AHMM, Jan-Feb 2006

by Dell Magazine Authors

  "Of course."

  "I'll borrow it and play it back for him. He won't dare return. End of problem!"

  Smith shook his head. “You overly complicate things, Pit. Remove him and move on with your life."

  "That's not an option."

  "Your plan is ridiculous."

  "But you'll help me,” I said.

  He shrugged. “I find it fairly amusing. But once it's done, I have a real job for you in Las Vegas. One for which you are uniquely qualified."

  "As long as I don't have to break the law,” I said, “I'll go. I always keep my word."

  The dealer asked, “Ready, gentlemen?” He had finished stacking the cards in the shoe.

  Smith excused himself. The prince and I both anted, and our game began anew.

  By the time Bob returned, I had won another hundred and forty thousand. A new crowd gathered beyond the velvet ropes. Bob eased his way to the front and signaled me by tapping his wristwatch. Time to catch our plane.

  "That's it for me,” I said, rising. I tossed the dealer a thousand dollar chip. “Thanks for everything."

  "Thank you, sir!” he said, beaming.

  I gathered my winnings onto a tray, then limped to the cashier's station. Mr. Smith sat comfortably ensconced behind the brass grill.

  "How much did you win?” he asked in a low voice as I passed him my chips.

  "One-point-two million,” I whispered smugly, “plus change."

  "It's a good thing you were playing with the house's money. How soon do you want to be abducted?"

  "As we leave. We'll go through the doors onto Atlantic Avenue. Do you have a pen and paper?"

  "Here.” He slid them over to me.

  I jotted down wiring instructions for the money and passed it back.

  "Might as well go through the motions,” I said. “May I have a receipt for the wire?"

  Chuckling, he made one up. I tucked it into my little notebook, which I kept in hand as I limped off for the Atlantic Avenue doors. There Bob Charles waited impatiently, pretending to study a marquee. I paused beside him. From the corner of my eye, I saw men in black suits starting to converge on us.

  "I already wired the money to my Brazilian account from the courtesy counter. But I don't think they're going to let me leave here safely.” Casually, I dropped the notebook. “Cover that with your foot. Pick it up when I'm out the door—they can't find it on me. It has the passcodes for my anonymous bank accounts. If I can, I'll catch up at the airport."

  Without bothering to retrieve my coat or bag from the checkroom, I headed for the door. The bellman opened it for me, and shivering at the sudden cold, I stepped outside.

  Smith's men followed on my heels—goons built like refrigerators. I had seen both of them before at Smith's illegal casino outside of Philadelphia.

  A white Town Car sat idling in front, and they grabbed my elbows and hustled me inside. I didn't struggle.

  As I twisted around, we accelerated into traffic. I glimpsed Bob running out the front door. He stood there, staring after me, a look of anger on his face.

  He cared what happened to me. I saw it, and in that moment I knew I had made the right decision. Better to handle him myself than let Smith and Jones do it. He was basically a decent guy.

  "Thanks, fellows,” I said to the goons.

  Mr. Smith sat in the front passenger seat. He opened a small window in the bulletproof partition separating our seats.

  "Where next?” he asked. “The airport?"

  "Take a ten minute drive, then back to the casino. I have to pick up my coat and bag. Then I'll catch the bus home."

  "You heard the man,” Smith said to our chauffeur.

  "Yes, sir!” he said.

  The goons and I settled back.

  We didn't even make it five blocks—police cars with blinking lights cut us off, front and back. Our driver slammed on the brakes; we fishtailed, then came to a screeching halt.

  As uniformed officers leaped from their cars with drawn weapons, Smith's goons reached for their guns.

  "Don't do that,” I said in a low voice. “This has to be a mistake."

  A bullhorn blared: “Get out of the car with your hands up!"

  "I'm not happy, Pit,” said Mr. Smith. He got out of the car and raised his hands. The chauffeur and goons did the same.

  Slowly, painfully, I followed.

  "You are in big trouble,” Smith told the policemen who advanced. “Do you know who I am?"

  None replied. They forced his hands onto the roof of his Town Car and began frisking him. Another officer began reading us all our Miranda rights.

  That's when I spotted Bob Charles sitting in one of the patrol cars. He must have gone running to the cops instead of taking off for Brazil with my money. I nodded to him, and he grinned back.

  "That's him—that's Peter Geller!” he said, climbing out and pointing at me. “They were kidnapping him!"

  A police lieutenant took my elbow and drew me to one side. “Mr. Charles flagged down a patrol car,” he said, “and reported your abduction. He said you won big at the casino and they weren't going to let you keep it. Is that true?"

  "No,” I said emphatically. I gestured at the Town Car and Mr. Smith. “This is some kind of misunderstanding. I work for the casino. These men are all friends of mine. We were taking an early supper."

  The lieutenant frowned. “What about the money he said you won? More than a million dollars, wasn't it?"

  "Nonsense. I was playing with the casino's money. Here—see for yourself!"

  I pulled out the yellow copy of the form I'd signed. The lieutenant scanned it, snorted, then said to the other cops:

  "Let them go. We've made a mistake."

  "Thank you,” said Mr. Smith. He straightened his tie and jacket.

  The lieutenant stalked back to Bob, and they exchanged heated words. Bob read the yellow form, then stared at me in disbelief. When the lieutenant made Bob get out and lean up against the hood of the police car, I watched with amusement.

  Of course, the officer turned up two wallets—one of them mine—plus the notebook of bank account numbers and plane tickets. He studied them, then stalked back to me.

  "Is this yours?” He held out my wallet.

  "Yes. Bob was holding onto it for me."

  He frowned. “And two tickets to Rio?"

  "Also mine."

  "Notebook?"

  "Yep. Mine."

  His eyes narrowed. He knew something odd had gone down, but for the life of him he couldn't figure it out.

  "I think you all had better come with me to the station,” he said.

  I shrugged. “As you wish.” To Mr. Smith, I said, “Perhaps you can recommend a good lawyer?"

  "He'll meet us there,” Smith said grumpily, reaching for his cell phone.

  I rode in the back of the police car with Bob. The cops hadn't bothered to handcuff either one of us. Mr. Smith and his goons were following in their Town Car.

  "Are you insane?” Bob demanded. “I just saved your life! Why are you doing this to me?"

  "Maybe I'm a little bit cranky, but I'm hardly insane.” I chuckled. “You asked me to kick your tires, Bob. Congrats. You passed the test."

  His breath caught in his throat. “A ... test. This whole thing..."

  "That's right. And I can almost recommend you to Davy Hunt."

  "Almost?"

  "There's one matter you still have to take care of."

  He looked puzzled. “I don't understand..."

  "Janice."

  He paled. “How—how do you know—"

  "Trick brain, remember?” I grinned. “Tell the police how Janice tried to set up Davy using the two of us, and I'll get you cleared of all charges by morning."

  Once Bob started talking to the police, he had quite a story to tell. When he got out of the Marines, an old girlfriend contacted him, got him to come to Philadelphia, and told him she worked as the private secretary for a billionaire sleazebag named David Chatham Hunt.
r />   A year ago, Janice had a romantic fling with her boss. Presents were given, promises were made ... Apparently, she expected the relationship to go farther than Davy did. When he broke things off and started dating a supermodel named Cree, she took it very hard.

  Janice planned her revenge with meticulous care. As his private secretary, she knew Davy's position on the Board of Directors at Hunt Industries was provisional. Any hint of a scandal and he'd get the boot. Davy couldn't allow that to happen.

  And that's where Bob came in. Janice knew about my friendship with Davy, and she thought my personal recommendation would get Bob hired as bodyguard, cutting through a lot of red tape. Apparently she believed she could lure Davy into a final romantic tryst, one where Bob would be present to take blackmail photos.

  It could have worked. Davy might well have fallen into her trap. I could easily envision my old friend having one last fling with his secretary, just to get her off his back.

  Once Janice was arrested, she collapsed into hysterics at the police station, confessed everything, and ultimately pleaded guilty to conspiracy charges. Her case would never go to trial, saving Davy a lot of embarrassment.

  Thanks to Mr. Smith's lawyer, Bob Charles ended up with probation and stern warnings from a judge. He never spent a single night in jail. Best of all, on my recommendation, Davy hired him as his personal bodyguard. I thought they would go well together. Bob had certainly proved himself to my satisfaction.

  "And that's the whole story,” I said to Davy and Cree over Christmas dinner. Cree had cooked it herself—a beautiful roast goose with cranberry sauce, mashed sweet potatoes, green bean casserole, and a delightful selection of home-baked pies.

  "Incredible,” Davy said, shaking his head. “You know what the worst part of this whole mess is?"

  "What?” I asked.

  "Janice was the best secretary I ever had."

  Cree punched him on the arm—hard.

  "But my new secretary seems just as good,” he added quickly.

  "Better,” said Cree. She turned to me. “I picked him out myself. No more office romances, right, Davy?"

  "Right!” he agreed. But he seemed a little wistful.

  I chuckled. “It took a long time and cost a small fortune, but what do you think of my present?” I asked.

  "Present?” Davy scratched his head and looked at Cree, who shrugged. “Did I miss something?"

  I raised my wineglass in salute. “For the man who has everything—a new secretary and a new bodyguard. Merry Christmas, Davy!"

  Copyright (c) 2006 John Gregory Betancourt

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  A Matter of Taste by Peter King

  "Shady tactics, scams and scandals, substitutions, fakes and frauds, blatant copies—you've run into all of these, Nic."

  Nic Landers nodded and waited for Roger Sheraton to continue. The president of Sheraton, Pemberton and Delano had silvery temples, black hair, and an aristocratic face that stemmed from one of San Francisco's oldest families.

  He had bought the foundering wine dealership fifteen years ago, added his name to it, and turned the operation around swiftly. They catered only to more affluent clients and their exclusivity put them in great demand.

  "These blots on the good name of the California wine industry are increasing alarmingly,” Roger continued. “It's the same in other states and other wine-producing countries, so it must be a symptom of the times."

  "The get-rich-quick urge,” said Nic.

  "Yes, that—and as the president of Sotheby's wine department said recently, ‘Anyone can easily produce great wines if they are prepared to break the law.’ Well,” Roger said, “we have to do something about it. Now, we can't afford a full-time investigator, so I'd like you to take a crack at the problem. You can fit that into your schedule, can't you?"

  Roger was irresistible when it came to charming someone into doing something that sounded out of the question, and this occasion was no different. Ten minutes later, he smiled his satisfaction smile.

  "Right, that's settled then—now initially I want to start you off on an easy one. I'm not aware of any criminal intent in this matter, it seems to be just a puzzle—"

  "You've got me hooked already,” said Nic. Six feet, brown hair, and brown eyes that women found attractive, he had an athletic step—honed by regular sessions on the squash court.

  "There's a Cedric Cranston staying at the Huntington Hotel,” Roger said. “He wants ‘a wine expert,’ he says, to accompany him to an auction."

  "I didn't know there were any auctions pending,” protested Nic.

  "It's private—don't worry, it must be legitimate, Farringdon's has been retained to run it."

  "They're among the best,” Nic agreed. “What does this Cranston fellow want?"

  "He won't say. He just says he will explain it all to the expert we supply."

  "How did he get onto us?"

  "Called the Napa Valley Wine Board."

  Nic shrugged. “All credentials check out so far."

  Roger drummed fingers on his desk. “This Cranston said this was a highly confidential matter—that's what has put me on the alert. Couldn't get another word out of him—oh, except he has no hesitation in paying whatever fee we stipulate."

  "A big spender, eh?"

  "Yes ... maybe that made me just a tad suspicious too. We get few clients today who don't haggle over the fee."

  "Do we know anything about this Cranston?"

  "Clean as a whistle, Eve assures me,” said Roger.

  Eve Wheeler handled her hi-tech equipment like an expert lion tamer handled her animals. Checking on the credentials of clients was part of her everyday activities. After all, when a client wanted to have Sheraton, Pemberton and Delano buy a hundred thousand dollars worth of wine for them, the firm needed to know a lot more than could be revealed by leafing through bank statements and credit reports.

  "Too clean?” asked Nic.

  Roger knew what Nic meant. Those with something to hide often kept their record too squeaky clean. Roger shook his head. “I don't think so. My guess would be he's straight.” He reached for the phone. “Let's set it up..."

  The Huntington Hotel at Taylor and Mason on North Beach is small and luxurious. The service is friendly and attentive and the better rooms four hundred dollars a night and up so Nic supposed this fellow Cranston was no piker.

  The desk called Cranston's room and said he would be right down. Nic was glancing through a few listings of professional interest on the American Exchange in the Wall Street Journal in the lobby when a voice called his name.

  The man approaching was possibly his age or maybe a handful of years younger. He was slightly built and had sparse, sandy hair and large-lensed glasses with clear plastic rims. He wore a lime green linen Polo shirt and light beige slacks with white canvas loafers. He had an ingenuous air, as if he didn't come to the big city very often.

  The two confirmed one another's identity. Cedric Cranston had a shy smile and gave the impression of a friendly, easygoing nature. His voice was light and he had a Midwestern accent. He waved to an arrangement of leather armchairs around a knurled wood table. “Shall we sit? My room's very comfortable, but it's more spacious down here."

  They did so and sat at right angles to each other. “We have well over an hour—plenty of time to get to the auction,” Cranston said.

  "The auction?” Nic questioned.

  He looked concerned. “Yes, surely Mr. Sheraton explained the purpose of my request to your company? I want someone—"

  "I understand that,” Nic said, “but I didn't realize that the auction was today. I thought we were merely going to talk about what you have in mind, devise a bidding strategy, and agree on—"

  "Ah!” he said, looking alarmed. “Perhaps I didn't explain myself clearly to Mr. Sheraton. No, the auction is today at eleven a.m.” He examined Nic's face anxiously. “It's really very simple. I can tell you in a few minutes what I want. We will take a taxi and be at th
e auction rooms in half an hour. Plenty of time, you see.” A thought struck him. “Do you have a lot of preparing to do? I'm sorry, I know nothing about auctions and I didn't realize—"

  "No, no, it's all right. I can handle it this way."

  Nic felt protective toward him—he had a helplessness about him and so obviously had an acute sensitivity about being the neophyte on the verge of getting tossed into the threatening arena of the auction.

  "Are you sure?” He pushed his glasses farther up on his nose. “The auction is today though, and it's very important to me to—"

  "It's okay, really. Do you have a catalog?"

  "Yes, right here.” Cedric Cranston pulled one from his pocket and handed it to Nic.

  "First,” Nic said, “can you tell me what you have in mind? What are you looking for? Some particular lot, one of the better buys ... ?"

  "I want to buy one wine."

  "One lot?"

  "No, I—"

  "One case?"

  "No, one bottle."

  "One bottle,” Nic repeated weakly. “Well, okay, any bottle in particular?"

  "Oh yes, very definitely. I want a bottle of Leoville-Barton Bordeaux, 1959."

  Nic felt a slight quickening of the pulse. The day might be an interesting one after all. On its way to the Atlantic Ocean, the Gironde River runs through France, past vineyards that produce excellent red wines. Rich in history, this region has been inspiring minds and enlivening bodies with its products for more than a thousand years.

  At the northern end of this string of vineyards are those clustered around the village of St. Julien, where one of the outstanding chateaux is that of Leoville-Barton. The wines are world renowned, and their silkiness of body, combined with an unusually attractive bouquet, has put them in great demand. As Nic's mind rapidly recalled this information, an obvious question arose.

  "Mind telling me why that particular wine?"

  Cedric Cranston smiled apologetically. “I don't suppose it's the kind of reason that would make much sense to anybody else.” His expression suggested that he considered that explanation sufficient to answer Nic's question.