The Grape Thief, Part 1
A Green Glass Bottle
Clayton Ramsay Garrett’s office sits at the very top of a building most of DC’s residents wanted to destroy a month after it was built. His office is the entire top floor of the tallest building in Washington, DC…or the tallest that isn’t the Capitol or the Washington Monument. In DC, no building can be higher than the streets are wide. There are only a few exceptions, including the Cathedral and the Washington Monument. But Clayton wanted a tall office so he could do just what he was doing now — standing on top of the world, looking down.
During the construction of the building, he “encouraged” the architect to add an extra eighteen inches to every floor. The final building towered over all the buildings around it, astonishing tourists and enraging business owners and the DC leadership. It took many greased palms and expensive dinners and PAC contributions to ease the public’s mind…and to have the building renamed and declared a landmark. In time, everyone got used to it, and Clayton got his way. He usually did.
In his time, Clayton had been a force for good, or mostly good, in DC. He rose to prominence in the 80s, a shining example of how far black men had come in this country. He managed to sidestep every political hurdle, including the arrest of the mayor he’d helped put in power — that dipshit. He had ties to local and national lawmakers on both sides of the aisle. Through scandal and recession and panic, he kept his head high and sacrificed little. DC was his home, and it had been good to him for a long time.
Tonight, he would dine out with Julia, his wife of forty years, and then go visit his brother-in-law at a poker game being kept warm just for him in the cozy suburbs of Silver Spring. He’d take all their money, or most of it. Clayton Ramsay Garrett rarely played a game he could lose, and even if he did, he could buy back in quickly and keep the pot growing. Anyone he couldn’t beat outright, he could outlast. That thought kept him warm on this cool fall evening.
Nearby was a bar, complete with a bartender, a young man named Jason who showed up every night for private service. Clayton kept Jason paid, Jason kept Clayton and his various business guests in drinks. Often, they’d talk about golf. But not tonight.
It was about 7:10 when Marcella Alvarez came in with her dossier on Denny Palantino. She sat at the bar where Jason had already poured her a white wine. She opened up the file and double-checked her information, then tapped out a quick email on her phone.
“I have a feeling your friend will be late,” Clayton said without turning around.
“He’s not my friend,” Marcella said. She pulled a lock of hair behind her ear and adjusted her glasses. “Though after today, there’s not much I don’t know about him. Why all the cloak-and-dagger?”
Clayton turned toward the bar. Jason began fixing a fresh Blue-label scotch with precisely one ice cube.
“All in good time. He has to accept before you come to understand the rest of it.” He took the drink and pointed a finger at Jason, who quietly nodded and continued cleaning glasses.
“Accept what?” Marcella asked. “Are you making him an offer he can’t refuse or something?”
“Heh, that’s good. That’s very good.” Clayton took a drink of the expensive scotch and looked off toward the last splash of sunlight that was quickly being swallowed by the dark.
Great, he’s already drunk, Marcella thought to herself. Her boss loved to bend an elbow and he loved to make her stay late and listen to his rumination on the state of the world and the money his company ought to be making. She didn’t mind it a few years ago when she started, but it was ruining what little chance she had at a social life.
A knock at the large double doors of the office chamber was followed by Mrs. Haskins’ voice. “A Mr. Palantino is here to see you?”
“Send him in. And then head home, Louise.”
“Goodnight, Mr. Garrett.”
“Goodnight, Mrs. Haskins,” he said, waving. The two had been together for nearly thirty-five years, almost as long as he and Mrs. Garrett had. She was getting old now, but he still felt young. Not as young as the man walking in; briefcase in hand, dressed to the nines…or as close to the nines as you can get on an ex-detective’s salary.
“Mr. Garrett, it’s nice to meet you, sir.” Denny Palantino was stretching out a hand, hoping the deodorant he rubbed into his palms was really as good at stopping sweat as it claimed to be.
“Thank you, Detective. I’ve heard a lot about your work.” He shook the young man’s hand with a firm, well-practiced grip, and met his gaze. “Please, have a seat at the bar there. Jason will get you anything you like.”
Palantino let a sharp breath slip out of his nostrils. He went up to the bar, hands shaking a bit, and set his briefcase on the floor next to him. He rested his hands flat. “Club soda with lime,” he said meekly.
Clayton nodded to Jason, who proceeded to cut up a fresh lime and shoot some seltzer into a glass from his gun.
Just breathe, you’re fine, you’re doing fine, Denny said to himself. He accepted the glass and took a healthy swig. Is he waiting for me to make the first move? Is this a business thing?
“I have a copy of my resume, if you’d like to review anything. It’s recent as of–”
“You can relax, Detective. This isn’t a job interview. You’re already the man I want to hire. What’s next is just a discussion of terms.”
Denny nodded, trying to stay cool. He took another steep drink of club soda and rested the empty glass on the bar counter. Jason refilled it. Denny’s heart was pounding in his ears; he had barely noticed the woman.
“Detective Dennis Palantino, this is my right-hand woman, Marcella Long. You two will be working together, assuming you accept the job.”
If I don’t accept this job, I better hope she has a couch I can crash on, because the Hell if I’m going to keep staying with my brother and his wife, Denny thought. Jesus, did he say that out loud? No, it’s just nerves. Focus now.
“Pleasure to meet you,” she said, offering her hand. She had the same firm grip as her boss. Someone obviously taught her a deal-closing handshake. The smile, though, that was all hers.
Denny decided to start doing some talking. He’d finished his second club soda and pulled his notebook and pen out of the interior pocket of the suit he’d borrowed from his brother.
Clayton decided it wasn’t Denny’s turn.
“The job is very simple: someone is intent on defrauding me. I want you to accept what they’re trying to sell me, pay them the money, and stand by while we wait for the Department of Alcohol Tobacco and Firearms to make the arrest. You can be unarmed…frankly, I don’t think the man I want you to catch has any interest in physical violence. When people get cornered doing something bad, however, you never can tell.”
“Okay,” Denny said. “So you’re getting set up for a sting. ATF is involved…why do you need a private detective?”
“There are…complexities. I have friends at ATF who are doing me a favor. They’re happy having the collar, they just don’t want to devote a special agent to do the legwork. I’ve had Marcella researching our target; she has a whole dossier that we’ll hand over to ATF at the time of arrest. I wanted a professional detective, someone licensed who had security training and was smart — above all, smart — to ensure her safety and that of my expert.”
Denny wrote “Marcella” and “Expert(?)” in his notebook. In his too-brief time as a detective, he learned to look for the parts of a sentence someone was leaving out. What he hadn’t heard so far was anything about what Clayton was being sold, or the name of the man selling it to him. That the bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms didn’t want to risk their own people or waste their own money chasing that person stood out to Denny. He decided to chase that bit of string.
“So I’m the muscle, strictly speaking. ATF must either think a lot of this person or they don’t think about him at all. Him or her?”
“Him,” Marcella said. “His name is Maxwell Freiherr von Schenck, he’s a German expatriate who has been operating in France, Italy, the UK and Australia for a number of years. He owns a wine bar in London and is considered an up-and-coming rare wine dealer. He’s been able to get his hands on some real finds.”
“And they’re fake, I’m guessing.” Denny was starting to see the edges of the puzzle.
Clayton reached back behind his own private bar and pulled out a large green bottle with a wax seal on the neck. The label was hand-written, stained yellow by time. It was in Italian, which Denny could recognize but not read.
“This is a bottle I purchased from von Schenck four months ago. It’s supposed to be from the Gaultieri family winery, an Amarone, one of their premier vintages. This is one of seven remaining bottles in existence. The wine…was supposed to be exquisite.” Clayton ran a finger along the curve of the bottle.
“I purchased this bottle for my wife’s birthday. It’s from 1919, the year her mother was born. We got this bottle at what we were told was a steal. How true that was.”
“What tipped you off that this was a forgery? You mentioned an expert?”
“Oh, the bottle is very real,” Clayton said, examining it. “My expert, Frederick Aucoin, assured me as much. Few people in the world know wine the way he does. I invited him to my home to offer a few notes about the bottle at my wife’s birthday dinner party and he was kind enough to come.
“He was also kind enough to wait until after the party was over and we were having cigars to tell me the wine was just table wine. I almost didn’t believe him, but there was a little left so I had it analyzed. Apparently, when the atomic bomb went off, particles shot into the air that remain to this day. Carbon dating tells us that anything that grows on this planet after 1945 has these particles inside. Anything bottled in 1919 would not have these particles. This wine did. There were other markers, too, and…it was just some supermarket Chianti in the world’s most expensive piece of glass. We then went and pulled the corks on the two other bottles I bought from von Schenck. Three different, very rare, very expensive bottles, all full of Two Buck Chuck.”
Clayton hated few things more than being cheated. Denny didn’t even think to ask how much Clayton had paid. He got the feeling that didn’t really matter.
Marcella spread a few of her papers across the bar. There were photos of von Schenck, one of which was a mugshot from an Italian prison. There were stats and faxes and figures. There was a memo on ATF letterhead, and one on Vice Presidential letterhead. The VP’s note expressed “real concern” about Clayton’s situation.
Denny looked across the bar at Jason, who snapped to attention and filled the highball glass with club soda again. Denny took a sip and stared at the material Marcella had proffered. He took a look back up behind Jason’s shoulder at the gin. Ooo, gin. Gin gin gin. Gin and tonic, super sonic. And Jason just cut some fresh limes.
Denny shook it off. The little voice in his head was jabbering like a squirrel again. Drink, drink, drink, the little voice would squeal. No, no, no, Denny would plead. Recovery was Hell. Getting kicked off the force was Hell. He was a vampire, depriving himself of blood, withering up with each day he didn’t take a shot of something, of anything. This guy, this rich asshole, had an entire bar to himself and he was chasing down a guy who sold him some crummy table wine. If someone would just give Denny a half a glass, a third of a glass of that scotch Clayton was drinking he’d be okay. Instead, he felt that burning sickness in the pit of his belly.
Weren’t we looking at papers or something? the little squirrel barked at him.
Denny focused up.
“Seems like this guy’s had a few brushes with the law, but nothing’s stuck,” Denny said to Marcella.
“He’s been nailed for fraud and theft once or twice, slipped the rope in Rome and kept moving around enough that most everyone forgot his face. He’s got a few aliases, mostly German and one or two Italian. We think he may have multiple passports. He might be part-Greek or part-Italian by birth but we can’t be sure.” Marcella had spent many a lonely night with this information and knew it well.
“They might as well sell European passports at Wal-Mart, they’re so easy to come by,” Clayton said. He was rounding the corner on another Scotch.
Denny slid a few of the sheets around and saw his name at the top of another one. Marcella quickly grabbed up all the paperwork and threw it back into the file. “I can hand all this over later. For now, let’s talk payment. We can give–”
“My name’s on one of those,” Denny interrupted. “I deserve to know why.”
Marcella glanced at Clayton. Clayton stood up, his full six-foot-three frame looming large over everyone else in the room.
“You know Randy Claiborne.”
“I know Randy Claiborne.” Randy was one of Denny’s first partners on the force and a good friend. He and Clayton went way back for reasons neither would be forthcoming about, if asked.
“Randy said you were a trustworthy person. Dependable. And that you were a tough cop with a good record, despite your…” Clayton raised his eyebrows as he combed through his vocabulary for the polite word for “alcoholism.” He landed on
“…misfortune.” Denny lowered his eyes.
“Now, now, none of that. No shame! You had a problem and you dealt with it,” Clayton said, chucking Denny on the shoulder. “Randy vouched for you. He said you were the right guy. I trust Randy, so I trust you.”
“Well, that’s…good. Thank you, that’s very…very good.”
“And hey, better yet, I know you won’t drink anything when we make the grab on this guy. If he brings the real wine with him, I want every drop for myself. Heh.” Clayton was having fun. Denny was not.
Marcella scribbled a number on a post-it and pushed it toward Denny with two fingers. Denny unfolded it. If he had a poker face, he left it at home. $50,000? Say yes, idiot.
“I’m in,” Denny said.
“Hold on,” Marcella said, holding up a hand. “There are some terms here. First, von Schenck has to be placed in custody. You only get a quarter of that if he gets away.”
Marcella and Clayton were under the impression that $12,500 is not a lot of money to a recovering alcoholic with no other job prospects.
“Second, ATF gets the collar, full stop.”
“That’s fine by me.“
“Third…and I don’t know quite how to put this…”
“I really won’t drink any of the wine,” Denny said, only slightly frustrated. Clayton chuckled.
“No,” Marcella said, “we need assurances that Frederick and I…stay safe. We don’t know what von Schenck might try.”
“Marcella and Frederick are important to me. As friends and as assets,” Clayton said. This is him being warm, Denny thought.
“I can be armed if I have to. I’m licensed to carry in Virginia, and as for DC…”
“Well, there’s the rub…we have fake identities set up for the two of you in case von Schenck has background checks of his own. You two are from Columbus, Ohio. That’s where it’s going down.” Clayton had two yellow envelopes in hand and handed one to Denny and one to Marcella. Inside were a fake marriage license and wedding rings.
“You two are going to have to pretend to be married, I hope that’s okay. I have an apartment there in Columbus a friend is lending me. I don’t know about interstate carry laws, but I think your gun might have to stay home.”
“I’m sorry,” Denny finally said, “but this…you’re spending a lot of money to get this done. Surely the amount you spent on these three fake bottles is much less. I’ll take the job, but are you sure you want to pull out all the stops to get this guy?”
Clayton firmly set his glass on the bar. If he hated anything worse than being swindled, it was someone else counting his money.
“Outside of your pay, what’s being spent is none of your business. But if you must know, this isn’t all my money. Maxwell von Schenck has conned a few others in my social circle. We’ve decided to take matters into our own hands. We’re devoting a pool of resources to putting him away. The size of that pool is considerable. You’re sipping a handful out for yourself. Be happy you get any.”
“I didn’t mean to be disrespectful,” Denny said. “Really, I didn’t. And I was serious when I said I’ll do the job and do it well. But if this guy is such a problem, why do you have to twist so many arms to get him arrested?”
Clayton finished the last of his scotch. He was cutting himself off. Jason began to wash down the glasses.
“When you’re a wealthy man…when you’re wealthy, you live apart from the rest of the world. The law doesn’t always work on you, but it doesn’t always work for you, either. If this man killed someone close to me or burned down my offices or assaulted me, then sure, they’d get him. But he’s cheating me out of something that really only matters to me. Something that is, by definition, a luxury. When people like me get cheated out of what is rightfully ours, law enforcement scoffs. They’re just people and they don’t get paid nearly enough for what they do. When I pay $84,000 for a rare vintage and it turns out to be little more than grape juice, that’s a big laugh for them. They don’t jump right on the case, they have a good laugh and move on to what they deem ‘real crime’.”
The dollar figure that Clayton had just spit out was too specific not to be real. Denny decided that this job was too lucrative to pass up and that being on Clayton Ramsay Garnett’s payroll was better than being on his shit list.
“Well, all crime is ‘real crime’. It might be a bit polyanna, but I don’t like it when people get robbed, no matter where those people sit.” He thought he might have laid it on a bit thick, but Clayton smiled and stuck out his hand. Denny shook it, then went over to Marcella to get the paperwork in order. He might be able to pull out of the garage before he got stuck paying for an additional hour. If this job went well, Hell with it, he’d leave the car there and go buy a new one.
Marcella was glued to her laptop the entire flight, answering emails, scheduling meetings, avoiding conversation. She packed light, a small roller bag big enough for a change of clothes and some make-up, plus her briefcase as a carry-on item. Nothing she wore or traveled with wasn’t made of either genuine leather or silk.
Denny was a light traveler, too, but only because his ex-wife set most of his clothing on fire. Cops never seem to marry well, and they’re not great at divorce, either.
Denny spent the flight from Reagan to Columbus with his eyes out the window, staring down at the clouds. He could see rivers and houses and woodlands. He caught a look at the mountains before the land started to flatten out, rolling from the Blue Ridge down to the golden, featureless ground of Ohio.
The last eighteen months hadn’t been kind to Denny. He had lost his job, his wife, and his ability to drink himself stinky. The marriage had always been tenuous and the drinking was killing him, so losing them didn’t hurt. But the job. The job. He had wanted to be a detective ever since he was a kid. He worked tirelessly for years. He flew through the academy and spent a few good years on a mean beat out in Manassas Park, smacking around drug dealers and men who think it’s fine to punch a woman in the teeth. He took the detective’s test, did great, got paired with Randy who was a wonderful partner and a good friend, then he got married. He had the world on a string.
Then the job caught him.
Detectives are an interesting breed. People think that writers and artists are self-destructive, and they are, but detectives have to stand toe-to-toe with some of the worst people on earth on a near-daily basis. Killers. Rapists. Pedophiles. Sociopaths. At the end of the day, just a little whiskey can really help you put a stamp on things. The alcohol takes you out of your mind and keeps you from associating your job with your world. One is not the other in policing. “Most people are good” is the four-word drumbeat you have to keep thumping in your mind.
Denny caught a few big cases, had a few commendations. His career was just starting to get a little air under it when he started coming undone. He showed up late and Randy covered. He went home with other women and Randy covered. But Randy’s job was hunting murderers and sadists, not making sure that Denny got home in one piece. He did the best he could, but Denny just kept drinking and drinking and drinking until, at last, he crashed his patrol car while drunk. Ran it right into the side of a McDonald’s.
The inquisition from Internal Affairs was, all things considered, pretty painless. Denny’s stellar record before his drinking got out of control served him well, but when you get drunk and run a cop car into a fast food joint, well…one “aw-shit” cancels all the “atta-boys,” as Denny’s dad used to say.
Denny was discharged from the force. The cost of rehab would have to come out of Denny’s own pocket, much to his then-wife’s chagrin. But he got clean. It was costly, it was painful, but he did it. He had a good sponsor, Gene Frey of “Frey’s Carpet and Hardwood”. A celebrity, how lucky. Gene was nice, just as nice as Randy was. Gene’s receptionist at the business was nice, too. He chatted with her a few times and they went out to dinner. What’s the harm, right?
The harm, it turned out, was that the receptionist showed up at his wife’s chiropractic practice one night so she could “meet the bitch wife” for herself. At that point, Denny didn’t have any “atta-boys” left.
The divorce was a lot like the I.A. investigation; quick, pretty painless. But his wife didn’t start that way. She torched his stuff, smashed up his car, leaked a few ugly emails to a few friends and family members who didn’t appreciate Denny’s sense of humor. Once she worked her anger out, she was ready to be done with him and all his hang-ups. During all of this, Denny stayed sober.
Randy and Gene fronted him the money to start a private detective consultancy. Just him, some stakeout gear, a decent truck, a gun, and a note pad. He took a good deal of business from women a lot like his wife. They knew their husbands were up to something and they were almost always right. He took their money, took a few pictures, wrote down some notes, took some more of their money and split. Divorce was finally being good to him after months of treating him like shit.
What always blew him away was how often the men he was monitoring and hunting down would come right out with the truth. “Just between us guys,” they’d say. They’d brag about it. He didn’t even need to wear a wire, he just had to pump them for enough information to keep the trail hot, then snap a few pictures, swear out his testimony in court and move on to the next happy couple. He worried for a while that the opposing counsel in most of these cases would bring up his I.A. investigation and dismissal, but the F.O.P. lawyers and the city officials wanted to sweep his whole “whoopsie” under the rug. They sealed the records and disavowed knowing anything about his blood-alcohol content. Nobody could hold his crash against him, but they certainly wouldn’t go to bat for him.
Two months ago, at his little sister’s wedding, someone handed Denny a glass of champagne. The best man made a toast and Denny raised his glass but didn’t sip from it. Rude not to drink after a toast, isn’t it? The chipper little prick in his head was talking again. Sadly, Denny was listening. He sipped just the tiniest bit of champagne. The bubbles and the sugar and the swimmy, perfumy alcohol hit his tongue. When the maid of honor made her toast, he took another sip. Ahhh, that hits the spot. Sometimes the voice didn’t sound like a chipper little cartoon squirrel, sometimes the voice was Denny’s own voice. Sometimes Denny spoke the same words right out of his own mouth.
Denny set the glass on the table and saw what he’d done. Two sips, gone.
Drink the rest. No, don’t do that.
We need to go. Yes, we do.
Come on let’s go get your coat
Denny sipped down the rest of the champagne and smiled at the people around him.
Don’t no don’t do this
Go to the bar
Do not go to that bar Denny
Come oooonnn, it’s a wedding! For Christ’s sake!
Denny walked a few steps toward the bar. Just as his sister started dancing with her new father-in-law, Denny swallowed hard, turned hard to the right and fled the scene. Gene picked him up from the airport and took him right to a meeting. Gene cancelled a refinishing job just for Denny. Denny couldn’t thank Gene enough.
That was two months ago. Now, Denny was living with his brother, keeping out of trouble, trying to save some money for a place of his own and enough money to pay back Randy and Gene’s “small business loan” and to pay back the rest of his rehab and his lingering lawyer fees and oh, man, they’re bringing the drink cart around.
The first class seats were comfy, plenty of leg room. Marcella was buried in her laptop still, not paying attention to the flight attendant.
“Anything to drink? Last shot, we’re landing soon.”
She had to use the word shot, huh, Denny thought.
The cart had cold beer and tiny little bottles of Grey Goose and ooo, look, tomato juice. Denny’s hands started to feel detached.
“He’ll have a club soda with two limes. I’ll have a coffee, please.”
Marcella smiled sweetly at the flight attendant who obliged just as nicely. Denny looked over. Marcella’s look was something between understanding and pity. He didn’t care if it was pity. He needed her in that quick moment and she was there. That was all.
The flight attendant set a full, cold can of club soda and a small tumbler of ice in front of Denny on his tray. Two little lime slices, withered and dry, rested atop the ice. Denny skipped the ice and drank the club soda down in one gulp. Marcella got coffee and two sugars and went back to what she was doing. Denny didn’t say “thank you” and Marcella didn’t really want him to. Denny let out the quietest burp he could and settled back in his seat.
Marcella continued to draft and re-draft the same email she’d worked on for hours. This was a big one; there was an account under threat of closing that represented over a hundred million dollars in business. One of Clayton’s golf buddies had some asshole nephew Clayton felt compelled to hire, another rescue dog that needed constant supervision. The kid was assigned to the account a few years ago and had done okay with it, but started to get lax, assuming the company put in too much by now to ever think of switching providers.
Finally, he’d painted himself into a corner and cried out for one of the more senior account people to come rescue him. Marcella picked up the phone like an idiot. The stupid kid got reassigned to a few other, lesser pieces of business and Marcella and one of her juniors took on the “Blue Marlin” firsthand. It’s always harder untangling a knot someone else tied than it is pulling at one you make yourself. Marcella was going to have to cut them a huge break on things for the next fiscal year then nickel-and-dime it out of them in service fees. Account management, Clayton once told her, is the act of eating a cow one hamburger at a time. You have to eat enough to stay fed without bleeding out the cow. That analogy always turned Marcella’s stomach; it didn’t help that the company in question made leather goods.
She hadn’t said much to Denny other than laying out the evening’s itinerary for when they landed. They would get to the apartment, clean up, go have dinner nearby, and tuck in for the night. They’d meet von Schenck the next day, around 4, to check the merchandise and make the hand-off.
Dinner would also be the time to get into the gritty details and to consult with Frederick, Clayton’s wine guy, and learn what they’d need to know about what they were buying. It would help sell the safety of the thing if everyone knew what they were supposed to think of this bottle of Cabernet.
Marcella puzzled: what if Denny took a sip, a little swallow just to savor the bouquet? Drunks were unreliable. She had plenty of schooling in the subject. Denny might take a small bite of the apple and get thrown out of the garden. That was his business. Was that her business? The question rolled around every so often. Clayton seemed to trust Denny. She supposed she needed to, given that he was there to protect her and Frederick.
Denny re-buckled his seatbelt at the captain’s insistence. Marcella had been lost in thought and hadn’t heard the announcement. She closed up her laptop but left her phone on through the descent.
We all live a little dangerously sometimes.
