Imperfect Strangers

CHAPTER 19

"Sandy sat in the San Francisco restaurant, Postrio, and looked across the table at Mike Bernini. "So," Sandy said, "what do you think?"

"I think it's interesting," Bernini said,

"That's all? Interesting?"

"Well, I haven't looked around; I mean, I don't know what else is available in the industry."

"Mike, the industry is in a state of shock at the moment, because of the phyloxera business. You're working at one of the few vineyards that's ahead of the game on that point. As I understood things, your principal difficulty has been your relationship with Larsen."

"That's right," Bernini replied, "but how do I know I won't have a similar relationship with you?"

"For a start, I don't approach the business of winemaking as chemistry; I believe it's an art and that you're an artist."

"I'd want a free hand," Bernini said.

"I'm not going to give you a free hand, and neither is anybody else. I'm not unknowledgeable about wine, and if I own a vineyard I'm going to want the product to meet my expectations in terms of both quality and marketability. If you and I disagree as to what direction the winemaking should take, I'm going to make the final decision. What I can promise you is that I will respect your abilities and give you every opportunity to meet the requirements I set. If I want a big wine, I'll expect you to make a big wine and not a thin one, but my requirements are not going to be either impossible or unreasonable."

Bernini looked uncertain.

Sandy leaned forward on his elbows. "Mike, I want you to go home and think about what you want to do with the rest of your life. If you want to be in the construction business or the computer business or some other business, then go do it. But if you decide you want to make wine, then I'm offering you the opportunity of a lifetime. I have an expanding business in New York and London to run, and I'm not going to have the time to look over your shoulder while you do your work. My intention-and I'm perfectly willing to put this in writing-is to work with you to define a set of parameters for what we want to do and what we think is possible to do, and then let you get on with it. I think that, together, you and I can build a great winery that the world will admire, and in so doing, we can both make enough money to keep us in the style to which we'd like to become accustomed."

"All right, I'll think about it," Bernini said.

"I'm going to want an answer next week," Sandy said. "If I'm going to buy this vineyard without you, then the negotiations are going to be very different. But if you want to do this-really want to do it-then just say so and we'll get your lawyer and my bankers together and work out a deal that's right for both of us." Sandy glanced at his watch. He had already paid the check, and he had only another five minutes to spare. He stood up and offered Bernini his hand.

Bernini got up and shook hands. "I'll call you next week, Sandy," he said.

Sandy left the restaurant. Parked at the curb was a Lincoln Town Car with his name on a card in the window; the driver was leaning against the car, smoking a cigarette.

"I'm Mr. Kinsolving," he said to the man, then got into the back seat. "Let's go."

The driver got into the car and drove away from the restaurant.

Sandy could see the driver's eyes in the rearview mirror. "So?" he asked.

"I guess you thought you got lucky, didn't you?"

Sandy didn't say anything.

Martindale chuckled. "I can just see the scene; you arrive at the gallery, and there's all this mess, and you think God has saved you from this awful fate."

"What the hell happened?"

"I don't know, for sure; I think perhaps Helena asked Sally to meet the customer, and she just got unlucky. They've arrested the guy, you know."

"No, I didn't know; I don't read the San Francisco papers every day."

"Black kid, eighteen or nineteen; walked in and popped her, then took the cash and the gun. They found the gun on him when he got busted in a dope deal. Pity it wasn't Helena, huh?"

Sandy remained quiet. He felt trapped, and he resisted the temptation to bolt from the car. Martindale was driving aimlessly around the city.

"You're awfully quiet, Sandy."

"I don't have anything to say, really. What's next in your plans?"

"Oh, my plans haven't changed; they've just become more difficult. Helena has moved in with Saul Winner."

"Winner? Is that the painter she's been seeing?"

"Yes."

"I've seen his work at the Modern, in New York."

"Oh, yes; Saul is a very important artist. He lives in one of those big old houses on Nob Hill, and he even has some security. It's going to take some time for me to work out just how your job should be done. Can you come to San Francisco on a notice of, say, a day or two?"

"I don't know. Maybe."

"Well, then, I'll just work something out, find a time when she's regularly away from Winner's house, and when I have it all together, I'll call you."

"I'm not going to be at your beck and call, you son of a bitch," Sandy said.

Martindale stopped the car, then turned in his seat and stared at Sandy. "You'd better understand this right now," he said. "This is going to happen when I say it's going to happen, or you're going to suffer some terrible consequences. Do you understand me?"

Sandy gritted his teeth. "I understand you."

"I hope so," Martindale said. "You see, you're in this position because you care what happens to you. I, on the other hand, don't give a damn what happens to me, not at the moment. That gives me a very large advantage in dealing with you."

Sandy didn't reply but he knew Peter Martindale was right: he cared desperately what happened to him, and it was the only reason he was playing Martindale's game.

Martindale drove Sandy to the Ritz-Carlton and deposited him under the portico. Sandy watched him drive away. He experienced an urge to chase the car down and strangle the man to death, but he knew he was in no position to do that. He could only wait and hope for a way out.