Too Close to the Sun (22 page)

It was the smell that stopped her short, the
walkie-talkie halfway to her mouth. Warily, she turned to eye the
barrels.

It was unmistakable. One look at the labels
on the open barrels, one whiff of the contents, confirmed what she
already knew.

The temps weren't spraying fertilizer in the
fields, where the grapevines were pregnant with the precious grapes
that would be harvested in less than a month. They were spraying
weed killer.

*

Max had hired a chauffeured limousine to
ferry him and his four companions from Napa Valley to San Francisco
and back again. He enjoyed hosting a showy occasion every now and
again: it made him feel like the success he knew himself to be. And
during the course of the night's festivities, Bucky, Rory, Stella,
and Victoria would get an eyeful of just what a canny vintner
Maximilian Winsted was morphing into.

A few minutes after eight in the evening, the
limo rolled to a halt on an alleylike street in the city's
financial district. The hideaway block in the shadow of skyscrapers
was lined with pricey restaurants, avant-garde architect's offices,
and by-appointment-only antique shops. By this hour, the daytime
worker bees were long gone. Midsummer fog had settled in, giving
the streets the look of a Sherlock Holmes movie set. Cigarette in
hand, Max exited the limo to survey his quarry.

Cassis was one of those rare restaurants that
launches big and never falls to earth. Reservations were as hard to
come by as conservative San Francisco politicians. The chef was
Belgian, the cuisine French, the owners deep pocketed, and the
clientele A-list. The only thing it lacked, in Max's opinion, were
Suncrest vintages on its wine list.

Stella Monaco came to stand next to him on
the sidewalk. She was looking particularly tasty in a low-cut filmy
blue top and the skinniest black skirt Max had ever laid eyes on.
Unfortunately she was Bucky's date.

"Cassis has carried our wine from the
beginning,'' she informed Max. "Maybe I should get my father to put
in a good word with the sommelier for you."

The thing about Stella was, half the time you
couldn't tell if she was being nice or she was being bitchy. Same
thing was true of her mother. "Thanks, but I won't need any help,"
he told her, then tossed his half-smoked cigarette and ground it
into the concrete with the toe of his shoe. "Take those inside," he
ordered the chauffeur, who appeared beside him laden with the case
of Suncrest wine Max had brought for the evening.

"Let me know if you change your mind." She
smiled and took Bucky's arm. Max thought the two of them together
looked like a Polo Ralph Lauren ad.

"Thanks, but I won't," he told her. He had to
be confident. That was everything in this game. Actually, it was
everything in life.

He let his friends precede him inside.
Cassis's interior reminded him of those long, deep restaurants you
find in Manhattan, with soft lighting and small tables close
together and everybody looking like they had money. A fiftyish man
who looked like he had wads of it approached Max and held out his
hand.

"David McDougall." The proprietor, Max knew,
he and his wife both Nob Hill big wheels. "Barbara and I are so
pleased to have you dine with us tonight, Max. I've enjoyed having
your mother come by on occasion."

Then why haven't you put Suncrest on your
list?
Max wanted to ask, but restrained himself. "The
pleasure's mine. We've brought a variety of vintages and hope
you'll sample a few."

McDougall slapped his back. "I certainly
will. Let me introduce our sommelier," and Max met Carlos Valvo,
the Portugese guy who reigned supreme over Cassis's wine list. He
was a bald little man with wire glasses who looked like he might
have become a monk if he hadn't gone into the wine trade.

McDougall set up Max's party in a prime
booth, as Max had expected. He knew the rules: spend big money and
open most of his bottles, so McDougall and Valvo could taste and
share with the staff. Max would leave the remaining bottles for
later tasting.

And to seal Suncrest's position on the wine
list.

He ordered bottled water and a few dozen
oysters to get things rolling. Rory's date, Victoria something,
immediately dived into the bread basket. She was a redhead Rory had
dated on and off since high school, which mystified Max, who
thought she was too dowdy and homespun to justify such
devotion.

"I'm excited," she declared. "I haven't eaten
in the city in a long time."

Stella rolled her eyes and Max wanted to as
well, except that tonight he was being gracious in all ways. Valvo
returned with a corkscrew and Suncrest's sauvignon blanc from the
year before.

Max decided now was a good time to educate
the table, and score a point or two with the friar. "Sauvignon
blanc grapes tend to be highly acidic, but that's what gives the
wine its bracing quality." He raised his glass, peering at its
contents with what he hoped passed for a practiced eye. "The
sauvignon blancs from cooler climates have more herbal flavors,
while Napa's tend to be citrusy, with some tropical fruit thrown
in. Grassy notes, too," he added, as Valvo finished pouring all
around.

Everyone tasted. Max kept his eyes on Valvo
and off everybody else. He didn't have to look to see the hilarity
Rory and Bucky were barely containing.

"Agreeable burst of melon and vanilla." Valvo
drank more, ran it through his teeth. "I detect a fig character,
too, in the finish."

Max nodded sagely. "That's exactly my
perception, Carlos, though there's a subtle grapefruit overtone as
well. Provides a wonderful closing zing."

Bucky's face was contorted by the time Valvo
left the table. " 'Closing zing'? You're killing me, Max!"

"Be good, Bucky." Stella lay a hand on
Bucky's leg but leveled her gaze at Max. "We want to do everything
we can to make this evening a success for our friend here."

Max was weighing the sincerity of that remark
when a blonde sashayed past who left even Stella Monaco in the
dust. She was Max's ideal wet-dream fantasy: skinny legs, skinny
arms, and substantial bazooms, and on the petite side, so
comfortably shorter than he was. Not that he could care less about
her clothes but she was dressed nicely, too.

But even she had to fade into the background
as more wine was poured and more food was ordered. Max did his best
to wow both Valvo and McDougall but kept an eye out for the blonde.
At one point he saw her respond to the name Barbie—which could not
have fit her better—and concluded that she was on staff and not a
diner.

He threw back more wine, which was going down
nice and easy as the evening progressed. Sometime before the end of
the night, he decided, he'd have to make Barbie's acquaintance.

*

No surprise to anyone at GPG, managing
partner Hank Faskewicz—the biggest of the big dogs—resided with his
family in a massive stone pile atop Pacific Heights' highest hill.
To avoid the Z8 rolling all the way down to the bay, Will set the
hand brake before delivering the key to the valet. Faskewicz lived
only about six blocks from Will's Victorian but Will hadn't even
considered walking. Somehow this wasn't the sort of house you just
strolled up to.

Neoclassical Greco-Roman, he supposed,
complete with frieze, columns, and stone lions—all thrown into
dramatic relief by carefully orchestrated floodlighting. It was
cold and museum-like in Will's opinion, though he would kill for
the bay view that could be had on a fogless day: a sweep of the
Golden Gate Bridge, Marin Headlands, and Alcatraz Island. This
evening, a sonorous horn sounded repeatedly in the distance as fog
billowed across the bay. Lighter, more musical notes emanated from
the house, unmistakable evidence of a party in progress.

Will strode up the walk, buttoned his suit
jacket, smoothed his tie. He might have been primed for Faskewicz's
annual midsummer revelry if it weren't a command performance, or if
he'd been able to bring Gabby along. But he couldn't risk it
getting out that he was romancing an employee of the company he was
trying to acquire. If that gossipy tidbit made its way back to
Faskewicz, it would certainly raise questions Will didn't care to
answer.

A tuxedoed butler-type answered the door
chime but supreme hostess Molly Faskewicz materialized within
seconds to greet the new arrival.

"Will, I'm so glad you could join us." She
clasped his hands, bussed his cheeks, and enveloped him in a cloud
of French perfume. Molly was an attractive brunette of the women's
college, sweater-set variety, still reed thin after producing four
little Hanks in rapid-fire succession. Rumors were circulating that
a fifth was on the way—perhaps at long last a Henrietta—though that
wasn't evident from Molly's slim-cut shimmery gold cocktail
dress.

She leaned into him confidentially. "It's all
people you know, very boring for you, I'm afraid. Hank always wants
to keep this an all-GPG party but I'm just dying to mix in new
blood." She gazed up at him with her big brown eyes, a heavily
mascaraed mid-thirties coquette. "Do you know what I mean?"

This time, he had a good answer for her.
"Molly, you'll be relieved to hear I'm seeing someone."

The eyes got wider, disbelieving. She peered
around him as if he had a woman stashed in his shadow, then gave a
stomp of her little high-heeled foot. "Where is she? Are you hiding
her from us?"

"She doesn't live in the city. I couldn't get
her out here on a weeknight."

"Well," Molly produced a little pout,
"sometime soon, I hope."

He was a disappointment to Molly in so many
ways, he feared. Will snagged a flute of champagne from a passing
waiter and watched her accept a sparkling water. More than once
he'd felt compelled to dodge her setup attempts. He could only
imagine her armada of candidates: all well educated and
good-looking but, he suspected, brittle and high maintenance.
Passing them over would win him no points with her or her husband,
who at the moment was holding court in a corner of his
three-storied marble entrance hall, entertaining an apparently
enthralled group of partner wannabes.

Dinner began half an hour later, with GPG's
finest arrayed around linen-draped tables for eight set up in the
dining and living rooms. Four courses later, over coffee and
dessert, their host began and ended the speechifying. The
buzz-cutted Faskewicz was as efficient and no-nonsense as ever,
declaring that GPG was having a good year despite the tough times,
blah blah blah, even better in the future, more blah blah.

Will and his fellow diners clapped in deep
appreciation—whether for the firm's financial success or the end of
the evening was anybody's guess—then set down their napkins, rose
from their chairs, and stretched their legs. Will was calculating
that he could get away with an escape when Faskewicz appeared at
his side.

"Will, good to see you." No air kissing in
this case. An aggressively firm handshake did the trick. "How's
everything going in Napa these days?"

"Just fine. Making progress."

Faskewicz glanced across the dining room. He
was one of those people who rarely looked at the person to whom he
was speaking. "Taking a little more time than you thought it
would?"

Will went on red alert. Now Faskewicz was
getting impatient about the pace of the Napa deal, too, just like
LaRue? But before Will could concoct a response, Faskewicz went on
talking. "I ran into an old friend of yours the other day."

"Who's that?"

"Dennis Garnett." Faskewicz waved good-bye to
Susan Amos Jones heading out the front door with her consultant
husband in tow. "He's running a nonprofit now, here in the city.
Some sort of, I don't know, food bank."

No mistaking the disdain in Faskewicz's
voice. When Will joined GPG, Dennis Garnett was a junior partner,
the same level Will was now. A few years later, he'd been asked to
leave. Will had always liked Dennis and knew Faskewicz was bringing
him up for a reason. Faskewicz did everything for a reason.

Will tried to keep his voice casual. "I know
Dennis always had a long list of charitable activities he was
interested in."

"Well, he certainly wasn't interested in
making money." Faskewicz slapped Will on the back. "At least not as
far as we could tell." Then, with a nod, he ambled away.

A warning bell shrieked like a banshee in
Will's head.
I'm on the outs. The Napa deal's taking too long.
And they don't like how I'm handling it.

In GPG-speak, the reference to Dennis
Garnett—following the ostensibly offhand Napa query—was a clear
signal. Will knew Simon LaRue had always wanted Will to cast his
net more widely rather than focus on Suncrest alone. As Will hadn't
yet made a deal happen, no doubt LaRue's disagreement was morphing
into dissatisfaction. And now, apparently, Faskewicz was coming
around to LaRue's way of thinking.

What LaRue had said in the Monday partners'
meeting two weeks back came racing back to Will's mind.
I
believe there's fairly significant time pressure here . . . I'd
rather we step up the pace. Once other firms recognize the Napa
opportunity, we'll be looking at auctions. And nobody makes money
when everybody chases the same deal.

Funny, Will thought, standing paralyzed in
Faskewicz's fancy home while people buzzed around him retrieving
shawls, handbags, valet tickets. Given that Will made lots of
money, sat in a corner office, and never flew anything but
first-class, he was still a long way from calling his own shots. In
some ways he was like any working stiff pulling down a salary, one
that could be terminated at any time.

Across the marble entrance hall, Will watched
Simon LaRue and his redheaded trophy wife in a private chat with
Omar El-Farouk. Though he couldn't hear the conversation, he could
guess from the body language that the three were planning an
addendum to the evening.
Maybe a jazz club?
Will thought.
Or a rousing game of backgammon over sherry and cigars at the
LaRues' Presidio Heights mansion?