Chapter 25
OLIVER MARQUEZ STEPPED out of the barn as Stilwell pulled to a stop in front.
Marquez wiped his hands on a blue rag as he walked to the ATV, expecting a quick transfer of the crime report.
He likely didn’t want to get the document dirty with grease or grape juice or whatever he had been working with. He nodded a perfunctory hello.
“Thanks for bringing it up,” he said.
“Actually, I didn’t bring anything, Mr. Marquez,” Stilwell said.
“What do you mean? I told you I needed the report for insurance. There’s gotta be a million dollars in damages in the vineyard.”
He pointed in the direction of the damaged vines. It was late in the day, and the sun was at a low angle over the neat rows.
Stilwell nodded.
“No crime, no crime report, sir,” he said. “At least, no crime yet.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?” Marquez said. “You saw my vines. You know what happened here.”
“I know what happened to the vines, yes. But the only crime will be if you file an insurance claim. That’s when I’ll have to write up a crime report.”
“You better tell me what the fuck you’re talking about, Stilwell, or you’re going to be explaining it to the sheriff himself, who happens to be a personal friend.”
“Yeah, I checked that out. You not only gave him money, you were the Catalina coordinator for his last election campaign.”
“Then you know I’m not someone you want to fuck with.”
Stilwell climbed out of the ATV so he was eye level with Marquez.
“That’s why I’m giving you a major break here,” he said.
“You’re talking in riddles, son,” Marquez said. “And I don’t have the patience for it. Where’s my fucking crime report?”
“I told you, there is no crime report. But what I do have, though I haven’t filed it yet, is a statement from your grandson Oliver the Third. He didn’t even try to bluff. He folded like a bad poker hand, even told me where he hid the machete.”
Marquez automatically took a step back.
“Look, I don’t know exactly what kind of financial stress you’re under,” Stilwell continued.
“I heard from your grape grower that you’ve had labor issues and other setbacks while you wait for the new vineyard to produce, but since you own the land and the vines, you can do whatever you want with them.
Chop ’em down, burn them, that’s your business.
And if you paid your grandson two hundred dollars to do it, that’s fine, even if he did get a leg full of cactus spines for his trouble. ”
Marquez’s deeply tanned face was turning pale.
“So what I’m telling you is, there’s no crime here yet,” Stilwell said. “But if you make an insurance claim, that’s another matter. That would be insurance fraud. You do that and I’ll be back. I don’t think you’ll want that.”
Marquez shook his head as he realized his million-dollar scheme was not going to pay off and he would be left with three rows of dead vines.
“The kid fed you a load of shit,” he said. “I had nothing to do with it.”
Stilwell paused for a moment, surprised but not too much by the response. In his experience, men of wealth and power had few limits on what they were willing to do and say, few lines they wouldn’t cross.
“You sure you want to throw him under the bus like that?” Stilwell finally said. “I just came from watching a video of you with him in the waiting room at an urgent care. I’ve got a copy of it on my phone if you want to see it.”
Stilwell had indeed dropped by the urgent care center to confirm Oliver the Third’s confession and had even seen the video.
“Okay, what do you want?” Marquez said.
The wealthy man’s response to everything.
“Nothing,” Stilwell said. “Except maybe that you leave your grandson alone so he doesn’t grow up to be like you. When he graduates and says he wants to get off the island, let him go. Maybe he’ll have a decent chance away from you.”
“I want you off my property,” Marquez said. “Leave. Now.”
“Sure,” Stilwell said.
He turned to his ATV but then looked back at Marquez.
“Must be tough,” he said. “To grow up with money and power and then see it all die on the vine.”
“Fuck you,” Marquez barked. “Big man with the badge. You think you’re Gary fucking Cooper or some shit, but the reality is you’re nothing. Just get the hell out of here.”
He turned and headed toward the open door of the barn.
Stilwell got in his ATV and drove off. On his way down the canyon to the sub, he thought about Marquez’s last words to him. He pulled out his phone, checked for service, and called Tash. He needed to hear a pure and honest voice.
“Hey, babe,” she said.
“Hey,” he said. “How are things?”
“All good. Slow. Are you working late tonight?”
“No, I’m going to drop by the sub, make a call, then go home.”
“Great.”
“By the way, you know Gwen over at the Nickel?”
“Sure.”
“You know her last name, by any chance?”
“Yeah, Bassett, like the dog but with two t’s. Why?”
“She came up in a conversation today. One of the rangers up on the conservancy lives with her.”
“Yeah, I heard that.”
“Of course—you hear everything. Anyway, I was thinking of watching an old movie tonight. If I can find it.”
“Sure. What movie?”
“High Noon.”
“Is that the doc about cannabis growers?”
Stilwell laughed.
“No, it’s an old one. Gary Cooper. From the fifties. A classic.”
“Never heard of it.”
“Yeah, that’s why we should watch it. I think it’s on the Criterion Channel.”
“Black-and-white, I bet.”
“What’s wrong with black-and-white?”
“All I’m saying is that I get to pick the next one. Something made in this century.”
“That’s a deal. I mean, as long as it’s about cops and robbers.”
“Okay, I’m hanging up now.”
“See you soon.”
He disconnected. Thanks to Tash, he no longer cared about Marquez and what he had said about Stilwell being nothing.
“Fuck him,” he said.