River Rules Page 12

  “Let me try to get this through my thick skull. You want random drug testing?” He looked from Peter to Rachel incredulously.

  “Yup. There are like a hundred companies around here who test. Plus, it will help me stay straight. It’s pretty common, Dad.”

  Jeff flinched. “Staying straight is the goal. Whatever helps, I’m in.”

  Rachel also received the honor of naming the business.

  “It’s only fair,” Peter said. “You’re baking the product. The business doesn’t exist without you.”

  “Grate Full Bread,” she said over and over. But after reading about her favorite band’s notoriety for suing for trademark and copyright infringement, she tried some different permutations on Grateful Dead.

  “I’ve got it. We’re calling it Great Full Bread. And I’m betting that the ‘G F’ in front of Bread will also make people remember that we’re gluten-free.”

  “Hey, did Ben and Jerry’s get sued for Cherry Garcia?” Peter idly sketched logos for the truck as they talked.

  Rachel showed him some mock-ups she’d done on her laptop. “Check out the groovy flower-power lettering. I’m feeling very late sixties, early seventies, so bright funky colors. I want the truck to be sunshine yellow with big psychedelic flowers, maybe some butterflies and birds.”

  Rachel’s new boyfriend, Zack, the handsome mid-thirties owner of Bridge, a popular bar and restaurant, had set them up with one of his suppliers who was building a kosher catering facility at the old matzo factory in the basement of Temple Beth Shalom. The more they spoke, the more the builder liked the idea of adding a gluten-free dedicated baking facility with the proviso that it had to be kosher. Great Full Bread piggy-backed onto the new facility, with a small commissary for production and handling. Once they got certified as kosher and gluten-free, they were in business.

  But it took Rachel night and day to complete the bureaucratic legwork to get the commissary and truck legal. She doggedly shouldered the compliance burden since Jeff made it crystal clear that if he was bankrolling it, she had to be at the top of her game as a baker and co-owner. Peter got Paco a shot in production, helping with the bake.

  “Why you call it ‘the bake?’ Even I know that ain’t good English.” Paco regarded Rachel with the utmost seriousness.

  “That’s just what bakers say. It’s cool. Don’t worry.”

  “Failure is not an option,” Jeff said one too many times. Meeting in his kitchen late in the afternoon with Peter, Zack and Rachel as the brain trust tried to move forward, he repeated his demand for A+ compliance. “Everything by the book; otherwise we’re in a deep hellhole with the state.”

  “Yup, we got reams of paperwork,” Rachel said. “And I’m on it. Listen to this: a plan to present to the Department of Health, what’s going to be made on the truck and what’s going to be made in a commercial kitchen, background check, a catering commissary license, a food safety manager certificate, a food truck license, a retail sales license, and something called a victualling license. I don’t know what the hell that is.”

  “Vittles, yee-ha.” Peter banged a teaspoon against his beer can.

  “This dadgum critter stew sure tastes good, Pa.” Jeff got in the spirit by shooting imaginary pistols in the air.

  “Guys, chill.” Rachel stuck two fingers in her mouth and whistled loudly to get their attention. “This is serious. We’re using as much locally sourced stuff as possible. Remember, we’re doing cheese, so we can’t do meat to stay kosher. Cheese and dairy, fruit and veggies—think healthy and trendy. What about a little store?”

  “I’ll give you a good deal on the produce,” Jeff said. “Just 50 percent over cost.”

  “You’re a real sport.” Peter tossed a crumpled piece of paper at him but managed to hit Rachel in the forehead.

  Tossing the paper back at Peter, Zack read them the riot act against over-extending. “I want you to listen to me since I’m the only one with food business experience. Don’t do a store; it will end up being a fucking nightmare. Do farmers markets, the truck and a website where people can order online. You can always get shelf space at local shops.”

  “He speaks.” Peter aimed the crumpled paper at the garbage can and missed. “Do-over, the big kahuna distracted me.”

  “Hey, I mean it,” Zack said, slapping the table with his palms. “The food business is a money pit, and you can lose your shirt. Don’t half-ass it.”

  CHAPTER 31

  PETER HADN’T LACKED FOR ACTION AT ANY POINT IN his life, and somehow women were even more attracted to him after Carmen stomped on his heart. He indulged selectively—no brunettes, they reminded him too much of Carmen—but never seriously.

  “I’m just having adult fun,” he told Nancy when she called him out about being friends with benefits with a woman she loathed.

  “You’re just as much of a slut as she is. Can’t you at least have some taste?”

  “What—I need your approval for who I fool around with?”

  “I just don’t see you with one woman your own age. And why on earth are they so attracted to you?”

  “Thanks a lot. Look, nobody’s got any expectations about the future. No one’s thinking about long-term whatever. A fun evening, some decent sex, sharing a laugh. What’s not to like?”

  Nancy glared at him and downed her Chardonnay, still enjoying alcohol at that time. Now, she glared at him over a vile protein liquid.

  “Men have it so easy. You disgust me.”

  After Peter let himself back in the house, he checked in with Rachel to see how the bake for tomorrow shaped up.

  “We’re doing the rosemary olive bread, onion focaccia, strawberry rhubarb tarts, and the usual basics,” she said, sounding tired. “I need more help, Pete. Mom sprained her wrist and she can’t do the packaging for a while. Paco tries, but he has no patience.”

  “Sorry, you’re carrying the load right now. Paco should be more helpful.”

  “He needs to be out on the truck with you or Dad. What about that program for wounded vets? Did you find anyone?”

  “Maybe, I’m interviewing two tomorrow. If I think they might be decent, I’ll bring them over to the commissary.”

  “Awesome.”

  “You doing OK, though?” Jeff’s words about putting too much pressure on Rachel came back to him.

  “Yeah. Just pooped.” Rachel hung up, leaving Peter to wander around his house deep in thought.

  On a whim, he called Lori to see if she had heard anything about the Consortium doing any new projects in the area. He also wanted more details about what the hell Brock Saunders and his cronies were up to.

  “Hey, this water thing with Count Brockula has got me thinking about if the Consortium is doing something fishy. Did you actually talk to him?”

  “Yeah. He asked me if I was still playing for the other team, his usual smarmy lounge lizard shtick.”

  “Asshole.”

  “There’s more. But it’ll piss you off.”

  “Now I gotta hear it. Come on.”

  “OK, but you asked for it. He wanted to know if I was still your lawyer.”

  “What’s it to him? Like how did he say it?”

  “Just like,” Lori lowered her voice into a deep range, “looks like your smarts finally caught up with your good looks; representing better clients now, no pathetic losers, no more low-rent trash like Russo.”

  “I’d like to punch his lights out, the piece of shit.”

  “Stay away. Don’t let him goad you into jeopardizing your probation. It’s almost over.”

  “True. So what do you hear about the Consortium—any buzz?”

  “Right, like they would broadcast their intentions. Come on, they play it so close to the vest. You know, using shell companies. There’s no way to find out anything unless they did a large land purchase or sale.”

  “Where would I check?”

  “Don’t poke the hornet’s nest; so not smart.”

  “I may be dumb but I’m not stupid.
I find an envelope full of financial statements and a flash drive inside of a garbage bag inside of a bloody leather jacket tied up with string? In a deep hole weighted down by a cement block and covered by leaves and sticks? Tell me that doesn’t set off bells in your brain.”

  “Hey, it’s a turducken. You know, the chicken stuffed into a duck and then stuffed into a turkey.”

  “Yeah, yeah. So, where do I look, Lor?”

  “That’s just it. If you don’t have any knowledge about where, who and what, it’s a total crapshoot. Maybe start searching by town.”

  “Yeah, but for what? That’s the kicker.”

  “Listen, not to change the subject, but Marti wants some shade-loving perennials by the pond. Can you plant some? And I’ll check some databases in the next day or so.”

  Peter grabbed a handful of peanuts and plopped down on the couch with his laptop. Google yielded nothing of interest when he typed in a few searches about the Consortium. Frustrated, he whistled for Brutus and set off on a walk. The beauty of the trees silhouetted in the starlight took his breath away. Songbirds settled in for the evening, their melodies yielding to the crickets’ thrum. The river twinkled magically, practically bringing him to his knees with its vulnerability.

  Back in his kitchen, scratching at some itchy mosquito bites, Peter made a ham sandwich but pushed it away after one unsatisfying bite. Brutus looked at it longingly and got a Milk Bone instead. Peter stalked the piles of his dirty laundry and put on a load, tossing stray socks in the washing machine as he found them. But everything kept dragging him back to how the Consortium snuck the Zenergy fuel cell facility into Bridgeville due to the absolute stupidity of town officials. If the Consortium’s ugly agenda had Bridgeville in its rifle scope again, Peter needed to act fast or at least sound the alarm. He fell into an uneasy sleep in the den, tossing and turning so much that Brutus plunked a paw on his face.

  CHAPTER 32

  PETER CALLED IAN THAT NEXT MORNING AND launched into the saga about finding the mysterious package.

  “Why haven’t you been working out?” Ian interrupted Peter in mid-sentence. “You won another ten sessions in the library fundraiser auction. Do you rig these things?”

  “I’m just a lucky fella. But I really need you to look at this.”

  “Luck is a fantasy for idiots. Get over here around 3:00; be ready to work hard.” Minutes later, Ian followed up with a text message. STAY OUT OF TROUBLE.

  When Peter got to BIG just before 3:00, Ian pulled a face as Peter explained about the folder full of documents and showed him the flash drive.

  “How is this your business?”

  “Look, just try to get the flash drive to work. Nancy says it’s password-protected. There’s evil in the air, don’t you feel it?”

  Ian set conditions. “Work out first or no deal. I’m thinking lots of core and Pilates.”

  “No way. I’m not in the mood to stay cooped up inside. How about a hike up at the reservoir instead?” Peter motioned towards the open door.

  “I’m listening. Low-impact cardio could work so long as you tuck your abs. Who’s driving, you or me?” Ian grabbed his keys without waiting for a response.

  They parked near the dam, stepping over discarded water and energy drink bottles.

  “Assholes can’t even hold onto their own trash,” Peter said with disgust, kicking a pile out of his path and vowing to dispose of it on their way back.

  “Terrible—Bridgeville’s version of the Three Monkeys. They don’t see the evil, they don’t hear it, yet they spread it. Unbelievable lack of consciousness. This mess needs picking up.”

  “Hey, you sound like me. I finally rubbed off on you.”

  “Please, you unsexy beast; I’m off the market, remember? Celibacy and PARSLEY go together like, I dunno, tea and scones. If you came up with me for a weekend or bothered to listen to anything I say, you’d know this.”

  Prana and Self-Realization Love Energy Yoga (PARSLEY) exerted a magnetic hold on Ian for the past six years. Meditating with fellow travelers and toiling like a mule pushed all his buttons. At PARSLEY’s mosquito-ridden Catskill retreat, he felled trees, dragged them through thick woods and chopped them for firewood. He julienned mounds of carrots and potatoes for giant vats of soup that he stirred with an oar. But he could never talk any of his friends into visiting.

  “Ian, all due respect and everything, but there’s gotta be a few good-looking women up there who’d like to jump your bones. Lonely, horny and all hot and bothered about world peace just screams ‘fuck me,’ doesn’t it?”

  “Only because you think with your cock. Try using the big head instead of the one in your pants for a change. Sex is a distraction, a diversion of important energy. And, I’m hardly lonely. How could I be lonely with you lot in my life? Ian halted abruptly and pointed to a red blanket hanging off a tree. “What’s that over there?”

  Peter motioned for Ian to wait. “Hold up. I got this. Hey, Sherry,” he yelled. “It’s Peter Russo. You decent?”

  A blondish-gray cloud of hair appeared at the corner of the blanket. “Wait a minute!” A woman’s voice yelled hoarsely, and after a few minutes, Sherry Nicholas stepped past the blanket, arms outstretched to Peter. Clad in layers of worn and dirty garments, it was almost impossible to tell if she was fat or slim, male or female.

  “Keep your distance,” Peter muttered to Ian. “She’s living rough and smells to high heaven.” Changing his tone immediately, he said, “Sherry, how the hell are you this fine day?” As she got close, he stiff-armed her and patted her on the shoulder. Ian gagged at the whiff of shit and piss.

  “Petey, there’s weird stuff happening out here, man,” Sherry said, her missing teeth showing as she gave a big fetid yawn. “Who’s this?” She pointed to Ian.

  “Sherry, we’ve met before, not sure if you remember. When Peter was arrested two years ago?”

  Sherry had joined the demonstrations protesting Peter’s arrest. She marched enthusiastically, shouting and yelling incoherent phrases. Nancy had taken her into the town hall to clean up in the bathroom and cool down in the air conditioning.

  “No.” Turning to Peter, she said, “There’s bombs here and big yellow tanks. You got anything to drink?”

  “Here,” Ian said, offering her the metal water flask he brought everywhere.

  Sherry cast a disparaging eye at the bottle. “I mean anything good.”

  “This is good. This is water.”

  Peter shot him a glance. “You’re never going to get it back.”

  “Not a problem.”

  Sherry grabbed the flask and drank thirstily. Wiping her dripping chin on her sleeve exposed a streak of weathered skin under the grime on her face. “Come on,” she said, motioning to Ian and Peter to follow her.

  She took them around the blanket where she proudly pointed to a small tattered pup tent and a rusted metal shopping cart loaded with bulging plastic bags. “I gotta pick up more bottles and cans. Then I’m gonna get some cash.”

  She carefully put Ian’s gift into her tent. After rummaging in her pockets, she extracted some sticks connected together by brightly colored yarn and offered it to Ian. “For you. Now we’re even-steven.”

  “Thank you. It’s a lovely, um, dream catcher, isn’t it?” He showed it to Peter who nodded. Sherry grabbed it back suddenly and crawled into her tent. Ian and Peter exchanged glances.

  “Sherry?” Peter waited and held a finger for Ian to stay put. “Don’t go in there.”

  Sherry wriggled out, ass-backwards, and handed Ian the dream catcher, which now sported two small white feathers. “Ta-da!”

  “It’s absolutely perfect.”

  “How ‘bout me, Sherry—what am I, chopped liver?” Peter pretended to be hurt.

  “Yum, liver. I’m hungry.” Sherry rubbed her tummy like a child.

  “I’ll drop off some muffins and sandwiches from the truck by our usual rock, OK?”

  “But no butterscotch. I hate butterscotch.” Sherry pout
ed and whispered, “There’s bad things happening by the water, but I’m watching them. I’m keeping an eye on them.” She reached into the recesses of her baggy jacket and pulled out a battered pair of glasses.

  “OK, you do that.” Peter patted her on the back. “I’ll see you soon.”

  “Not if I see you first!”

  “Sherry,” said Ian. “Let’s celebrate this moment near the beautiful pink clover.” He led her to a clump of flowering weeds, raised his arms to the sky and encouraged her to do the same. “That’s it. In and out, cleansing breaths.”

  Sherry coughed in harsh rasps and ugly wheezes. Tears streamed from her eyes after the first deep inhalation. Her chest heaved visibly despite being under so many layers, and she pounded her solar plexus.

  “Whoa, you don’t sound good, Sher.” Peter eyed her with concern. “I’ll leave you some tea and honey, too.” Sotto voce to Ian, he said, “I don’t trust her with a bottle of Robitussin.”

  As Sherry wiped her cheeks with the back of her hands, Ian mulled the situation. “What about these little green men?”

  “Blue meanies,” Sherry said. “With yellow tanks.”

  “All right—we’re gonna go.” Peter started shuffling his feet. He shot Ian a warning glance and quickly drew a finger across his throat to get him to shut up. “See ya soon, Sherry baby.” Peter blew her a kiss that she caught and tucked in her pocket.

  Ian held up the dream catcher and touched his heart.

  Walking back to the car, Peter and Ian fell silent. The pleasant scent of pine trees filled the cool air.

  “Goddammit. She’s really hallucinating.”

  “She could be a seer.” Ian mused thoughtfully as he tested a low hanging branch with his weight, stretching his back and shoulders. “Feels so good. Try it.”

  “No. Hey, Sherry didn’t give you the dream catcher for nothing. Use the spiritual energy, brother, and aim it at the flash drive.”

  “Oh, I will. Even if I can’t crack the password, I’m going to put the dream catcher on it overnight, let the power swirl.”

  “Go for it. Shit, I don’t like the way her cough sounded.”