Dead in the Dregs by Peter Lewis Page B

two enormous doors shut. I followed him to the other side.
    “Look, Bid, I’m not suggesting I think you did this. There are other people with motives.”
    “That’s reassuring,” he said disgustedly.
    He pulled the second door closed and locked up, walked to his motorcycle, hoisted it off its kickstand, and with one stroke set its engine aroar.
    “What do you take me for, man? You think I’m a fucking criminal?” He glared at me from the saddle, revving the bike ferociously.
    “You trying to scare me with that thing?” I asked.

    “I’m beat, dude. Got one afternoon to crash. I need to be back before dawn.”
    He roared off, the engine’s growl fading to a purr in the distance.
    I decided to take the long route home. I wanted to soak in the air, the light. With harvest nearing completion, the vineyards looked skeletal, their leaves golden and browned. I took the Rutherford Cross past the Silverado Trail and followed Sage Canyon Road around Lake Hennessey. The wind had picked up. The willows lining its banks shook, and waves broke in tiny whitecaps across its face. The sun played on the hills as I cut through to Pope Valley. The farms were peaceful here, and its tranquility seemed a world away from the monstrous egos and petty vendettas that gripped Napa.
    I got back to the trailer and lay down. My head was spinning. I wasn’t sure where I stood with Janie. We seemed to be dancing around each other, not certain whether we were in this together. I was worried about her, and about Danny, and my fears for them kept fighting with my affection for Gio. I couldn’t make up my mind whether to drop the whole thing and declare my undying love for my girlfriend, or if I should tell Gio that I still loved my wife and hoped to return to her, or at least try to. The only thing not in doubt was that I adored my son and regretted having involved him at all. That I had been shortsighted and self-serving. I seemed to be more interested in proving to him that his old man could step up to the plate and hit it out of the park. Who was I kidding? Fat chance, as Fornes had said. Try to make peace with your ghosts and see how far you get.
    Teukes was another matter altogether. We had assumed there was a friendship, a shared set of interests and passions, but it ran only skin-deep. I hadn’t really told him much about myself, and he hadn’t opened up to me about the setbacks he’d suffered in his peripatetic career. More than that, the story Ciofreddi had told me suggested that Biddy had a violent streak I didn’t know was there, something bottled up just beneath the surface that threatened to erupt if you crossed him or rubbed him the wrong way. I had felt it on the floor at Tanner.
    I thought about canceling the dinner with Jordan Meyer. What was the point? Wilson was dead. Both Ciofreddi and Brenneke had
warned me to back off. I was out of my depth, as Ciofreddi put it. But there was something gnawing at me that wouldn’t let me drop it.
    It was time for a nap. I put on a Bill Evans CD. At least I’d get a decent meal out of it , I said to myself as I drifted into an uneasy sleep.

12
    Jordan Meyer was seated on the edge of the dining room at a deuce on the banquette. I’d remembered the man as tastefully put together, but the image collapsed as I neared the table. He was now huge, his shirt straining across his gut and his jacket tight on his swollen limbs.
    “Babe, how nice to see you” he said with exaggerated warmth, looking me up and down, visibly disappointed. Time had worked its sorry magic on us both.
    “Nice to see you again, too, Mr. Meyer.”
    “Let’s pick something to drink, shall we?” he said hurriedly, hiding behind Bouchon’s oversize carte des vins with relief. “Any suggestions?” he queried . How would I know? I couldn’t see a thing. “So,” he said, settling back and rather too obviously feeling the lurid pleasure of the topic at hand. “The estimable Richard Wilson crushed and fermented.