Page 5 of Que Será, Syrah

Six months ago, I was assigned to the tiny Oak Creek Canyon satellite office. Ever since then, a huge chunk of my time has been taken up with mediating an on-going family feud between a bunch of wealthy, entitled, wastes-of-air winery owners. Technically, it’s all part of the job. A big part actually, because Napa is wine, no matter what nearby Sonoma has to say about the subject. And I do still believe that most of the winery owners here care deeply about what’s best for the valley—since it coincides so neatly with what’s best for them. But you’d never know it from the way some of them act.

See, I grew up poor in some of the rougher parts of the valley. And yes, contrary to widely held public opinion, Napa does have its rough parts. So, I know exactly how people like the Martinellis and the Lambertis view people like me. It’s not flattering. But that’s okay; I don’t think much of most of them either. I’m as frustrated with their snobbery and pettiness as I am with the plethora of rules and regulations that govern wine production in the county—rules that they seem content to either flout or manipulate for their own selfish gains. Enforcing those laws is absolutely in my job description. But all the same, this was not the work I signed up for.

If I had my way, I’d shut down all their nepo-baby playgrounds ASAP, and force them all to restructure their businesses, maybe turn them into co-ops owned and operated by the people who actually work the land. So that everyone can benefit, instead of just the privileged few. But, as I said, wine is big business here in the valley—as everyone from my boss, to the Agricultural Commissioner, to the Department of Alcohol Beverage Control agrees. And the Golden Rule is in full effect. Which is to say that he who grows the grapes (or who owns the land on which they’re grown, to be more exact) makes the rules. And I have as much chance of challenging that reality as I have of…well, owning a winery myself someday.

Honestly, I’m not sure how much longer I can stick it out. I’m not even sure how much longer I should try. I don’t like the idea of quitting; and I have no idea what else I could do for work, if I did. But, if I’m not actually being useful or helping people, then what the hell is the point?

Luckily, my shift is finally over, because I am more than ready to call it a day and head home. Or maybe not. Home’s been a little on the quiet side since my last girlfriend and I called it quits. Maybe I’ll head downtown for a drink and to see what else I feel like picking up there—dinner, a game of pool, a warm body. I’ve got the day off tomorrow, so I might as well make a night of it.

But then, just as the idea is taking hold, another thought intrudes. Oh, fucking hell. I totally forgot that I’d switched shifts with Garcia; something about a doctor’s appointment for one of her kids. That means tomorrow is just another workday for me, filled with problems and paperwork, and probably (with the way my luck is running? absolutely) more bullshit out-of-compliance charges to investigate. Which in turn means more snobby rich dudes giving me attitude, acting like I’m the one who’s inconveniencing them and— “What the fu—? Jesus!” I yank the wheel hard to avoid a collision with a little red sports car that takes a turn too fast, goes barreling through the intersection, and then zips on by, headed up the valley, back the way I came.

My temper flares. But, for just one instant, I hold myself in check. Technically, my shift is over. In fact, I’m already late to clock out. This does not have to be my problem; I could let this one slide, pretend I didn’t see anything and assume someone else will both see and stop the speeder somewhere down the line—probably before they get much farther in all likelihood, and hopefully before anyone gets hurt.

And if that’s not the case? Shit. The guilt will eat me alive. I’ll never be able to look at myself in the mirror again.

Giving into the inevitable, I hang a quick huey and head off in pursuit. Several vehicles have already gotten between us, but they quickly pull off to the side as soon I turn on my overheads. When I get behind the highballer, I flash my brights, signaling that they should pull over as well.

The car—an older Caddy XLR—slows as we approach a busy intersection, and I assume the driver is searching for a safe place to stop. I can’t help noticing that the registration tags are a couple of months overdue. Which just figures, doesn’t it? The prospect of additional paperwork really makes my day. My already fucked up evening is about to become even more fucked, and I have only myself to blame.

But then, in the next instant, the car speeds up again. “Oh no, you don’t,” I growl as it flies through the intersection just as the yellow light turns to red, forcing me to employ my sirens as I run the light.

I grab the mike for the bullhorn, advising the driver that, “This is the Sheriff’s Department. Pull your car over to the side of the road. Now!”

This time, finally, I’ve gotten their attention. After we’ve both come to a stop, I exit my vehicle (still fuming) only to find that the driver, female, Caucasian, mid-twenties, has done the same. She’s dressed to match her car, wearing open-toed shoes that show off her red-painted toenails, fitted white slacks, a red, off-the-shoulder top that stops just below her midriff and a puzzled expression as she stands on the shoulder of the road, looking like a movie poster for a mid-century Spaghetti Western. Her hands are fisted on her hips. Her gaze is glued to the front of my SUV. A red and white polka-dot scarf holds her long hair off her face. But the ends of the scarf and the bulk of her mane snap and flutter in the wind kicked up by passing traffic—like Venus in that Botticelli painting. Something about that association tickles my memory, but I push it to the back of my mind.

“Get back in your car,” I instruct, frowning as I approach.

Venus ignores me. Why am I not surprised? Goddesses never listen to mortal men. “It’s pink,” she says as she finally transfers her gaze to my face. “Why is it pink?”

“What?”

“Your truck,” she explains, pointing at it. Then her eyes narrow in suspicion. “Hey. Are you really with the Sheriff’s Department?”

“Yes.” For the record, I’m driving a department standard, black and white SUV. The grill, however, is currently wrapped in bright, pink vinyl, so I take her point. “It’s October.”

“The Napa Sheriff’s Department? Really? Pink?”

It’s all I can do not to roll my eyes at her continued obsession. “Affirmative. Now, are you getting back in your car, or am I placing you under arrest?”

“You’re arresting me?” she asks, eyes widening in dismay.

“That’s entirely up to you,” I say, slanting a meaningful look at her car.

“Okay, okay.” She raises her hands in a gesture of surrender and flashes me a smile. “I’m going. Sheesh.”

Just before she turns away, I’m struck with an unwelcome realization. I know that smile. And, somewhere in time, I’ve seen those eyes—dancing in amusement, dark with heat. Where the fuck do I know you from? I wonder, staring hard at her as she slides back into the driver’s seat. Since we appear to be approximately the same age, the most likely answer is that we went to school together at some point. My memories, however, are suggesting otherwise. They’re suggesting something decidedly not classroom related. But she doesn’t seem to recognize me, so I should probably just let it drop.

“So, what’s October got to do with anything?” she asks.

This time, it takes me a moment to make the connection. “Oh. Breast Cancer Awareness Month.”

“For real?” she says again, craning her neck to glance at my truck. “Wow. That’s a lot cooler than I was expecting.” She holds up her phone and asks, “Is it okay if I get a picture?”

“No,” I tell her—and then annoy myself by relenting almost immediately at the first hint of a pout. “There are some shots on the department’s Facebook page. You can probably download one from there.”

“Yeah? Are you in any of them?”

That twinkle in her eyes is something that (under a lot of other circumstances) I might find hard to resist. “No,” I reply, taking care to keep my voice level and my expression neutral.

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