A Legitimate Businessman Page 2

  Jack typically traveled under a fake name on a disposable passport that Reginald procured for him. But he still needed to cover for his absence from the winery, so he made up a trip to Italy.

  Jack exited long-term parking at SFO and accelerated onto the 101, keeping the pedal down but not quite buried as he quickly stepped through the gears, tapping the paddles to upshift. The air was damp and in the lower sixties, but he rolled down his window anyway, enjoying the rush of fresh air on his face after spending the better part of a day on an airplane. Jack thumbed the voice command and instructed his car to play Thelonious Monk’s “Alone in San Francisco.” Just Monk and a piano. He’d once heard this record described as the best album in any genre. There was incredible symmetry in the spaces between the notes and the sound of the car, a bright red Audi RS 7, as he stepped through the gears and glided onto I-380 already cresting seventy-five. This would take him over the Golden Gate and home to Sonoma.

  The RS 7 was a super car for gentlemen. It was a fastback exemplar of Teutonic engineering at its finest, clocking in at five hundred and five horsepower and a zero-to-sixty rating that casually reminded the driver not all “launches” were reserved for rocket pads and aircraft carriers. It handled nimbly on the twisting switchbacks descending from Jack’s house and positively roared when he finally opened it up on the highway. With that, Jack’s concerns, at least for the moment, melted away.

  The car’s style was understated with sleek lines from the long nose, a gentle curve over the front wheels, and cockpit and fastback that was long enough for a wide-body aircraft on final approach. Simply put, it didn’t look like one was driving around in a hundred and ten-thousand-dollar car. Then again, that was also part of the design. The Audi’s performance was similar to a Porsche or lower-end Aston Martin, but those were statement cars. Which was not to say that the Audi was not, just that its statement was a more controlled, measured form of ostentatiousness.

  Jack didn’t particularly love being a thief, but it was the only life he’d ever known. He did, however, enjoy the lifestyle that being a thief allowed him to afford. When he’d first gotten started in the trade, driving for bank robbers, he was just running away. He’d met Reginald then and he’d taught him things—safes, alarm systems, setups, how to put a crew together, and how to keep them focused. Later on, Jack realized he didn’t like stealing from people but had no problem lifting goods from stores that were going to get paid back by massive insurance companies that charged usurious rates to protect against just this sort of thing.

  The way he saw it, they were getting their money’s worth.

  The idea for the winery came on one of the innumerable flights between Europe and America. Jack always flew first class internationally. You got all the booze you wanted, the food didn’t come out of a microwave, and the stews were so much kinder than they were to those jerks in coach. Plus, they had fresh magazines and newspapers. Jack decided he wanted to look the part, so he asked for a Wall Street Journal and read an article about Silicon Valley entrepreneurs who were cashing out of the tech industry and buying wineries. He got an idea.

  Jack had fallen in love with wine a few years before and had built a small collection at each of the safe houses he maintained. Jack didn’t wade casually into hobbies. When he found something that sparked him, he wore it like a second skin. For a time, it was rebuilding and racing cars. He’s started his career as a wheelman, and in a matter of speaking, it was cars that got him into this life to begin with, so it was only natural that he’d sink his money into them. Plus, flipping exotic cars was a good enough way to launder money, though it didn’t scale well. The problem was that the joy in driving came from driving them fast, and that tended to draw unwanted attention, so eventually, Jack found his way to wine. As with the cars before it, investing in a business was a way to legitimize the income he made from stealing jewels and get his hands on liquid cash. Not to mention, most wineries were in the kinds of places he wanted to be anyway.

  Jack created the Frank Fisher backstory, bought the IDs to back it up, and spread money in the right places to bolster his story when people followed up.

  And then Frank Fischer bought a winery.

  Jack assumed that running a winery was like any other operation, and that was something he knew well. He bought the winery from a guy who wanted out of the game. Apparently, this guy was either nearly broke or was just tired of shooting money out of a cannon. But Jack kept most of that guy’s staff on hand to show him the ropes and keep the place running. His first big hire was a winemaker named Fitz Cristoforo. He was a trendy asshole who Jack disliked immediately and immensely—tattoos on his fingers, retro glasses that had been around too long to still be ironic, and t-shirts that were a size too small. Cristoforo didn’t want to be a winemaker as much as he wanted to be the head of his own personality cult. He didn’t talk about wine as much as he talked about “vision.” Cristoforo was as insufferable as he was irritating, and any semblance of humility had been wrung out of his psyche long ago. But, another skill that Jack had developed in all these years running crews of hardened criminals was that he knew how to deal effectively with people he didn’t like. Jack recognized that Cristoforo was a true talent and was someone he could learn from. Hiring the winemaker was the kind of ballsy move that would put him on the map.

  Their first schism came when Cristoforo declared they needed to announce their winery with a bold move and instead of using the winery’s venerable cab vines to produce “just another cabernet,” they would make a huge Bordeaux blend. Jack loved the idea and had actually been spending some of his “off season” in France talking with any local winemaker that would give him time. Taking that experience, Jack decided to rip out significant tracts of his vineyard’s cabernet sauvignon vines and replace them with Carmenére because, “true meritage uses Carmenére.” Cristoforo erupted over the intrusion into his “process” and the temerity of this neophyte owner. Most of the staff sided with the winemaker, arguing that even if Jack insisted that they use Carmenére in the wine, they could source it from another vineyard rather than ripping out fruit that was still perfectly good. Even Hugh Coughlin, Jack’s attorney and business advisor, cautioned against the move.

  Jack was insistent and refused to relent. It would be about three years before the new Carmenére vines would yield any usable fruit, so they had to source those grapes anyway. Cristoforo selected the fruit they would use and set to creating his meritage. When Cristoforo bottled his “vision,” he called it “Ceremony” and demanded they charge three fifty a bottle for it. This time, Jack relented in a concessionary gesture to ease the tension around his Carmenére decision. The trades lit them up for it. No one wanted a three hundred and fifty dollar meritage from a winery that hadn’t made its bones yet. The kindest reviews said they were hubristic.

  Cristoforo got wind that the reviews were coming and took off before they hit, going to a boutique operation in the Russian River that gave him full control of the operation. Later on, when a reporter asked Cristoforo why he left, Fitz flipped the story and said that Fischer wanted to charge outrageous rates for his unproven wines, that Cristoforo advised against it, but Fischer wouldn’t listen. Cristoforo actually said that Fischer was going to sink that winery because he didn’t know what he was doing and that Fitz didn’t want to go down with him.

  The reporter called Jack for comment, and listening to Hugh’s council this time, Jack kept the feud out of the papers, saying only that he and the winemaker couldn’t share the same vision and decided it was best to part ways. When asked about the pricing debate, Jack only said that Cristoforo’s account was “interesting” and “curious” but left it at that. To this day, Jack and Cristoforo couldn’t be in the same room together. Cristoforo bottled his updated “vision” the following year, but ran into some bad luck. There was an accident in the warehouse just before they released it. One of the storage racks collapsed and dumped nearly the entire run on the concrete, shattering most of the bottles.


  Jack replaced Cristoforo with a winemaker Coughlin knew well. Megan McKinney had been through the Mondavi School at UC Davis and had a master’s degree in viticulture. She also had a fiery temper and didn’t take shit from anyone, least of all Jack. She was attractive, volatile, and wickedly funny. She also had a gut instinct about grapes that was practically preternatural. Their relationship was equally volatile, charismatic, and turbulent but there was a genuine creative spark between them. When they weren’t bickering they really did make great wine together. Their first effort was to salvage Cristoforo’s meritage, which they called “Peregrine” and sold for around fifty dollars a bottle. That year, each of the bottles had the statement on the label “a wine that doesn’t stand on ceremony.”

  Jack looked down to his phone, opened it, and thumbed an encryption app called “Cover Me.” He and Reginald had been using this for a few years to send secure texts and phone calls. Jack keyed the button on the steering wheel and asked the car to dial “Robert McCray.”

  A gravelly voice answered on the third beep.

  “Charles Watt, how are you?” he said behind a sardonic laugh.

  “Pretty good, actually.”

  “Sleep on the plane?”

  “Not much. It was a morning flight.”

  “You’re the only one I know who doesn’t get exhausted coming in this direction. So, how’d it go?”

  “It was a breeze, Reg. Man, I got to hand it to you. Using the festival as a cover was brilliant.”

  “You wait until the fireworks to start the saw?”

  Jack could hear in the old thief’s voice that he was borderline giddy. He really missed this. Jack walked him through the details, from Gabrielle renting out the space next to them the day before logistics to the job itself. This was ritual now, a tradition. Jack called Reginald after every job and debriefed him. Reginald would ask questions but was rarely critical. Of course, there was rarely a move Jack made to be critical of. Still, Jack knew that these discussions made him better. It also filled a void for LeGrande, who could no longer work. If he were arrested again, he’d go away forever. Eventually, Jack steered the conversation around to the Serb.

  “He almost killed that guy, Reg. And for what? It was just some guy that had too much to drink and was looking for a spot to sit down. He’d never even remember seeing the van, but he’s for sure going to remember getting his ass kicked.”

  “Jack,” Reginald said at length. “You don’t know that.”

  “The hell I don’t,” he snapped. “I could smell the wine on his breath when I checked him. The worst thing about him, Reg, is that it was too easy for him. He’s got practice in that sort of thing. It’s second nature to him.”

  “Okay, okay,” Reginald said, and Jack could practically see him trying to pat the air on his end of the line. “I’ll talk to him.”

  “No. I’m not working with him again. I don’t want that kind of risk. People aren’t going to remember some boutique job two weeks after it happens, but if we leave a body behind they sure as shit will. Never again. Just put Bart back on my crew and we’ll be fine.”

  “Well, that’s going to be a bit of a problem.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “He rolled his car at a race this weekend. Totaled it and broke his leg in a couple places. I don’t know how bad it is yet, but he’s not driving for a while. Maybe ever.”

  Bart was a good wheel and Jack would miss him if what Reginald said was true. They’d only truly needed Bart’s skills once, that time they did the hotel collection in Barcelona, but Jack saw the driver put a Fiat on two wheels going around a corner and lost the cops in traffic. That earned him unending loyalty from Jack, who was a good driver in his own right.

  “I’ll find someone else, and I’ll make sure that Ozren stays occupied.” That was good. The last thing they needed was an out-of-work thief with a grudge. “Now, can we put this to bed? How’d we do?”

  Jack forced a smile, knowing that was the kind of thing you could hear. “Four hundred and five thousand. We did good, Reg. Real good. You’ll get your cut in a couple of days.” The net was four oh five. but the actual haul was around nine hundred thousand.

  Reginald chuckled. It sounded like a wet hammer hitting gravel. “Too bad you couldn’t have gotten that Hermes shop down the street.”

  “Reginald,” Jack said at length. If LeGrande had a criticism of Jack it was that he was too cautious. Which, he admittedly was. It was one of the reasons he’d never been caught. Jack believed in increments. He only took moderately sized scores, the kinds of jobs people would forget about in time. He simply did more of them. The biggest mistake most thieves made was they tried to make themselves rich with one job. Yes, Leonardo Notarbartolo took the Antwerp Diamond Center for a hundred million dollars, but the world only knew about that because he was in jail with a story to sell.

  Reginald had been busted once and served four out of ten years, but that was enough. Between the legal fees and the fines, he was cleaned out, and when they let him out on good behavior, he not only was hard broke but had a stern warning from the State of California—no more strikes. Reginald took that to heart after a fashion and moved to fixing jobs instead of actually doing them. Jack took that lesson as well and knew that he wasn’t going to ever take that “one last job” that inevitably landed thieves in jail. Jack used Reginald’s experience, particularly since he’d advised Reginald not take that job, to be the foundation of his career. Jack distilled it down to three simple principles: never steal out of necessity, never take a score large enough for somebody to notice, and never steal from somebody that has the will or the means to get it back.

  “Listen, why don’t you pop down for a couple of days? We’ll take the boat out and celebrate.”

  “I’d like that. It’s been too long.”

  Kingfisher Wines sat on the eastern edge of Sonoma County’s Alexander Valley atop a low hill that caught sun most of the day. Late afternoon light cast a gold and orange glow on the property. Jack turned off CA-128 and onto the palm- and cypress-lined drive that led to the winery. There was a single indigo sign beside the road displaying the likeness of two of the namesake birds in silver sitting on a branch, facing away with their wings spread wide about to take flight. The words “Kingfisher Wines” were written in simple script beneath them.

  Jack slowly guided his RS 7 up the long drive while two cars passed him in the other direction. It was about closing time for the tasting room. Jack’s arm rested in the open window, and he lifted his hand in a wave as they passed. The road banked to the right, and the asphalt gracefully transitioned into the dirt and gravel parking lot. He loved the sound of the crunch beneath the tires. Jack had also wanted to maintain something of the rustic feel of the place—the restored hacienda, the barns, and yes, even the gravel parking lot. He wanted a place that reflected the wines they made, not without flaws, but welcoming at the same time.

  He parked in the customer lot instead of pulling all the way around and left his things in the car. Jack wore a robin’s egg blue Oxford shirt, dark jeans, a blue Canali blazer that he was now carrying in the crook of his left arm, and tan boots. There were a cluster of men in dusty jeans and t-shirts near the barn behind the tasting room, and they waved when they saw him. One detached from the group and jogged over to Jack.

  “Hey chief,” he said affably as he approached, a broad smile underneath a bushy salt-and-pepper mustache.

  “Hey Link,” Jack returned and shook hands. “How was the game last night? Sorry I missed it.”

  Lincoln’s son Rodrigo was a little league pitcher and the winery sponsored the team. Jack and Lincoln would sometimes break off work early and go catch games if they were playing close by, and if they could sneak out without Megan seeing.

  “He pitched a no-hitter,” Lincoln said, beaming. Lincoln was the son of migrant farmers who had gotten their citizenship with Lincoln’s birth on US soil. They felt like it was a kind of emancipation and named their son acc
ordingly. Link grew up around grapes and knew them in a way you couldn’t get from books. “It’s been hot while you were gone, but the grapes are fine.”

  “Good,” Jack said, nodding.

  “Cutworms are back. I’ll be out there with a flashlight tonight if I have to.”

  Jack smiled and let out a short laugh. “Megan and I are going to check out that new plot in the morning around ten. I’d like you to go too, if you can get away. I want your opinion on the vines. I don’t think this property is going to be on the market long.”

  “Okay, sure thing.”

  Jack learned through Hugh Coughlin, that a twenty-five-acre plot of nearly legendary old-vine cabernet was coming on the market in the next few weeks. It was a part of a historic vineyard that was being broken up and sold piecemeal by the warring children of one of Sonoma’s founding fathers. This particular plot was called Sine Metu, which either meant “without fear” or “original sin,” depending on the translation one used. The owners were asking nine million for the plot, which Jack would have to stake from his personal holdings. They’d tried to get a loan, but the winery was already so heavily leveraged they couldn’t take out any more. While extremely risky, it was also an excellent opportunity to legitimize a substantial portion of his income. Jack wasn’t convinced that he was going to do it yet. He wanted to get an eye on it, and more importantly, get Megan and Link’s opinions. The asking price was most of what remained of Jack’s liquid assets in his Vanuatu account, and it would be several years before they saw a return on the investment, but everyone was urging him that it was a very smart, strategic investment.