Vintage (10 page)

“I've still got readers.”

“I heard from Grovnick. I know the column got axed. You're just another washed-up restaurant critic—”

“It's
food writer
, not
critic
. There's a difference. Look at this,” Bruno said, shaking with anger now and rising out of his chair. He stalked over to the wall of shelves lining one entire side of the office, lined with crisp first editions. He plucked out a thin hardcover. The dust jacket gleamed in the light from the window. The spine read
A Season Among the Vines
. The byline:
Bruno Tannenbaum.
He flipped it over. There, in black-and-white, in baggy, wine-stained cargo trousers and a flannel shirt, leaning on a vine stake, with a fuller beard and milder paunch, stood a much younger version of himself. He wore a beret at a rakish angle as he smiled at the photographer. “Look at this. This is a hell of a book.”

Harley took it. He paced, examining the cover. It really was a good book. A critical, if not commercial, success. Had Bruno continued to publish, perhaps it could have been rereleased in a new edition. But now it was remaindered. A memory. Destined for secondhand shops or library rummage sales. “This was twenty years ago, Bruno. You're a dinosaur now.”

“I'm still that same writer. That's a classic. I wrote it. And I can do it again.” Bruno said the words, but Harley could tell by the waver in his voice that he didn't really mean them.

“Well, it didn't sell.
Twenty Recipes for Love
—now, that sold. Write up a proposal for a sequel to that puppy and maybe we'll talk. But this . . .” Harley grabbed the Trevallier cork Bruno had set on his desk and flipped it in the air, catching it. “This little idea of yours would take a huge advance. Travel and research expenses. Nobody in New York is going to take that kind of risk on you. Not anymore.”

“Harley, please, I need this . . .”

Harley shook his head. It was sad. He hated to do it, but sometimes people needed to hear the truth. Bruno stood with his arms at his sides, his jowls in a pout.
God, he is so frumpy
. Harley had heard all of the stories . . . the women, the affairs. But how could anyone find this lump of poor wardrobe choices even remotely appealing? Fucking artists. And the hardworking agent in a good suit? He's scorned. There was a part of Harley that was enjoying this. Another part of him felt sorry for Bruno. But not sorry enough to ask him to lunch. He strode to the shelf and plucked a paperback volume so new it smelled of bleached pulp:
A Buyer's Guide to the Wines of Tuscany,
and next to a map of the region stood a well-groomed, tanned, middle-aged man in a pale suit raising a toast, presumably to the reader. The byline read
Parker Thomas
. “Take that. Read it. Maybe you'll learn something.”

Bruno took the book and glanced at it, holding it at arm's length and cocking his head away as if the book bore some stench he couldn't abide. Then he tossed it on the table and grinned at Harley with enough defiance and contempt that the agent saw a brief flash of the Bruno of old. “So that's what it's about, eh, Harley? You don't want me to upstage your superstar.”

“Upstage? Hell, Bruno, I'd love for you to write a bestseller. Parker Thomas is what wine readers want nowadays. They can't get enough of him. They don't want some crusty philosopher brooding about lost vintages. They want someone optimistic. They want the future. Super Tuscans. Global brands. Agro-tourism. Someone to give them the confidence to walk into a store and buy a bottle of wine.”

“I don't score wines, Harley, I tell stories.”

“It's a consumer economy. Books are consumer products. So is wine. Scores sell. And nobody does it better than Parker. Go ahead. Take it. Read it. Learn something. Save your stories for tucking in your kids at night.”

“Go fuck yourself, Harley.”

Bruno snatched the cork out of Harley's hand, whirled on his heel and stormed out the door, slamming it hard enough to rattle the autographed photo of Julia Child hanging on the wall. A small part of Harley was rooting for Bruno. Maybe this little dose of reality would be enough to send him back to his antique typewriter with a fire in his belly. But the rest of Harley was glad to be rid of him once and for all. It was like the relief he felt after dumping a clingy girlfriend.

Then the Thomas book caught his eye. He put his phone on speaker and punched in the number, throwing his feet up on the desk and leaning back. It rang.

“Y'allo?”

“Hey, Park, how's it going?”

“Good, good. What's up, Harley?”

“Making us money, my friend.”

“You're the man.”

“Hey, guess who was just in my office. Think
washed-up
.”

“Richard Nixon?”

“Close. Bruno Tannenbaum.”

“Hey, don't pick on poor Bruno.”

“I showed him your new book and told him to do his homework.”

“And he didn't beat you to death with a lamb shank?”

“He didn't like it, but what else can I do? It's like he's stuck in 1988.”

“You kinda gotta feel for him.”

“Yeah, well. Hey, listen . . . he actually had a crazy idea, but let me know what you think of this . . .”

Harley picked up the copy of
Season
and flipped through it as he relayed the story. When he paused to clear his throat, he thought he could hear the scribbling of pen on paper coming from Parker's end of the line.

Great meals don't require tablecloths or silverware. There isn't always time. Even so, everything passing one's lips should be an experience. Whether you're in Cleveland or Kolkata, a good meal can be had in a pinch. A decent hunk of cheese and fresh bread can carry you from Chicago to Paris as you munch on the El to Wrigley Field. If you must go fast, go local. The Chicago-style hot dog, for example, is a creation to be found nowhere else and is vastly superior to fast foods created in some corporate laboratory.

—
B
RUNO
T
ANNENBAUM,
“T
HE
C
HICAGO
W
AY,
”
C
HICAGO
S
UN-
T
IMES

A
ll writers face rejection, though how they handle it varies greatly. For some it fuels a furious and defiant return to the page. Others row slowly back toward the keyboard on a brooding sea of doubt. One classic response, of course, involves alcohol.

And so Bruno made straight for Gus's, on Chicago's North
Side a few blocks from Wrigley Field. The owner, a retired pitcher, was the closest thing Bruno had to a mentor, and the closest thing Bruno's father had had to a hero. Gus's was filled with baseball memorabilia, including a glass-encased Ernie Banks jersey on the back wall. The bar top was vinyl and they had only the cheapest brands on tap. It was a place without pretension, and the straight-talking bartender always had a few words of wisdom.

Bruno took a seat and patiently waited for Gus, who was wiping glasses and watching the ball game on an old picture-tube television above the bar. It was the bottom of the eighth and the Cubs were losing by seven.

Bruno caught Gus's eye and ordered a “beer and a bump,” which was a mug of lager poured over the top of a shot of whiskey, to settle his nerves. He was here to contemplate his future.

“Hey, Gus, what would you do if someone told you that you were washed up?”

“I'd open a bar,” Gus replied, stone-faced, holding a mug in his huge paws and wiping it with a stained apron. His nose had been flattened after beaning one too many left-handed batters and the opposing dugout rushed the mound. He wore a military buzz cut and a permanent lump of chaw bulged under his lip.

“I don't have enough money to open a bar.”

Gus wiped another mug. He liked to think things through before he spoke, a quality Bruno both lacked and admired. Gus leaned with one elbow on the counter, watching the Cubs' third baseman strike out.

“You're not washed up, Bruno. You're just psyching yourself out.” He regarded the writer with tired eyes.

“What was it like . . . when you gave up pitching?”

“I woke up one day and I couldn't keep the ball down. I threw wild. I lost speed. The fans started to turn on me.”

“So did you just quit . . . cold turkey?”

“Naw. I went back to Iowa. Played in the minors. I thought I might shake out of the slump. But it didn't happen. I tried best I could, but my arm was just worn out. They didn't have the fancy surgery they got now, otherwise I could have had another year or two. So I cashed in my chips and opened this joint.”

“But what does a writer do, when he's got no edge left to his pitch anymore?”

“With baseball it's physical. It's got to end. There's just no way around it. Your body gets old. But what you do . . .” Gus leaned closer and fixed Bruno with his knowing gaze, filled with the hard-worn wisdom won from cheap motels and minor league ballparks on both ends of an all-too-short career as a reliever for the unluckiest team in baseball. He tapped his temple with a thumb. “What you do . . . it's all in here,” he said, now thumping his thumb against his heart, “and in here.”

Gus paused then, staring out the front window for a long time.

“What I'm saying is . . . and you probably don't want to hear this . . . is that you got no fucking excuses.”

Bruno met Gus's hard stare and looked away. The man was right. What excuse did he have? Maybe that's why Anna was always so exasperated. After all, he'd been talking about his book for ten years. Only the night before he'd been telling Claire about how confident he was in this new story. It had dropped in his lap, and instead of chasing it he was sulking in a bar. Maybe Anna had rejected his consulting business idea. Maybe Harley hadn't believed he could deliver the new book. But he didn't need their permission to write. He explained all this to Gus.

“Sounds to me like you only got two strikes and you're ready to just up and walk away from the plate.”

“So what should I do?”

“Swing for the fence like you got nothing to lose.”

“You're one of the wisest guys I know,” Bruno said, finishing off his beer and slapping the counter.

“Atta boy, Bruno!”

“I've got a book to write, Gus!”

“Damn right you do!”

“Also, can I borrow a couple grand?”

“No fucking way. Pay your bar tab and then we'll talk.”

Bruno laughed and straightened his cap as he headed out into the street, marching toward the El to hop the Pink Line to Morty's shop.

*      *      *

Morty stood on a stool dusting empty trophy bottles on the top shelf when Bruno rattled the chimes on the door. He locked it behind him and flipped the
Open
sign to
Closed
, stalking to the counter.

Morty came down, smiling broadly.

“Hey, Tannenbaum, I been meaning to get ahold of you. I called the paper, but they said—”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“Say, you still got that cork? I wanted to apologize. I don't think I was straight with you. I definitely think it's real, and I should offer you some decent cash for it. Five hundred sound good?”

“You have a buyer or something?”

“I'm sure I'll find someone.”

“Maybe a big guy with an accent and a scar?”

Morty fidgeted.

“He's been here, hasn't he? What do you know about him?”

“In my business, I don't just hand over information about customers.”

“Bullshit, Morty, information is your main product line.”

“It could get dangerous.”

“Don't I know it?” Bruno pointed to the bandage on his forehead.

“Don't you think it's worth some compensation, then?”

“I'll make it worth your while.” They eyed one another. It was a chess match they'd been through a number of times over the years. Morty usually wound up with the upper hand.

“You know the old rule about friends and money.”

“If I turned up a Trevallier from the war . . . one of the missing ones . . . what could you sell it for?”

“You kidding me? A shit-ton.”

“What about a case?” Bruno leveled his eyes at his friend and he could see greed reflected back as Morty nervously licked his lips.

“I'd get my usual commission?”

“Of course.” Bruno thrust out his hand.

There was a pause. “Okay,” he said, cautiously shaking Bruno's hand. “There's this guy comes in yesterday. Just like you say . . . tall, scar. Had an overcoat on . . . bit too much for this weather, in my opinion. And he was asking about war vintages.”

“You didn't tell him about the cork, did you?”

“I told him I'd just seen something he might be interested in.”

“Morty!”

“That's all I said, I swear. And that's when I started calling you. I figured I'd give you a fair price and then turn it over to him. Everybody makes out. But you'd been fired.”

“He leave any contact info?”

“Said to call him at the Palmer House. Room 317.”

Bruno jotted it down in his notebook and made for the door. Morty followed him like a small dog yapping at his heels. Bruno was starting to feel like he'd gotten the upper hand this time around.

“Hey, why don't you let me do the negotiation for that cork? We'll split it. I think I could get three grand out of him, easy.”

“I'm not going to sell it.”

“Bruno . . . that's cash money. Think about it.”

“What else do you know about him?”

“Well, he asked where he could ship a few cases overseas . . . discreetly.”

“That's probably the juice from the wine locker.”