link2TEXAN-GOLD (Recording) – Chapter 2 – texan – gold DOT com – post – Micro Dream Country Vineyard * Thanks for listening! *
Zackery had a very precise memory for certain kinds of situations, namely, anything that could present a threat, to himself, or something he cared about. This was one of those situations.
While sitting in the den, as he enjoyed a cup of hot, herbal tea, Zackery watched the sunlight play on the grapes over the acres, a sunrise in Napa county just finished, but lingered. The fields he observed were on the opposite side of the driveway, the same that ran down to the county road. He sat at the antique desk, beside the many-paned window; a ‘nook’, it was called. This was Zackery’s ideal view.
Zackery had grown accustomed. It had not been many months as of yet. He eyed the gravel driveway, pushed himself up, away from the desk to go into the nearby kitchen. But then it was visible; and a slight turn of Zackery’s head to see again where the driveway met the public road.
The brown gravel and loose pebbles ended near the mail box; it leaned at a particular angle, the mail box did, as it was stuck in a gully by the side of the road. Near the bottom of a shallow hill upon the crest of which Zackery’s rambling house stood. He saw the white SUV. And was already somewhat familiar with it.
The car. Trees providing a modicum of privacy, as always. The leafy shadows. The dance of the declining season. The driver of the car was not a stranger, but the sheriff, possibily. The peaceful morning stasis ended, abruptly. If not the sheriff himself, then, at least this was someone driving his SUV. A deputy?
Unless. Unless it was all a mistake. It was possible, Zackery thought. He’s just turning around.
***
Then the phone rang. Zackery turned back to the desk, nearly spilling the hot tea. He opened the desk drawer, answered, taking the cell phone out with his free hand. Knew who the caller was; who it would be this time of day. Stephano. Zackery memorized the number long ago, didn’t have to look. He had had many dealings with him in San Francisco. And now the routine was familiar.
While on the phone, Stephano’s conversations tended to be rather formulaic, as they are for harried and productive executives. It regarded the practicalities and particulars of setting up the new venture; they had both spent a lot of time with this, already. Many decisions made and possibilities discarded. And the legalities thereof, especially as it related to business entities in California, specifically.
But the car was not forgotten. The gravel rumbled briefly, then stopped after a fashion.
‘County Sheriff’, the car said on the side in yellow and black. And stopped abruptly, again. Zackery thought to himself while in listening mode. Stephano’s banter had key tidbits he teased out.
Focus. The SUV had set-off a plume of dust; extending dramatically skyward. ‘The devil may care‘, the plume seemed to say to the world. It’s all out the window. Unconsciously, menacingly, and not randomly, skyward. Hypnotic; a cool blue corrupted with chalky brown. Spellbound. That was the smoke-and-mirrors of the business.
The weather had been dry in Napa, magnificent and ruinous. He imagined the gully must have been particularly dusty; the gully along the road. Water was sparse. He thought of his artistic, creative neighbor up the road.
So was money; desperately, scarce.
The sheriff’s car, having stopped; Zackery then recognized his neighbor, a longtime resident from what he understood, coming round from behind the SUV. She was unforgettable. Couldn’t remember her name. Made money on the side creating hand-made windchimes to sell to the tourists. Familiar with her clumsy, feminine gestures; disorganized. Emphatic mannerisms, and yapping dog in tow, Boston Terrier, now struggling to run away, the dog was, pulling, its leash taut as a buttock. Alternating barking.
Zackery couldn’t remember the dog’s name, either. Always stopped yapping when Zackery came near. Good dog.
She must have been, had to have been, approaching the entrance to the drive way, just as the sheriff’s SUV, pulled in off the county-maintained road. Must have cut her off, in fact. Rather reckless. The sheriff, assuming it was him driving, must have seen her, because she came around the back, and had to have been beside the road, walking her dog. Such a coincidence. Zackery’s brain could multitask the possibilities while discussing the particulars. The driver-side window lowered, the neighbor’s brown locks tilted with her gestures, as she approached, there was a conversation all but silent from where Zackery was sitting. Sunglasses taken off, as something more urgent pulled. The driver was made aware by all appearances. Glasses, pulling dog. Then the vehicle backed out.
Zackery continued talking, pulling away from the window in one fluid motion: “I’ve seen the merchandise, the paintings, Janice Melody showed me a few samples from the Oakland warehouse. We have to continue looking for something else, less obviously fake, even for our purposes.” – Zackery said while distancing himself from the antique writing desk beside the window.
Zackery wondered if the sheriff had arrived to serve a notice to quit the premises. Had the bank foreclosed so soon? The neighbor’s timing was a factor to consider. Official channels were never reliable these days.
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“I though she was an art dealer worth looking into, I mean her connections are superb.” Cooed Stephano.
Zackery imagined he could hear the executive assistant shuffling some papers in Stephano’s office on the other side of the phone’s line. He would be in his office in the Financial District, there were probably orchids in front of the windows, perhaps a well-heeled client in a Brooks Brother’s Suit sat patiently in front of him, or, perhaps, a woman wearing something from Saks Fifth Avenue.
*** %% ***
The neighbors conversation continued as well, although none of it audible to Zackery; the dog pulling at an oblique angle to the parked vehicle.
“It can’t be obvious.” – Zackery offered, distracted.
There was a silence as Stephano considered something, possibly placed in front of him. There were always multiple deals.
“I’ve set it up for you to meet with Janice Melody in San Francisco, Russian Hill. You know the place? – the restaurant I mean.”
“Yeah, same place as before. I mean, I talked with another potential art dealer their. Terrible parking, but, marvelous food.” Zackery said, distractedly.
***
Concluding the phone conversation, Zackery left the den, unconsciously looked towards the front door where the mail falls through the mail slot. Today was no exception. He hadn’t heard the usual thud for whatever reason, but, there were several large packets from the California Secretary of State regarding the new llc business structure and there upon the pile was a small green personal-sized envelope that was smaller than the others.
The green envelope stood out, of course, and invoked specific memories. To Zackery, it was like an accusation, almost. He brought the stack of packets alone with the green envelope, placed it all on top to the desk in the den, noting the San Francisco return address mentally. He remembered the evening he visited that address. There was no forgetting it.
Zackery then retired to the open-concept part of the house where he customarily retired in front of the large-screen Television and placed himself upon the sprawling black-leather sofa. The political commentary began with a witless pace.
Then, after a wind-swept, blond-haired, blue-eyed man reported with a backdrop showing the yachts docked at a Richmond marina, a picture-within-a-picture, the gory image of a nighttime fire destroying a large yacht, and then panning to the market recap of the state’s monthly proceeds from the carbon-tax, and carbon credit securities issuance, their yield and revenue, and how healthy that market was with a chart showing upward momentum. Then there was the latest development of the years-long story of Palm Springs, CA, how it was becoming the de-facto capitol of the U.S.. All this after a sinister dirty-bomb explosion made Washington, D.C. all but uninhabitable. And of course, the conspiracy theories. Then the caption in bold: A City Transformed, with palms and windmills in the distance. But, the story was more about Palm Springs now, and the sitting president and his cabinet, then about the radioactive capital-in-name only, of the East Coast, that was the former Washington, D.C.
Zackery’s distracted thoughts turned back to the psychic he visited in the North Beach neighborhood, the return address on the green envelope. Zackery’s long-time friend and he had planned on an uneventful night over drinks at a bar. After a few, Zackery was a little drunk. The bar, frequented by a touristy crowd, had a comforting darkness, with posters featuring Absinthe. His friend, Khendré, a youngish man with a feminine name, was in a mood Zackery was familiar with, from his previous business endeavors, where he worked with Khendré. There was more to the agenda that evening, as it turned out.
Khendré had already paid for a session with a psychic. He broke the news over the third drink. Khendré told Zackery, a bit devious as always. It was intended as a lark, he volunteered. The table was somewhat removed from the crowd, off in a dark corner. They drank at the small table. Zackery’s mind turned to possible excuses but was blurred by the alcohol. The fact that the session had already been paid for removed all possibility of objection on his part. It was meant as a gift in appreciation for ‘all we’ve been through’, Khendré said. After paying the bar tab, Khendré had to scurry off to meet someone, leaving Zackery alone. Then he found himself on the sidewalk in front of the bar’s darkened plate glass window. The city scene now a backdrop of hypnotic city lights, and diminishing traffic, and occasional rumbling bus.
Other than the possible inconvenience of finding the psychic’s apartment, but, she was practically next door, Zackery couldn’t think of an excuse not to go. The time was set. He even had an appointment card. The wine had softened the inhibitions.
The second story studio apartment, which was located behind the solitary wooden door atop a narrow flight of winding stairs, had barely enough room for the tiny table and three overstuffed easy chairs, which had a rough, red satin upholstery. The door had opened after the first knock. It mad sense, she was expecting him.
Sea-foam green drapes hid the one small window that would-have provided a limited view of Columbus Ave. There was a calming energy that was simultaneously unnerving. There were waves of a gentle, and uncustomary breeze. Sounds of the slow, late-evening traffic infused the mood. The City was still quieting further. It was odd, the imaginings of a pink mist, subtle, but growing.
The apartment, other than the immediate table with two chars, was behind a velvet curtain which he assumed would be windowless, with the possible exception of one providing fresh air from a light-well. (That would be in the bathroom.) This was architecturally standard in the grand dames of post-1906-fire construction.
After they sat down together, in darkness, Zackery heard the crinkling of a letter being opened. Her eyes, dark in make-up, he noticed, looked into his. The gaze was unbroken, somewhat off-putting. He heard scurrying, presumably a cat, fleeing the presence of a stranger, slow to react to the sounds.
‘She was good’, Zackery recalled Khendré saying.
Visible in the darkness, the psychic’s blond curls where tied up in a lazy manner, beads, feathers. There was also the soft audio: the clink and clack of jewelry. They sparkled. There was also the misdirection of a masculine demeanor, also somewhat off-putting, Zackery thought to himself.
‘She’s young enough to be my daughter’, Zackery thought to himself. And, perhaps Sandra was her name, but, he couldn’t be sure; not now, nor then.
Sandra said she would read part of the letter, but then, she added after thinking, as though listening to a distant radio, as her thoughts would come sometimes, she would mail the entire letter to Zackery’s address. Don’t worry, she re-assured, Khendré and she had all the info about me, had gone over the details. They ‘worked’ together often. Things were business like between Sandra and Khendré.
Sandra continued. She knew about Zackery’s past, but, not the past Zackery thought he had. But instead, his ‘real’ past. The one he was ignorant of. It was all because of some ‘accident’. These were her words, ‘real past’ and ‘accident.’ She mumbled that last part, about the accident. Then she got straight to the part of the letter she planned to read. Everything in her manner and tone was sombre. Then, tucking the letter back into its envelope, and sealing it, she placed somewhere with a motion that was much like an accomplished magician. Impossible for the eye to follow.
*** % ***
“Zackery” – her gaze at Zackery resumed.
“Yes.” – Absently, he replied.
“Forget it.”
“It’s forgotten.” – Without thought, said Zackery.
“I know already; your good at that.” – matter-of-factly.
He paused. Then added: “Forgetting?”
“Of course.”
The pink mist lifts.
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THE END OF PART 2
***
Micro-Dream Country Vineyard, by James Legare
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