Dead in the Dregs Read Free

arms.
    “Enough for an espresso?”
    “Sure.”
    I stepped behind the bar, turned the grinder on, filled the group, and tamped it down. As I pulled her coffee, I said, “How’s your dad doing?”
    “He’s babbling in French now.”
    “I didn’t know he even knew French.” I set the demitasse on the bar. “I saw your brother yesterday,” I said. “He swung by.”
    “Richard? Here?”
    “Like a ghost out my past.”
    “He stood me up the other night,” Janie said.
    “He told me.”
    “Did he give an excuse?”
    “Not really. An appointment, I guess. He said he’d try to call you tomorrow.”
    “Why didn’t he call to tell me he couldn’t make it?”
    “He’s very busy, Janie.” Why was I making excuses for him? I didn’t care what Wilson did. “Anyway, he said he was going to call me this morning.” I glanced at my cell on the bar and lifted my hands in the air. “Still waiting.”
    “Do you know where I can reach him? Our father’s getting worse. This whole thing is costing me a fortune.”
    “Call him on his cell,” I said.
    “I did. He won’t pick up. And I left messages at the apartment he keeps in town. I get the feeling he’s avoiding me.”
    “Why would he do that?”
    “I have no idea.” She sipped the coffee. “Delicious,” she said, offering me a grudging smile.
    “Dad!” Danny called out from the pool table. “Did you see that?” He held the cue stick over his head in a gesture of victory. It was nearly as long as he was tall.
    “I missed it. Try it again,” I said.
    He set up the shot he had just made and craned his little body
over the table. He was biting his tongue as he took aim; he made a pretty clean stroke but missed the shot.
    “Let me try it again,” he said, running to the end of the table to fetch the balls. “Keep watching.”
    Janie and I looked at our son from across the room—a distance of ten feet and the unbridgeable distance of our separate lives.
    “Would you like me to find him for you?” I said to Janie, letting the question hang in the absence of a common vocabulary that married couples share.
    “You know where he is?” she said, facing me.
    “I think so.” I had no interest in telling her that her brother appeared to be having an affair with the office help at a certain winery. “It shouldn’t be all that hard. I followed him to Norton late yesterday afternoon. He asked me to. There was something he wanted to talk about.” She examined me, waiting for me to divulge her brother’s confidence. “Sorry. We never got around to it. He was too preoccupied.”
    “Tell me about it,” she said. “Look, I have to go. I’m already late.”
    “That’s funny. That’s just what your brother said.”
     
    I called Mulligan and asked if he could spell me for an hour. He said he’d be down in time for the lunch rush, a standing joke between us during harvest. A little before ten, Tony, the resident pool shark who practically lived at Pancho’s, walked through the door.
    “Hey, Tony!” Danny cried. Tony had taken to giving him lessons when the place was dead, and his game had improved noticeably.
    “Look after him for an hour, will you?” I said. “If you get a victim, have him suit up in the kitchen. Ernesto can put him to work.”
    I explained to Danny that I had to run an errand for his mom and that I’d be back soon. He didn’t seem to mind a bit.
    “Rack ’em up, Danny,” Tony said, “and go easy on me.”
     
    I stood in the parking lot, called directory assistance, and was put through to Norton. No one answered.
    Traffic was already stacked up on 29, the tourist buses crawling behind the tractors that were bringing in the first fruit of the day,
so I cut across on Lodi Lane to avoid St. Helena. The Silverado Trail wasn’t any better. I settled in for the drive.
    Richard Wilson and I had tasted together regularly for nearly a year before he introduced me to his little sister, Janie. I guess I’d proven myself to him. God,