Chapter 12: Jeremy’s Scheme Unfolds
Jeremy knew that Heath was not the perfect person to whom he could expose Schloss, but he recalled the quote of a Texas football coach who once had said, “You gotta dance with who brung ya.” Giving himself the go-ahead, Jeremy didn’t wait for Delaney to call, he contacted the president a day early and agreed to drive Reggie and his guests to the release party at Schloss, and afterwards, to the inn. Delaney told Jeremy that Reggie’s plane was to arrive at seven in the evening the following Friday. Jeremy had a week to plan his attack.
Jeremy enlisted three people, each oblivious of his total strategy, to help him carry out the final battle of his personal war against Schloss. Jeremy knew that it was imperative that Heath not know he was being set up, because if word leaked out that Jeremy was behind Heath’s exciting weekend, the repercussions could hurt not only Jeremy’s ranch, but also the reputation of Stan’s winery, the purchase of Jeremy’s grapes.
First, Jeremy lined up a job for Gregor’s boy at a lumber mill near Healdsburg. Sammy would probably be a casualty in Jeremy’s raid on Schloss – if everything went as scheduled. Sammy had been demoted to a cellar rat after the accident, and his future at Schloss had already been decided; he was going nowhere. The job Jeremy had arranged through a friend, now that the mill was hiring after the latest drop in interest rates, was definitely a step up for Gregor’s boy. The young man was more than happy to be a part of Jeremy’s conspiracy; he felt it was the least he could do for him under the circumstances.
Jeremy’s other two co-conspirators in the plan were his vineyard foreman, Gilberto, and Gilberto’s cousin, Miguel. Gilberto had been Jeremy’s right-hand man on the ranch for more than a decade. When Daniel had returned from Davis, the triumvirate had run the ranch as a well-tuned machine. Each had his sphere of duties, and each performed them admirably and without dispute.
Gilberto had come from a tiny, impoverished village in Oaxaca, and had been granted American citizenship only after a very costly scam marriage and divorce. For a person who had not spent a day in a classroom, Gilberto was brilliant, and he held a tremendous knowledge about the workings of plants. He had an intimate relationship with every vine on the ranch. He talked and sang to them, cared for them, nursed them back to health. He easily grasped the concepts from the viticulture classes Daniel spoke of when he returned from Davis. Gilberto’s hesitation to learn to read English was all that kept Daniel and Jeremy from providing him with the tuition money for vit classes at the local community college. Jeremy’s opinion of his vineyard foreman was unparalleled, especially since Daniel’s death. Jeremy thought that Gilberto was to vines what Luther Burbank was to roses. And for his efforts, Gilberto was paid very well by Jeremy. He could send half his monthly salary to his family back in Mexico and still live comfortably, rent-free, on the ranch.
Gilberto was to play a minor role in Jeremy’s plan. His sole task was to drive Jeremy and Heath’s group from Schloss to the inn after the release party.
Miguel, the third conspirator, was Gilberto’s cousin. Miguel’s father had immigrated to California in the late ‘50’s, so Miguel and his brothers and sisters were naturalized U.S. citizens. Gilberto had followed his uncle, Miguel’s father, to The Valley after the man had come home to Oaxaca for a visit in 1968 and described to the gathered multitude the opportunities in California. Miguel’s father had worked for years at a large winery in The Valley. His sole job, five days a week, fifty weeks a year was to top off wine barrels – all three thousand of them. He would remove the bung from each wooden barrel and fill the barrel to the brim with wine and pound back in the bung. It took one month to complete a tour through the barrel room. Miguel had once told Jeremy that he found his father’s job as tedious as painting the Golden Gate Bridge.
Miguel’s parents had tried to instill in their children, as best as immigrant Catholics could, the Protestant work ethic. They had success and a few failures. One son was a CPA and one daughter a nurse. Another son, a finance major at San Jose State, and another daughter, a mother of two children with a husband at Soledad on a robbery conviction. And about Miguel, they harbored some concern. He had no desire to go to college even though he had graduated near the top of his class at the Catholic high school. They were also concerned that Miguel fraternized with a group of low riders, but his mother believed that his current phase was only an attempt to discover his heritage and the plight of his people.
Jeremy knew Miguel because the young man was the star of his soccer team, coached by Gilberto. For several years Jeremy had funded a soccer team comprised of migrants and first-generation Mexican-American winery and vineyard workers. He provided them with some of the finest uniforms and equipment in the State. When Jeremy first had agreed to sponsor the team almost a decade ago, he had hit a stone wall with the region’s parks department. Citing the need for bilingual referees and a multitude of other reasons, the parks director had barred his team from the local league. For three years Jeremy organized and funded a league composed of four Hispanic teams, going so far as to rent a vacant field on the outskirts of Healdsburg and improving it for soccer play. They called their league Los Chupones, with Jeremy named El Patron de Los Chupones.
Several of his peers frowned upon Jeremy’s attempt to be the Pete Rozelle of The Valley. They feared the league could become a hotbed of union activity. Jeremy saw it as the sole social event provided by the community to the hard-working migrants and winery workers, excepting, of course, the Spanish-named bars that the powers that be had harassed right off the town square and into the unincorporated area south of town, all done after a group of influential Anglos had clamored for downtown revitalization. Jeremy often wondered why the Healdsburg supermarkets could provide bilingual clerks and traditional Mexican food departments for their migrant patrons, yet the parks department couldn’t find one bilingual referee.
Finally after several years, the new parks director reversed the unspoken policy of her predecessor, who had been fired over a question of missing funds, and Jeremy’s team won the championship its first year in the established league. A barrier had been broken.
Jeremy had come to know Miguel from the team – and from weekends when Miguel had helped Gilberto in his cousin’s off-h0urs venture, a consulting company for grafting, or “T-budding,” the vines of other growers. Jeremy had found Miguel to be a fascinating young man. An enigma. He was friendly, yet shrewd. Miguel talked like a socialist and spent like a suburbanite. He was likable, yet bitter, but definitely one of those rare young people to be willing someday to sacrifice himself for his ideals. It seemed to Jeremy that Miguel knew this about himself, and that he was only waiting for the day when his own personal challenge would begin.
Jeremy had recruited Miguel and two of his friends for a simple task in the coming raid. They only had to drive the Heath party and Jeremy from Healdsburg to the festivities at Schloss.
On the evening of the release party, Jeremy wore his new button-down Oxford shirt and camel’s hair jacket, presents from Janie the day before. Earlier that week he had asked her to please not worry about attending the release party, with his comment being the first mention of the party to her. She had other plans and gladly agreed. During his lengthy debriefing the three previous days with Gregor’s son, he had developed a basic script for their tour of Schloss, guided, of course, by Sammy, who would work the cellar crew’s swing shift the night of the party. The only snag in Jeremy’s plan had been the new fuel switch for his Rolls. Fortunately, he had driven out to the River and found a strange, wild-eyed mechanic specializing in English cars who was able to install the switch that Friday morning. Jeremy now waited outside his polished Silver Cloud for the small turbo-prop to touch down at the county airport. His plan was about to begin.
Heath’s plane taxied to a stop a full thirty minutes behind schedule. Jeremy and his Rolls were a few short steps from the parked commuter plane when the door swung open and the flight attendant stepped out. As soon as she touched the ground, she scooted over to a waiting baggage wagon and picked up ear plugs and the hard-billed hat of a gate agent and placed them on her head. She assumed her place at the foot of the stairway and greeted each deplaning passenger as if that were their first meeting. The last group to leave the plane was Heath and his three guests. Heath paused at the top step and scanned the area in an attempt to acclimate himself to the unfamiliar surroundings. He had on his face the apprehensive look of an ambassador arriving for his first tour of duty in Zimbabwe.
Jeremy knew the baffled passenger had to be his guests, for who else but Heath would wear an ascot in The Valley. Having spotted first the car and then Jeremy beside it, the man’s expression changed to one of relief. Then the Heath menagerie disembarked. Behind Heath a thin, attractive, impeccably dressed young man appeared. The young man’s first, natural reaction upon emerging from the plane was to stop momentarily and, hand in suit pocket, head turned to the side, assume the pose of a model on the cover of a men’s fashion magazine. Behind him was a bald, frumpy man of 50 sporting several gold chains around his neck. He was exhaling cigarette smoke when Jeremy spotted him, but through the veil he saw on the man’s face a bored, preoccupied look. The third person was a woman, a young, attractive woman but for the fact that she had on entirely too much makeup and that her close-cropped, winter-white hair sported two wide streaks: one aquamarine and the other ming pink. Her lipstick matched the pink streak of her hair. She was dressed in designer post-punk with a heavy touch of S & M. On her face was what Jeremy would have best described as a vacuous look. From the appearance of Heath’s guests, it was obvious to Jeremy that Heath knew this wasn’t to be a working weekend. Jeremy also thought of the unusual phrase used by a young Santa Barbara winemaker at a wine seminar discussing oak’s effect on wine. It was the perfect litany for describing the present Heath – that like Limousin oak with wine, California had brought about a “way-rad change” in the former Bostonian.
Heath and his group paused near the luggage wagon to retrieve their bags from the flight attendant, who now was dressed in a baggy pullover jumpsuit and baseball cap as she slung the bags. Jeremy approached.
“Mr. Heath?”
“Yes. Reginald Sebastian Heath. But please call me Reggie. And you are Jeremy Barnes?”
Heath made his introduction without skipping a beat. On the East Coast he would have assumed that Jeremy was the chauffeur, but in California, with the residents’ fixation for fancy cars, he knew that once out of The City only the enfeebled didn’t drive.
“Yes. Yes I am.”
“It is a pleasure to meet you. I have never failed to enjoy your chardonnay.”
“Why, thank you –- Reggie.”
“Let me introduce you to my party. This young man is Alex Jag-u-ar. And my friend here is Pete Williams. And she is Stephanie Goodson-Michaels.”
“A pleasure meeting you,” Jeremy responded.
“Yes,” “uh,” and “yeah,” were their replies.
Jeremy loaded the bags into the square trunk of the Rolls, and the group climbed into the car with Stephanie next to Jeremy in the front seat. Jeremy thought to himself that Stephanie must be a great help on board when night sailing on The Bay. She could stand at the bow with her xenon/neon hair and make a great combination figurehead and running light.
As they drove toward Schloss, Jeremy and Reggie exchanged a few pleasantries about last year’s harvest and the current frost season. Heath’s companions remained silent, as if pouting over the tedious task required of them – the release party – before they were allowed to go to the county’s version of an adult Knott’s Berry Farm. Jeremy took the old highway to Schloss, which brought them through tiny downtown Healdsburg. A block from Main Street and the town square, Jeremy spotted an empty parking space ahead and reached under the steering wheel. He flipped off the recently installed fuel switch, and the engine of the $75,000 automobile sputtered and died. Jeremy swung the monster into the empty space.
“Reggie, I don’t know what the problem is,” Jeremy said as he tried in vain to start the engine. “I apologize. I’ve never had trouble with this car before.”
Jeremy opened the door and stepped out. It was his signal to the occupants of a waiting car parked a block away. Jeremy fumbled with the latches on the hood until a dark, mechanical waterbug, a lovingly restored 1952 Hudson Hornet, rumbled past and shuddered to a stop.
“Señor Barnes!”
“Miguel! Que pasa?”
“Nada! What’s the problem?”
“The engine died. Say, you wouldn’t mind giving us a lift to Schloss Cellars, would you?”
“No problema!”
The Hudson pulled ahead of Jeremy’s Rolls. Jeremy stepped back to the rear door of his car and addressed Heath.
“Reggie, we’re already late for the release party. These young men have agreed to drive us up to Schloss. I’ll call my vineyard manager and ask him to pick up your luggage and take you to the inn after the party. Will that be okay?”
Reggie looked concerned. “Do you know those young men?”
“Oh, yes. One of them has done some pruning for me.”
“Well – we must make do.”
The group stepped out of the car and walked toward their impromptu taxi. Ten feet from the Hudson they stopped dead in their tracks. There on the trunk lid of the metallic dinosaur was a life-sized orange, gold and brown painting of Our Lady of Guadalupe. Heath’s entourage was about to enter the most notorious, and at one time, the most miraculous low-rider car in The Valley.
The Hudson belonged to Miguel and his brother. They had found it abandoned in a sheep rancher’s field and spent two years of their spare time painstakingly restoring the rare auto. As a surprise to their mother, the devout Catholic, Miguel had secretly driven the car to a paint shop in the next valley for the final touch: an eight-coat, hand-lacquered paint job replete with the facsimile of the famous miracle painting of the Blessed Mother. The artist, a renowned Chicano air-brush painter, finished his work the day before the Feast Day of the Assumption, and Miguel had parked the car in their front yard that night to surprise his mother.
Early the next morning she discovered the miracle, and without waking her family, went straight to the homes of a few of her fellow parishioners to tell them of God’s work. By the time a bleary-eyed, slightly hung over Miguel stepped out the front door, the yard was filled with Catholic zealots, Protestant charismatics, newspaper photographers and several people who had mistaken the commotion for a garage sale. Miguel didn’t have the heart at that moment to break the news to his mother. She was so sure Our Lady had appeared.
Rosaries were said, Masses were offered, and photographs appeared on the front pages of several local papers, which were soon picked up by the wire services for publication on what was an otherwise slow news day. It was the biggest “miracle” story since a woman in Louisiana had seen Jesus’ image in her screen door.
The next day Miguel told her the truth: The initials “J.C.” at the bottom of the painting were the artist’s, Jose Cardenas. His mother had taken the news wonderfully. She hugged her son, and said that it was still God’s work to have given her a child so considerate as to think of such a surprise for her. His car still became a shrine in her eyes, and was the lead automobile when long-time immigrants from Oaxaca made their All Soul’s Day procession to the local cemeteries to honor their deceased loved ones.
Heath’s troop didn’t know what to make of the primitive folk painting on the old car. With trepidation the four entered the back door of the cavernous Hornet. Jeremy sat in the front seat with Miguel and his two friends.
“Miguel and Tony and Carlos, these are some of my friends from down south” Jeremy said.
The three youths simultaneously turned their heads and scrutinized their cargo in silence. Miguel and friends wore dark sunglasses and white T-shirts, and had their thick, black hair slicked back on their heads. Their guests attempted to communicate with the natives after Jeremy’s introduction.
“Hello,” Reggie volunteered.
“Yes,” “uh,” and “yeah,” the other three added.
Miguel said, “Hola,” and with the final rays fading from the western sky, the waterbug crawled from the curb and into the street. Heath, as the ambassador, continued to speak.
“It’s so nice of you boys to take us to the winery.”
There was no reply. Miguel turned right onto Main Street, Healdsburg’s only four-lane road. The street was packed with honking, immobile cars. The Hornet was mired in a traffic jam.
“Jeremy, what is all this traffic?” Heath inquired.
“Healdsburg’s the only town in the area that hasn’t outlawed ‘cruising.’ So the kids come from fifty miles around to drive up and down the main drag.”
Reggie stuck his nose up in the air and peered at the stalled traffic and commented, “What a disgusting, vile – ”
Reggie paused as Miguel turned around and stared down his passenger.
“ – thing for those other towns to do.”
Jeremy glanced back at Pete and saw for the first time the terrified look on his face. He also noticed that parts of Stephanie’s hair were the same texture and color as the Hornet’s roof liner. A custom four-wheel-drive pickup pulled alongside; all Jeremy could see through Miguel’s window were the tires. He heard a shout from above.
“Hey, cockbite!”
“Your motha’!” Miguel shouted back.
“Miguel! Who are all those old farts? You runnin’ a Tijuana taxi?”
“Bite it, white boy! We’re escorting nobility tonight!”
With that comment made, Miguel pushed a button and the entire body of the car hopped up on its air shocks. Stephanie and Reggie let out small screams.
After they had been mooned by a group of girls in pep squad outfits, passed a six-pack of Oly by a group of Miguel’s friends, and jeered at by most every teenager in The Valley, the Hornet was out of town and approaching Schloss. Jeremy summed up his guests’ demeanor in a single word: anxious. As they pulled up the long drive that led to Schloss, Miguel turned and spoke to Jeremy, as the two had rehearsed it the night before.
“There’s a guard up there. He gonna let us in?” Miguel asked.
“Damn it! I left my invitation in the Rolls. They’ll never let us into the front lot in this car. Miguel, why don’t you drive us around back through the employee entrance and drop us off.”
“Sure thing.”
Jeremy turned back to Reggie and said, “We can come into the restaurant through the cellar.”
“If we must.”
The Hornet hummed along the winding drive that surrounded the castle-like façade of the winery and eventually came to the high-tech crush pad. When Miguel brought the car to a stop, his passengers catapulted from the back seat.
