Page 23 of The B!tch is Bad

Wildstar was bug-eyed with rage. He pointed a stiff finger at the ground and spat, “How are you gonna pay me back for that brewery we started? You haven’t given me a single dime and you’re half the liability for the failure! In fact, the whole liability since you got that crappy recipe with the shitty canned yeast, and made us sanitize all the equipment with bleach.”

Oliver held both palms toward Wildstar, backing him off. Amazing how composed he could be when accused frontally of several crimes at once. “Listen, calm down, Sean. I’ll get the money to you. I’ve got many irons in the fire, as you know. Listen. Why don’t we just take a cruise over to Wine on Main and I’ll show you where the Pinot went.”

But just now, he’d said he had no idea what Wildstar was talking about. Now he knew where the Pinot had vanished? I took a step closer. “I’ve seen some discrepancies between your report and what’s actually in the warehouse too.”

Oliver’s open, honest face invited me to join him. “Cumon, man! Let’s all go to Wine on Main.” He headed back toward his shiny new scoot. “First let me stop at my place. I need to tell those Mexicans what to do next. I’ll meet you back out here in fifteen.”

Lytton was already looking at his phone, so Sean and I looked at each other. I’ll never fucking forget the absolute face of confusion and despair on Wildstar’s countenance. He’d always been a calm, suave man with his well-trimmed Van Dyke beard. Wildstar took such pleasure in his flurry of delights, his canyoneering, his slacklining, his glamping.

I said, “I’ve got Patience coming over.”

Wildstar said, “I’ve got Amber coming over.”

Amber was one of the gals always looking to hook up. Pearl honey extensions, tanned bolt-on boobs, and lip injections were all I recalled of her. “Good move, bro.” I shouted to Oliver. “Hey! How about tomorrow?”

Saluting, Oliver scooted off on his Harley down the dirt road that led to his new abode, fishtailing it in the red sand. I didn’t know where he got the money for the Harley and didn’t ask. I had loaned him fifty large to start a new wine bottling business, the theory being we could save money not using our regular bottler.

“Fuck it!” Wildstar sputtered. “I’m filing embezzlement charges against him. He goes off and buys this new bike when he won’t even pay me for the fucked-up beer disaster? I’m fucking calling Slushy right now.”

“You got his number?” Lytton asked over his shoulder, heading for his own ride.

Wildstar jerked his head in a nod. “You know I do.”

Lytton slung a leg over his saddle. “I already put a text in to Slushy. I’m laying all the heat for this sideways vape mess on Mr. Klozov and the company who made the pens. Uninsured people—hell, all people—have legit claims about the shit he put them through. I’m not taking the blowback for this. And Creed, you might think twice about employing this scammer. What do we really know about his past?”

“Yeah!” shouted Wildstar. “He goes on and on about tasting with his Hong Kong pals while he’s wearing fucking sweatpants. He follows this douchemonkey who thinks he’s John the Baptist preaching never to eat or drink, yet McDonald’s is OK because they’re from the fifth dimension.”

Lytton slid his scoot closer to us for one last word. “Not to mention. He drinks wine. Listen, Creed, I’m not gonna contribute to a blood feud between you and Klozov. Just saying. Watch your back. He lies like a fucking rug. Hey, Wildstar. Don’t forget those candles.”

Candles? Lytton rumbled off, leaving Wildstar and me looking helpless.

Taking control, I commanded, “Wine on Main tomorrow with Klozov.”

Wildstar nodded. “I’ll be there.” His jaw was set. He’d be there.

We parted ways, me to my classy abode. To be honest, I raced to my spacious bathroom to clean up, stripping off my shirt, replacing it with a snug polo that showed off my biceps to best advantage. Leaving the five o’clock shadow alone, I did run a razor across my mostly bald skull.

Then to the kitchen, to clean up prior messes from the rich granite counter. I left our ingredients pristine, ready to be combined and braised. I’d barely started with that when Patience peeked out from behind the sliding glass door.

“Hey!” I cried with true happiness. She’d changed into a silkier, long-sleeved dress with a plunging neckline. “Come on in! I’m about to taste some unreleased riesling.”

“Oh, excellent!” She glowed with an expert’s application of makeup.

I hadn’t had time to open the unlabeled bottle, so I handed it to her. She knew where the corkscrew was. “This is from two years ago. The last time I tasted it, it was very sweet. Apricot, pear.”

She nodded. “Very fruity. Here. What can I do?”

I pointed at the leafy greens on the butcher block. “Chop the rapini for the scallops.” I peeled the salsify, a sort of parsnip root vegetable.

Patience slid into a routine, standing next to me. “Are those black trumpet mushrooms? Did your clients pick them?”

I sliced through the flowery brown chanterelles, smooth as wax. “Yes, and don’t worry. I’ve done quality control over them.” Patience was always worried about getting a poisonous mushroom.

“Ah, no big. I’m trying to be more relaxed about my paranoias. They say nice guys finish last but that’s okay, right? Who wants to be with the anusbrains in the front?”

I had to pause. I had always been the anusbrain in the front. “I should relax more too. The oncologist told me to work less, take up more hobbies. That’s why I started producing music and puzzling.”

She knew about my side gig creating crossword puzzles for national newspapers. But that wasn’t what had caught her attention. She looked at me, her lower lip slack. “Oncologist?”