Sooner or Later (12 page)

“No, Señor.” The man leapt from the saddle, and beamed again. “I am Carlos Ortega. Your new winemaster. I know everything there is to know about making the wines and I have the best ‘nose’ on the coast. I have come to offer my valuable services to you.” He swept off the sombrero with a flourish and both he and the palomino bowed low.

Dan was laughing, but he could see Ortega meant business. “And how did you hear I needed a wine-maker?”

Putting back his sombrero, Ortega hitched up his jeans and gave him a cocky grin. “Let us just say I heard it on the grapevine, Señor.” And he threw back his head
in a great shout of laughter at his own topical little vineyard joke.

Dan eyed the whiskey bottle sticking from his pocket, speculatively, but he also noticed his twinkling brown eyes and his air of joie de vivre. And joie de vivre was something Running Horse could do with a major shot of right now. He doubted Carlos Ortega knew a merlot from a sauvignon but, despite the bottle of booze, he kind of liked him.

“Put the mare in the stall and give her some water. Then come to my office and we’ll talk.”

Carlos quickly did as he was asked. He took a seat opposite Dan in the bare but clean little space that had become his office. Placing the sombrero carefully across his knees, he stood the bottle of whiskey on the trestle table between them.

“Señor Cassidy, I will not lie to you,” he said, suddenly serious. “I am a good winemaker, maybe even great. I first came to California when I was a boy, to pick the walnuts, then the pistachios, then strawberries. Anything there was to be picked, I picked it.” He shrugged and threw Dan a modest smile. “Of course I was only twelve years old but I was big for my age, and nobody questioned me.

“When I was fifteen I went north, to the Napa Valley to pick grapes. I worked hard, I was intelligent, I was promoted from the field to work in the winery. I learned everything I could. It interested me, you see, Señor. I loved the process of growing the grapes, the harvest, the winemaking. I loved the smell of it, so much so, that I would leave my bed in the night to come and see that my wines were fermenting properly. First I worked in the fields at Mondavi, then for Beaulieu, and then I went to a small vineyard, what they call a
boutique winery
, like Running Horse, Señor. The owner liked my interest, he
apprenticed me to the master winemaker, and because I loved what I was doing I learned quickly. And I also learned I had a talent for it.”

His intelligent brown eyes met Dan’s across the table. “Señor, I became cellar foreman, then an assistant wine-maker. I worked for top wineries, though never in the chief position. This”—he tapped the whiskey bottle—“was my undoing.”

Heaving a sigh, he replaced the sombrero and gave his mustache a wistful twirl. “So you see, Señor Cassidy, I will not lie to you. But my little problem is my own and it will not affect my work. With me, Señor, the wine comes first.”

“You’re not a wine drinker, then?”

Carlos shook his head. “I only enjoy to create it, Señor. In my view, wine is a drink for señoritas and fancy men.” He patted his belly and threw Dan a conspiratorial grin. “And there’s nothing warms the heart more than good whiskey. Unless it’s a good woman.”

“And what makes you think, Señor Ortega, that I will take on an acknowledged drunk as my winemaker?”

Ortega leaned closer across the table. “Señor Cassidy,” he said, smooth as silk, “I do not think either of us has much choice. You need a winemaker. I need a job. You will not get another man of high caliber to come and work at Running Horse. It is badly run-down, it had a bad reputation, they say there’s a jinx on it and a decent bottle of wine has never been produced here. But I know this land, the slopes are south facing, the soil is light. Good robust wines can come from this soil, Señor, but to get them, you need an expert. Much money will need to go into new vine stock, and in bringing the vineyard up to standard. It is expensive and will take time. But I am not a greedy man, I do not demand high wages. I will work alongside you until we make a success.”

Looking levelly at Dan, he said, “All I need is a roof over my head. The little house near the gates will do fine, I can fix it up good, it won’t cost much. With enough for me and my family to eat, and for the occasional bottle of whiskey. Only occasional, Señor, that, I promise you. Later, when we are successful, then we shall renegotiate.”

He sat back in his chair, satisfied that he had presented his case to his best advantage, and this time it was Dan who threw back his head and laughed out loud.

“It’s that simple, huh? I need a winemaker and nobody will work for me. And you need a job and nobody will hire you. It seems, we’re stuck with each other, Señor Ortega. It’s a deal. Only no drinking on the job.”

The Mexican pumped his hand enthusiastically. “Señor Dan, you will not regret it. I promise you.” He stood up, pocketed his bottle and swaggered to the door.

Whistling for the palomino, he leapt on its back and galloped out of the stableyard in a swirl of dust, the same way he had come in.

Watching the cloud of dust disappear down the hillside, Dan wondered if Carlos Ortega was a mirage, or whether he had really just hired himself a whiskey drunk as his winemaker. He shook his head, telling himself he must be crazy and that Carlos had better be as good a winemaster as he was a talker, because
he
sure as hell didn’t know much about it.

A short while later Carlos came back, driving an ancient pickup with a dusty-looking brown mongrel standing in the back, and a plump young woman with long, shiny black hair sitting in the front, holding a baby on her lap.

Pancho ran at Cecil, the brown dog, barking ferociously, and Dan hauled him back by the collar as Carlos
said, “Señor, this is Florita, my wife. And this”—he swept the baby from her lap and held it proudly aloft—“is my son Roberto Carlosito Ortega. An American citizen.” He raised his hand to his heart in a solemn salute. “God bless America.”

“And God bless Señor Cassidy for giving you work,” Florita added, shyly. “I can work for you too, Señor. I can clean your house, do your laundry, cook for you. Anything you need.”

Dan laughed. He liked Carlos, he liked the whole family. “And I say God bless you, Florita, for that,” he replied. Then, remembering the state of the house, he added, “And oh boy, will you need it.”

M
ISS
L
OTTIE WAS UPSTAIRS IN HER LITTLE SITTING ROOM
watching television. She was wearing Ellie’s birthday-present velvet robe, and her neatly brushed hair—a hundred strokes every night, all her life—fell around her shoulders in a silvery cloud. She was sipping a glass of milk, and there was a puzzled frown on her face.

“Maria,” she said, “I think I saw someone I know today, only I don’t remember.”

Maria was sitting opposite. Her slippered feet were propped on a faded green brocade ottoman, and she was drinking hot chocolate and munching her home-baked vanilla cookies.

“You saw a lot of people at the Biltmore. You’ve known them for years, Miss Lottie. It just slips your mind, is all.”

She shook her head. “Now I don’t even recall what the man looked like. When I first saw him, I thought he was familiar. Then later, when he was sitting nearby, I thought perhaps I
should know
him.” She sighed, frowning
again. “Oh my useless brain, I’ve a good mind to have a computer disk installed up there.”

Taking a sip of the milk, she helped herself to one of Maria’s cookies. “I have the feeling it was someone important though.” She shook her muddled head. “It’s so annoying. It’s like waking from a vivid dream and not being able to remember it, though you really want to. That’s what my life has become now, Maria,” she added irately. “Just series of half-remembered dreams. Reality no longer exists.”

“Except when Ellie comes to see you.” Maria patted her hand comfortingly as she got to her feet. “I’d better take Bruno out for his stroll. Can’t really call it a ‘walk’ these days.”

Miss Lottie’s suite was at the top of the grand staircase, on the left, and Maria had the rooms to the right. Most of the others were closed off now, except for Ellie’s just down the hall, which still looked exactly the way it had when she’d left for college. Miss Lottie wondered why Ellie had not stayed over tonight, then remembered she’d said something about a date. She wondered with whom.

She turned her attention to the TV. That was it, of course. Ellie’s young man played a homicide detective on the television program. Miss Lottie smiled, pleased that at least she’d gotten that right. But she still puzzled over who it was she’d encountered at the Biltmore. It was someone important, she was sure of that.

Buck had driven slowly past the gates of Journey’s End twice already. He pulled onto the soft verge opposite, half hidden in the shadow of the eucalyptus trees, then shook a cigarette from the crumpled pack of Camels. He lit it, staring at the elaborate iron gates. They were flanked by two enormous pink granite columns,
thick as redwood trees, topped with a pair of winged griffins.

Guarding the rich woman’s palace, he thought bitterly. And keeping out the rest of the world. Except him, of course. He would find his way in there, even if they kept it locked like a fortress. He wondered how many there were now, in the household. And if she still had an armed patrol? The house was not visible from the road, but a faint yellowish glow in the distance indicated that there must be outdoor lights for security purposes. He would have to check things out properly. He wasn’t going to end up locked away a second time.

He imagined the old woman as he’d seen her today, so upright in her chair, no elbow on the table or dowager’s stoop. Still living as if she were a queen, everybody bowing and scraping …

Flinging the cigarette out the window, he started up the engine. “Happy birthday, Miss Lottie,” he called mockingly as he slid past the gates. “Happy fucking birthday. Better make the most of it. Because it’s your last.”

The dark road spiraled down from the foothills but he took the bends at top speed, not caring.
You are invincible
, the voice in his head told him triumphantly. Y
ou are smarter, better, stronger.
Besides, he knew all about them now. He had asked the waitress, when she’d brought him his check.

“Miss Lottie’s a lovely lady,” she’d said. “Everybody knows her, she’s lived in Montecito longer than anybody else. Anyone who’s still alive, that is.”

“A charming woman,” Buck had agreed, pleasantly. “They don’t make them like that these days. A true lady.”

The waitress smiled approvingly at him.
“And
she brought her granddaughter up the same way. Ellie’s a
real lady, too, even if she does run a cafe in Santa Monica.”

“And where would that be?” Buck added a large tip, then handed it to her. She glanced quickly at it, pleased at his generosity.

“On Main Street. They say it’s a nice little place and Ellie works real hard. I guess she has to, if the rumor’s true there’s no money left and Journey’s End will have to be sold.”

Buck’s heart had turned to stone, but he’d still kept his smile. “I guess it’s not often a property like that comes on the market. No doubt there’ll be plenty of buyers after it.”

The waitress shrugged, refilling his teacup. “I don’t know about that, sir, though they say it must be worth a fortune. Millions, I heard.”

Buck felt better knowing about the millions, and now he had a new plan of action.

He shifted gear and the BMW shot out of Hot Springs Road onto Coast Village, tires screeching as he made a right, then a quick left onto the freeway, speeding south. He needed action. He needed to see where Ellie lived. He needed a woman.

T
HE ROAD WAS EMPTY AND THE
H
IGHWAY
P
ATROL NOT IN
evidence. He was in L.A. in less than an hour, then traffic slowed him down. He switched onto 405, then the Santa Monica Freeway, and exited at Fourth Street.

A patrol car sitting at the traffic light brought him to his senses. He couldn’t afford to get a ticket, the new driver’s license and registration looked good for everyday purposes, but he wasn’t sure how well they’d stand up to police scrutiny.

He drove slowly down Main until he found it.
Ellie’s Place
it said on the forest-green fascia board, and again, on the window. He stopped the car and sat looking at it. A
Closed
sign hung over the door and no lights were on.

He got out and walked round the corner to the back of the single-story premises. Latticed steel covered the kitchen door and the window. Frustrated, he wondered where she lived. He would need to keep watch on her, find out. The thought filled him with excitement. Buzzing with power, he drove back to Sunset Boulevard.

Even on a Monday night the strip was lively. Keeping
an eye out for the cops, he cruised slowly as far as Hollywood Boulevard, checking the roadside action. There were plenty of women, any shape or size you wanted. With Ellie in mind, he chose a redhead.

He rolled the window down and leaned across, checking her out. She was tall and breasty in a skimpy black skirt and top, and black patent high-heeled boots. “How much?” he said quickly.

She looked him up and down. “Depends what you want, mister. You tell me, I’ll tell you.”

“Get in,” he said, deciding. “We’ll negotiate on the way.”

She slid into the passenger seat. “You want all night, I’m yours,” she said. “Anything you like, a hundred bucks.”

He glanced skeptically at her. “I’d say more like fifty.”

She pouted, eyes flashing sullenly. “It’s a friggin’ bargain,” she said, then yelled with laughter. “That’s me,” she added, chortling. “A friggin’ bargain.”

Buck did not laugh.

“Where we goin’?” she demanded, suddenly nervous.

“Anyplace. Just as long as it’s quiet and there are no cops.”

She grinned, relieved. “First, give me the fifty. Then I’ll take you somewhere special.”

He didn’t bother to negotiate.

He fished the wallet from his pocket and she eyed it greedily. “Don’t even think about it,” he said coldly. “I’ll have you locked up so fast you won’t know what hit you. Except this time, you’ll be doing more than just thirty days for hookin’.”