by Peter Prasad
Vans were his thing. His mother told him that he’d been conceived in the back of a panel van. As a kid, he slept in an abandoned U.S. Army panel van deep in the panga grass on Guam down a dirt track. His mother was half-Filipina, half-Japanese, but an American citizen, and so was he. It saved him some paperwork when he joined the U.S. Army. That had been a great day for Wild Bill.
He never knew his father and barely recalled his Ma except for her bright red lips—which always excited him. He loved a bright, shiny red mouth.
If his luck held, there was a bright red pair of lips at a truck stop ahead. Maybe he could find her again. He had saved up $80 to pay her. She liked money. She made Wild Bill feel good.
His Ma had been dropped off late one night at the junction of the dirt track to his camp and the paved road that circled the island of Guam. She was drunk again. He remembered the squeal of tires and the terrible sound of the crunch.
He ran down the track and found her dead in the road. He yelled, but the driver didn’t even get out of the car, just threw a handful of cash at the boy. He scooped up the cash, then the broken reeking body of his Ma.
She was no longer breathing. That was the last time Wild Bill cried. Then he buried her under the panga grass, digging a shallow grave out of the rocky red soil. He piled a mound of coral rocks on top of her so the wild dogs would leave her alone. That’s what a good boy did for his Ma. He was fifteen.
Wild Bill drove a shiny new black panel van now. He felt right at home. He had begged Dr. Semper for bright golden letters on both sides of the panel van, but Semper said his mission was covert until further orders. Gold lettering would come later.
This was his third and last delivery run down from Reno. His Santa Rosa destination ended at A-Haul-Rents, a bunch of metal sheds off Highway 101. Wild Bill had passkeys for the gate and the shed door, which he wore on a chain around his neck—where his dog tags used to go.
Those had been taken away, he couldn’t remember why. He looked at the green glowing numbers on his wristwatch. He was on schedule. He’d make two stops and arrive at the winery early in the morning.
He felt again for his inventory list in the pocket of his ex-military khaki shirt, stuffed in with the folded $20 bills Dr. Semper gave him for his expenses. He liked Dr. Semper. Semper always gave him cash.
Wild Bill was up $80 on expenses. He slept in the back of the van, skipping cheap hotel rooms in favor of his new pair of shiny red lips.
He could make this trip blindfolded, he chuckled to himself, though his face showed no emotion at all. He didn’t feel much, except for a blinding burst of rage when he had his headaches. They had been worse, much worse, before his Army days.
After his mother died, he stayed on in the van, living on instant ramen noodles, goat meat and stewed rats, and anything he could steal. He and his friends smoked weed when they could get it.
His first headache had flooded his brain like a run-away barge. It burned behind his eyes, sent needles of pain throughout his body and gave him the shakes. He drank a pint of whiskey to make it go away and began following hobos in search of more pain relief.
He earned the nickname ‘Wild Bill’ before he turned sixteen, when he mixed up a cocktail of sterno and gasoline and poured it over a drunken hobo, just to watch the man burn.
The memory made him feel for his Zippo lighter through the fabric of his jeans. He always carried his Zippo. Instead of running away to brag about burning the bum, he had stayed to watch and he danced around his victim until the poor man had fried to a cinder.
Wild Bill then covered his tracks by torching the building. He jumped on his dirt bike, a Yamaha 50cc, and scooted back to his van. He spent two days boiling water for noodles, sharpening the hunting knife he had stolen from the derelict, and reliving the fire. At times like that, he never needed sleep and he never had headaches.
From that day forward, Wild Bill wore second-hand military clothing he scrounged from dumpsters near the air base on Guam. In his fantasy, he became a warrior waiting for war. He began hanging out at the Army recruiting office, getting to know each recruiter by name, and begging them to let him enlist. He wanted to get off the island, and would do whatever was required.
He needed proof of high school graduation or a GRE certificate. Already two years behind, he traded lawn care and maintenance work for tutoring with a remedial English teacher at a nearby mobile home park. After a three-week crash course, fueled by illegal stimulants to keep his mind cracking, Wild Bill failed the exam.
Furious, he wanted his sweat-equity back. To extract revenge, he handcuffed his tutor to her bed and stripped her down to nothing but bright red lipstick. He undressed and danced around her, taped her mouth shut and spanked her with a belt. When she refused to spread her legs, he used his wicked-sharp knife to shave her pubic hairs.
The haircut intensely aroused both of them. He satisfied himself and his tutor several times. She agreed to pay for and take the on-line GRE exam for him and he untied her. Once he received his GRE certificate in the mail, he thanked her with another long weekend of kinky sex. Wild Bill shipped out to join the Army six days later.
Wild Bill lasted six years in Germany before his dishonorable discharge. A flight lieutenant’s live-in German girlfriend had been found dead and burned, handcuffed to her bed, in a small cottage in a corner of the rambling base. Someone had tried to torch the cottage as well.
To his chagrin, a roving patrol had noted the license plate on Wild Bill’s motorcycle in the area. The Army rousted Bill from his bunk and searched his closet, which revealed a single pubic hair on the sheath of his Bowie knife. No blood. No other evidence. The single hair was insufficient to convict him, but the U.S. Army was finished with him, anyway.
He came to the States for the first time and worked as an on-again off-again handyman, making his home in another van. He ambled across the country.
He found “Burning Man,” the yearly festival in the Nevada desert. He danced wildly all night long, often in the nude, often erect. He sampled several willing young women, until one complained to her motorcycle club. Several bikers from an Arizona chapter of Hooligans beat him severely with baseball bats. His headaches became much worse.
Wild Bill saw the freeway on-ramp ahead. He checked both rear-view mirrors and clicked on his turn signal to ease into the lane that fed onto the freeway. A careful driver, he always kept just below the speed limit.
On a metal cooking grille behind his seat, Bill had hung a raccoon tail, a fox tail and what was probably a dog’s tail, each washed clean and dried in the sun. Wild Bill hated to see things go to waste or to spend cash. He had lived on barbecued rat in Guam. Their hairless tails were not worth collecting. When opportunity presented itself, Wild Bill would pull over on the side of the road to examine road kill. Providing it was fresh, free of maggots and worms, Bill would wrap the carcass in plastic until he could put it in his stew pot. He ate several feral cats found on late-night meanders on the back roads of Sonoma.
The jugs, barrels and cartons of ‘agents’ that Dr. Semper had ordered him to fetch lay strapped down tight in the back. There would be no load shifting on Wild Bill’s run. As a U.S. Army transportation coordinator, military-speak for ‘truck driver,’ he never forgot an important detail like safety straps. He had a five-hour drive ahead of him back to Santa Rosa.
An hour later, Wild Bill saw a red-and-white flashing neon sign, All-Nite Truck Haven, at the crest of the hill. He could feel her lips on him now. He slowed and pulled into the truck stop, parking by a big rig in the dark corner of the lot.
This was where she showed up on his last trip. He leaned down to pick up an empty jar which he used to save a trip to the men’s room. Bill knew how to save time. He reached for his Zippo, and flicked it open, lighting it, and snapped it closed, over and over again. It settled his nerves and made him feel like he lived in a dream, not a nightmare. He muttered, “flick-suck-flick-suck.”
Soon enough he saw a curly-haired woman open
the door of the big rig and step down. She wore a revealing halter top and short skirt, but Bill did not care about that. He focused on her bright red lips. Bill rolled down his window and whistled and removed his new sunglasses. She looked over and waved. He unlocked his passenger side door. He was already erect. She slid in beside him and smiled. He handed her $40.00. “Please put on more lipstick,” he said.
She tucked his cash into her halter top, dabbed on more lipstick, gave him a big red grin and bent her head over his lap. Bill leaned back, sighed deeply and heard the sound of his jean’s zipper sliding down. He began breathing through his mouth, throbbing in anticipation.
Five minutes later, Wild Bill handed his gal two more $20.00 bills and said, “Again, please.” He could smell the cherry-flavored condom, a critical ingredient in her trade. He wanted to fill the condom to the brim. Ten minutes later, his red-lipped gal thanked him and exited his delivery van. Wild Bill started the motor and pointed west toward Santa Rosa. He was on the road again, more relaxed than he’d been for a month.
***
Behind his sunglasses, Wild Bill saw dappled light break through the scrub oaks and madrone trees on the hillside behind the gate to Dr. Semper’s winery. At this early hour, no one in the winery office would see him through the security camera.
He punched in the gate security code and powered the black panel van up and over the hill. He parked in front of the wine storage building and unloaded several cartons, crates and plastic containers of liquid. It was a heavy load and he made quick work of it. He wanted to crawl into his sleeping bag in the back of the van and take a nap. He knew he would sleep well, no dreams this time. He had the pleasant memory of those sweet red lips to cradle himself to sleep. He moved the van to a shady spot behind another of the winery’s run-down wooden buildings and unrolled his kit. Within five minutes, Wild Bill was snoring.
***
Dr. Semper arrived at the winery promptly at 9:00 in the morning and parked his silver Jaguar beside the sliding wooden door of the wine storage building. Inside, he found Wild Bill’s deliveries stacked neatly, exactly as instructed, with the invoices folded on top of one of the cartons and held in place by an empty wineglass. He scanned the invoices and confirmed that Wild Bill had done his job.
When he first found the crazy vet sleeping in a van on the back end of the winery property, Semper had sensed his potential: a loyal man who respected his owner and would do what he was told. Semper experimented with various dosages of drugs—amphetamines for hard labor, tranquilizers for sleep and Rohypnol for forgetfulness—in the wine he supplied his delivery man. He would prepare a bottle or two for Bill and hand them to him as an extra reward for a day’s labor. Bill was always appreciative in his own mumbling way. It was all working just fine.
Now he removed his gray jacket, hung it on a hook in the barn, and pulled a thick black rubber industrial apron over his vest and suit pants. He carefully used a Sani-wipe to remove a few particles of dust from his black patent leather boots with the extra-tall heels. He wiped his hands on his thighs, one of his little habits, and began to work.
Semper poured carefully-measured portions of grain alcohol, fructose, blackberry syrup, raisins and other ingredients over oak chips in a large stainless steel vat and sealed the lid. He set the mixture to warm for several hours. Nature could take its course in Semper-accelerated fashion. This was not wine-making, but one of his proven methods for making mediocre wine taste expensive. He intended to blend a syrup of flavors that he would inject into each of the barreled wines that he inherited as inventory with the Shawn Estates purchase. Nature made good; Semper made better.
He smelled his profits ripening. After all, wine was nothing more than water flavored with grape residue, sugars and tannic acids with an alcohol kick. He could blend that up in 30 minutes, so why wait for years of aging in oak barrels? It was all a big charade, sha-rod as the English would say. Ah, but that was a secret he had best keep to himself. He had no plans to disturb the illusions of his clients. As P.T. Barnum had famously said, “There’s a sucker born every minute.” Many of them considered themselves wine connoisseurs. He carefully removed his black rubber apron, hung it on a hook on the wall and wiped his hands with care on a Sani-wipe. He checked his clothing for splatters or stains. He would exit as he arrived, spotless, elegant, and assured.
Semper drove his Jaguar to the door of the management building, as he liked to call it, which housed his office, laboratory, a conference space, a cozy little bedroom for naps and two bathrooms. He’d spent significant money to upgrade this building, while neglecting the two storage barns. When his European clients and big buyers demanded a visit, he could clear the decks and turn the office and blending lab into a tasting room.
In the official Ladies room, he installed a deep bathtub for two. Earlier that month, Semper enjoyed playing in the suds with a run-away hitchhiker he met on the road up from San Francisco. The young man had been willing to do things for money.
Honestly, he didn’t have that much to do but he preferred to appear busy, if only to himself. Behind his desk he had lined the credenza with dozens of wine bottles, many of them open and half-empty. Semper was a man of multiple experiments.
He settled into his high-backed swivel chair, placed his black-leather executive briefcase on the desktop and opened it. He switched on his laptop computer. He opened his desk drawer, pulled out a lined yellow pad and made a few pencil corrections to his To-Do list. He tapped his fingers on the desktop and glanced at the clock on the wall. Van-ness-ah was due to call at eleven.
His cell chimed exactly on time. “Ah, Van-ness-ah. Very good. So prompt,” Semper began. “And how was your instruction at the Culinary Academy? Wearing our new Fransec-logoed polo shirt? Over discreet slacks perhaps? Never blue jeans. And did you give out our tasteful new Fransec business cards? So expensive, raised ink in three colors—black, burgundy and gold. Ever so elegant, if I do say so myself. My design, of course.”
Semper chortled into the phone, finding his flow now that he had a captive audience. “And you’re diligently filling each page with adjectives, in the expensive Fransec-logoed and embossed real leather executive notebook for your tasting notes? I’m warning you, I shall inspect it. Now do tell all….”
As he expected, Vannie began gushing and he switched her to speaker-phone. Such juvenile observations. Vannie mentioned an opportunity for her to pour samples at the next meeting of the Wine Brats, a reputable club of young go-getters in San Francisco. She had met the membership coordinator. “I know they’ll spend $20.00 a bottle without blinking an eye.”
Semper turned up his nose. “No, Van-ness-ah. We do not do that. We have private tastings exclusively for our select clients. We never participate in public pours. Now it’s nice of them to think of us, that’s your job, but you can come up with a nicer way to say—absolutely not. Next?”
Vannie prattled on about launch-advertising, brand-building, her new list of premium wine reviewers, and more. She mentioned a sudden opening for the cover of Wine Trends magazine and an inside-cover full-page ad, at a 50% discount. “No thank you,” Semper bellowed.
She mentioned a video conference at the Academy with Uncle Chin from Wine Savers Warehouse. He had 40 outlets in seven states. He had invited her to submit her range of wines for his consideration.
“Really, from Uncle Chin himself?” Semper fooled her with his interest. “And he only wants how much? Ha! No, Van-ness-ah. They can’t see past your pretty blue eyes and fat checkbook. Welcome to the club. The cretins are everywhere.” Semper stifled a yawn.
“Did anyone mention Sem-purr being the high-end pour on all Viking Vin river cruises in Europa this summer? I did that. That’s our milieu.”
Vannie was afraid to say anything more. She knew she would embarrass herself by mispronouncing the French words. Exasperated, she shifted back to repeating “Thank you, Dr. Semper. I’m learning so much. Yes, my tasting notes are up-to-date.”
Semper cut her off. �
��Sounds good. I see progress. Come in tomorrow promptly at ten. I’ll buzz you through the gate. We’ll be working until seven. On your way in, stop at the market and get fresh flowers, sunflowers only. So Van Gogh. Fresh milk, whole milk only. Sliced smoked salmon from the deli and fresh croissants. I’ll want four; you may have two. I’ll give you petty cash when I see you. We’ll be busy little bees, Van-ness-ah. Ta-Ta.” Semper clicked off the phone before she said another word.
He sat quietly and planned his little excitements for the morrow. He opened his laptop and tested the wireless feed from the pinhead cameras he had installed in a ceiling tile in the Ladies. It worked perfectly. He tested the video-feed from the bedroom, his little nook, and from the camera that covered the entire open work area. He’d be able to watch his little Vannie wherever she was.
Semper liked to keep his eye on things. He closed his laptop with a tidy little snap, left it on his desk, turned off the air conditioning, locked the door and departed for the day. He decided he would lounge in his pajamas and take a nap. He would check on his ingredients first thing in the morning. It had been a profitable day.
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CHAPTER FIVE
Jake stood on the veranda of his cottage and sipped his first cup of French-press Kenya coffee. He nodded to Thor, the shaggy black-and-white Belgian sheep dog, sprawled on the deck. “We’re not in Afghanistan any longer are we, Thor?” Thor chewed on his paw and yawned.
Jake didn’t miss the swirling dust and rattle of small arms fire from Afghanistan. Sonoma’s hills were not the snow-topped Hindu Kush. He studied the land, his land. If green is your color, he ruminated, Sonoma was a verdant treat for the eyes.
To the east, he could see the purple Mayacamas mountain range spreading north, separating Sonoma Valley from Napa. A fuzzy checkerboard of pale grass fields and chaparral, patched with old vineyard and pocked with coops, rolled into savannah and rose to hilltops clustered with noble oaks. More humpbacked blue hills sprawled to the west toward the ocean.
