a bottle and have one glass and that was it,” said Tara.
“Dad was the exact opposite,” added Riker. “He’d drink everything in the house. Nothing was safe … not even Mom’s weeks-old wine. Turning to vinegar or not, Dad would drink it.”
“People thought we were religious or something,” said Steve-O.
Three car-lengths ahead, the tour bus braked and it signaled a right turn. Less of a turn, really; Lake Road basically split in two, with it continuing on along the shore, and the new two-lane vectoring off to the right at a shallow angle.
Without signaling, Riker followed the Coastal Tours motor coach onto Vineyard Drive, staying close as the smooth paved road cut through acres of rolling land covered with row after row of symmetrically aligned grape vines.
“We are not scattering Mom’s ashes at a vineyard, Lee.”
Riker smiled. “Go fish.”
Chapter 62
The road to the vineyard rose and fell for a mile or so, then made a sweeping right before angling in from the south. There was a sign with the vineyard’s name arching twenty-five feet over the feeder road where it spilled onto an enormous paved parking lot. Dead ahead was Lake View Vineyard’s sprawling chalet. To the left, parked in neat rows, were a handful of motor coaches. To the right the yellow-lined spaces accommodated a smattering of cars, trucks, and SUVs.
The chalet was a three-story stone and hewn-timber structure. The multi-pitched roof was shingled with interlocking red tiles trimmed with polished copper busy throwing the emerging sun in all directions. And here and there, home to multi-paned windows, shuttered gables jutted from the upper story.
The tour bus went straight for the chalet and drove onto a brick drive leading to a portico constructed of the same honey-colored timbers as the chalet. The angled six by eights were held together at the joints by oil-rubbed bronze plates shot through with massive carriage bolts.
The tour bus came to a halt with an angry pneumatic hiss adjacent to the chalet’s towering entry, its door hinged opened, and geriatrics began to waddle out.
Riker steered the Suburban toward the tour bus’s bumper and was greeted just outside the portico by a young man snappily dressed in black slacks, gun-metal-gray silk vest, and starched white oxford dress shirt, the sleeves of which were rolled up to mid-forearm on him.
“Going to let him valet this beast?”
Riker nodded as the valet reached for Tara’s door handle. “Grab the bag.”
Tara said, “The shotgun is still inside.”
“I know,” said Riker through clenched teeth as he flashed the valet a half-smile. “Just grab it and pretend it’s not. Bring the laptop, too.”
After getting the door for Tara and Steve-O, the valet looped around and did the same for Riker.
Riker planted his bionic on the pavers and, with a little help from the grab bar near his head, hauled his two hundred and forty pound frame out of the idling SUV.
Still smiling and holding onto the open door, the valet stood rooted and shot a quick glance at Riker’s empty hands.
“Oh, shit,” blurted Riker. “I’m not used to all this.” Wearing a sheepish expression, he checked his wallet and patted his pockets. “I don’t have any cash.”
Riker looked to Tara, who was slowly shaking her head side to side.
The valet’s smile wavered.
Seeing this, Riker said, “Don’t worry … I’ll find a way to take care of you.”
“Come on,” called Steve-O. “I’m starved.”
Walking away from the disappointed valet, Riker said, “Keep your pants on, Steve-O.”
A young guy dressed similarly to the valet held the oak doors open as Tara and Steve-O climbed the front steps. Riker watched from midway up the run as the Suburban driven by the valet edged past the motor coach and continued on toward a separate lot hemmed in by two metal-roofed buildings he guessed were used to store the wine while it aged. The distant structures were the size of airplane hangars with the same type of rollaway doors.
Riker caught up with the others at a podium serving as the host stand for the restaurant aptly named Panorama. The stand was positioned directly underneath a chandelier made of antlers and acted as a barrier of sorts between the lobby and restaurant entrance. He looked over the top of Steve-O’s balding head and saw that a chest-high wall ran the length of the restaurant, separating the bar on the left from the dining area on the right. The abbreviated wall ended at a wide bank of floor-to-ceiling picture windows affording a panoramic view of Lake Erie. Perched atop the alabaster wall was an unbroken chain of meticulously pruned plants.
A woman, middle forties, guessed Riker, caught his eye from a distance. She wore her hair in a bun. The bifocals hanging on a gold chain swayed back and forth as she hustled back from seating the last of the geriatrics, some of whom were wearing surgical masks. She smiled, put her glasses on, then asked Riker if he had a reservation.
Riker’s shoulders slumped. “No,” he said. “Can you seat the three of us anyway?”
She consulted an iPad-looking thing lying flat on the podium. It had a to-scale diagram of the restaurant which included the wall, picture window, and bar area, complete with tables—all of them lit up red. She tapped the screen a couple of times, likely for show, thought Riker, then shook her head.
“Two tour buses from New York came in unannounced in just the last thirty minutes.” She glanced at her watch, a platinum ladies Rolex from the looks of it. “It’s almost noon,” she said. “I’ve got full books and locals coming in.” She paused for a moment. “I can put you at the bar.”
Waiting patiently, Stetson in hand, Steve-O glanced over his shoulder at Riker and shrugged indifferently.
Tara turned back and said, “I’m okay with it if you are.”
Riker looked down at the hostess. “At the bar … or … in the bar?”
For a long two-count she stared at Riker as if he’d been speaking Klingon when he posed the question. “I said at the bar,” she finally replied. “The lounge tables are reserved as well.”
“Just my luck,” complained Riker. “I finally come into some money, go to take my mom to a fancy restaurant, and get offered the least desirable place to sit.”
The woman shot a confused look over the top of her bifocals. Her gaze ranged from Riker to Steve-O to Tara then stayed locked on the you
nger woman. “So there’s four of you now?”
Smiling, Tara said, “It’s complicated.”
The hostess grabbed four menus off a pile. “Follow me,” she said, striking off for the bar.
At the bar Riker took the urn from the bag and put the laptop in its place. He set the urn on the bar top before an empty stool, then sat on the stool to its immediate right.
“Where are your manners?” asked Steve-O. He plopped his Stetson on the empty stool and pulled the one to its left out for Tara.
“Chivalry is not dead,” remarked Tara.
Jabbing a stubby finger at his own balding head, Steve-O addressed Riker. “Hats off.”
“You wore yours in the Speedway minimart.”
“That’s a deli. This is a fancy restaurant.”
Point taken, thought Riker as he removed his Braves hat and placed it on the stool with the Stetson.
The bartender was nothing like the clean-cut valet and doorman. About the same age, mid-twenties or so, but with a full black beard a pirate would be proud of and the earrings to match. His unruly mop of hair was barely constrained by what Riker could only think to call a top-knot. First thing that came to mind when the hostess called the bartender by name to get his attention was how much the two of them looked alike. Same angular face and narrow nose. While the bartender was at least two decades younger than the hostess, he had the same dark eyes and easy smile.
Joey greeted them warmly and threw paper beverage napkins onto the bar with all the flair of a Vegas card dealer. He asked, “What are you drinking?”
Riker rubbed his bald head, turned the menu over, then looked Joey square in the eye. “Bottle of your best champagne and four glasses.”
“One bottle of Louis Roederer Cristal and”—he paused to count heads—“three … flutes.”
Riker said, “Four. It’s complicated.” As Joey left, he looked to Tara. “Flutes?”
“Fancy name for champagne glasses.”
“I’m having a bacon cheeseburger with extra bacon and no onions,” said Steve-O.
“Sure you don’t want a steak? I’m buying.”
“No, Lee. I’m a simple man. A bacon cheeseburger will do.”
Riker said, “Hey everyone … Ronnie Van Zant here is having a cheeseburger in a four-star joint.”
Joey came back and set out the flutes. He went over the specials as he popped the cork.
While Joey was filling her flute, Tara looked to Riker and said, “Ronnie Van who?”
“He’s in the band Lynyrd Skynyrd. Sings a song called Simple Man,” replied Steve-O, placing a hand over his champagne glass. “Coke for me,” he whispered to Joey.
“Definitely trivia someone my age shouldn’t be expected to know,” shot Tara.
Riker covered his flute and pointed to the empty one sitting near the urn. “Fill Mom’s to the top.”
Joey didn’t hesitate. He filled both flutes and placed the bottle in an ice bucket. “What’s for lunch?”
Tara ordered light: a Caesar salad with chicken and a cup of tomato basil soup.
Holding true to his word, Steve-O went with the bacon cheeseburger. “Soup in place of fries,” he added.
Riker chose the prime ribeye and fries.
Joey asked, “How do you like your steak?”
Stealing his late grandfather’s line, Riker said, “Knock its horns off and bring it to me mooing.”
“Pittsburgh rare it is,” said Joey as he collected the menus.
Riker leaned in. “What’s with the masks the honored citizens are wearing?”
Joey stole a peek at the oldsters. “Some kind of bug going around Queens and Manhattan. Making people real sick, I guess. Can’t really blame them, though. Hell, they’re one foot in the grave already.”
Riker was about to dress down Joey for the remark when his attention was drawn to the windows. He was experiencing a familiar sensation in his gut. A tremor caused by something mechanical in nature and still out of sight.
At the far edge of the football-field-sized swathe of lawn outside the windows was a white gazebo. Behind it was a vineyard that fell away toward the glittering lake. Planted around the gazebo was an assemblage of red, yellow, and white flowers, their colors vibrant against the dark background.
As Riker remained fixated on the gazebo, the flowers encircling it began to dance and whip about. A tick later, Joey came from stage left and dropped off the soups. Then a helicopter flew in fast and low out of the east, flared hard over the vineyard, spun a ninety-degree turn so that its aerodynamic nose faced the windows, then lit nimbly on the grass a few yards left of the gazebo.
Acting as if a helicopter landing on the premises was no big affair, Joey produced a peppermill the size of a marching baton. Waved off by both Tara and Steve-O, he went on to explain how Lake View Vineyards was a popular destination for weddings and family reunions. “Cheaper than the Hamptons or Martha’s Vineyard,” he noted. “Bigwigs charter helicopters to pick them up here, take them to Niagara Falls for wedding photos, then bring them back here for the ceremony.”
“Is the hostess family?” asked Riker.
Joey nodded. “My mom.”
“She’s the owner, too, isn’t she?”
“Guilty as charged,” answered Joey.
“I saw the resemblance.”
Tara asked, “Who’s the helicopter here for?”
Joey shrugged. “Mom didn’t mention it.” Hand going to the pager-looking thing on his belt, he said, “Your lunch just hit the window.”
Chapter 63
Riker ignored the fries and tore into the steak. He didn’t realize how hungry he was until the sizzling hunk of meat hit the bar in front of him. As he sliced thin pieces of meat off and savored the cool, smooth texture of the high-grade beef, he kept one eye on the chopper and the other on the television mounted high up near the ceiling in a corner behind the bar.
On the television, the feed was alternating between the 4 World Trade Center building—still smoldering internally, judging by the smoke trickling from many of the lower floor windows—to scenes from various staging areas scattered over half a dozen states.
Joey said, “This joint operation sure makes that one they held out west look like a Boy Scout outing.”
Riker looked to Tara and Steve-O before responding. The former was picking at her salad and seemed to be staring at a galaxy-shaped knot on the wooden bar top, while the latter was down to three fries and cleaning the plate of ketchup with them.
“Jade Helm 15,” said Riker. “Those were not Boy Scouts—”
“Oh, I know,” interrupted Joey. “I was meaning scale-wise it seems as if this Romeo whatever it’s called is way more involved. I don’t remember there being one story about Jade Helm on the news until it was over and done with.”
“That was a Special Forces joint op. Those guys usually never divulge what they’re doing. At all. Only reason they did in that instance was to placate the tin-foil-hat crowd who were claiming Jade Helm was providing cover so the United Nations could take all our guns. Hell, you had fringe groups thinking Helm was to get the population used to seeing military vehicles on the streets so it’d be easy pickings when the powers that be let Chinese forces loose on their own population.”
Joey took Steve-O’s sparkling clean plate. “Hated it, eh?”
“Best four-star burger ever,” replied Steve-O.
“I’m not hungry anymore,” stated Tara, pushing her plate forward. She finished the Cristal in her flute, then refilled it herself while Joey was gone with the plates. She was tipping back the fresh champagne and staring out the window at the helicopter when a door on the side facing her hinged open.
“Lee,” she said, pointing at the window with her pinky finger. “Looks like he’s just flown in for lunch. The steak that good?”
Riker nudged the bone around on his plate with his fork. There was nothing left clinging to it. He finally said, “I don’t know about all that. It was one hell of a good steak, though.�
� He watched the pilot step from the helicopter, close the right-side door behind him, and begin walking in the direction of the restaurant.
The man wasn’t short or tall. He carried his weight proportionately. Riker had never seen an obese aviator. Figured he never would. On the other hand, crew chiefs and loadmasters, virtually one and the same in Riker’s book, came in all shapes and sizes.
Riker nudged his plate forward.
Joey went to take it away.
Riker asked for the check.
“Not having dessert?”
Tara perked up. “Do you have anything chocolate?”
“We gotta go,” said Riker. He grabbed his hat and hauled the bag up and placed it on his lap.
Tara’s shoulders slumped. “You sure, Lee? Steve-O … dessert?”
Joey’s eyes were dancing back and forth over the trio bellied up to his bar.
“Positive,” said Riker. He fished his wallet from his pocket and retrieved his Chase Debit card.
It wasn’t a dream, he told himself as he tossed what now amounted to a seven million dollar gift card onto the bar.
Joey picked up the card. Tapped it twice on the bar and said, “Okay. I’ll call the valet. Have them bring your car around.”
“It’s a black Suburban,” said Steve-O
“Don’t bother, Joey,” said Riker. “Just hurry back with the check.”
***
Joey was back in thirty seconds with a check presenter bulging with a gold pen and half a dozen thin, foil-wrapped chocolates.
Tara smiled and passed a couple of chocolates to Steve-O. As she peeled the foil from one, her eyes were drawn to the television and her jaw dropped.
Riker added a thousand-dollar tip to the four-hundred-and-fifty-dollar lunch.
Palms on the bar top and leaning close, Joey said, “That’s not necessary, sir.”
“It’s Lee. And, yes, it’s very necessary. Mom enjoyed the view and the service.” He put the urn in the bag and zipped it closed.
“Give the doorman and valet a hundred each, please. I’m sure you’ll figure a way to take care of whoever cooked our meal.”
Riker's Apocalypse (Book 1): The Promise Page 32
