Peter Mayle: The Vintage Caper

He found that it was a distinct improvement on law school. The subject itself, of course, was much more agreeable. His cosmopolitan fellow students-French, English, Chinese, some Indian pioneers, and the inevitable Scot-were much more interesting. The field trips to Hermitage (home of the “manliest” wines on earth), Côte-Rôtie, Cornas, and Châteauneuf-du-Pape were delicious and instructive. He began to pick up some French, and he even briefly thought of buying a vineyard. The time passed quickly.

But he wasn’t ready to bury himself in the French countryside, and after years of traveling he was feeling the tug of America. How had it changed while he’d been away? How had he changed?

In one respect, not at all. His fascination for the ingenious, bloodless crime remained, and as the end of his course drew near his thoughts turned more and more frequently to the idea of going back to work-but with a difference. Memories of the Congolese jail were still vivid. This time, he thought, he would operate on the legitimate side of the fence, as an investigator and a consultant on criminal matters. Or, as he liked to think of it, a poacher turned gamekeeper.

For a man who liked the sunshine life, the choice of Los Angeles as a base was almost inevitable. L.A. had everything: delightful climate, money and extravagance, a high incidence of multimillionaires involved in dubious deals, the wretched excesses of the movie business, an abundance of pretty girls and celebrities-all the ingredients for mischief and amusement were there. And it took only a short reconnaissance before he found the ideal place to live.

The Chateau Marmont, tucked away off Sunset Boulevard in West Hollywood, was intended to be L.A. ’s first earthquake-proof apartment building. Alas, it opened in 1929, when the financial tremors from Wall Street and the Depression made selling apartments impossible. Rooms were an easier sale, and so the Chateau became a hotel with apartment-sized suites.

This, for Sam, was one of its great attractions, but there were many more: the absence of domestic responsibilities, the charm and efficiency of the staff, the discreet entrance, the convenient location, the relaxed atmosphere. Unlike most modern formula hotels, the Chateau had character, a distinct personality. And there were suites available for permanent guests, the lifers. After a trial stay, Sam became one of them. He moved into a suite on the sixth floor and started looking for clients, which wasn’t too difficult in L.A. Somebody rich was always in trouble.

The fact that money wasn’t a problem allowed him to choose only those cases that interested him: the more unusual swindles and scams, the more mysterious disappearances and hoaxes, the more daring high-end robberies. He had found his niche, and it wasn’t long before he had gained a reputation in certain circles as a man who got results and kept his mouth shut.

Elena’s call came through as he was recovering from a vigorous half hour in the hotel’s attic gym.

“Sam, it’s Elena.” She hesitated. “Sam, am I interrupting something? You’re out of breath.”

“It’s the sound of your voice, Elena. Always does it to me. How are you?”

“Busy. That’s why I’m calling. I need to talk to you. Can you do lunch tomorrow?”

“Sure. Do you want to come up to the apartment? Just like old times?”

“No, Sam. I’m not coming up to the apartment, and it’s not going to be just like old times. It’s work. Remember, work.”

“You’re a hard-hearted woman. I’ll make a reservation downstairs for 12:30. Hey, Elena?”

“What?”

“It will be good to see you again. It’s been a long time.”

They were both smiling as they put down their phones.

Sam had reserved his usual table, which was set apart and partially screened from general view by the exuberant plant growth that made the courtyard such a green and pleasant place. He watched as Elena was shown to the table, and saw heads turn as everybody else took a long look at her. Was she famous? Who was she meeting? You never knew at the Chateau. Celebrity sightings were part of the décor.

Sam kissed her on both cheeks and stepped back, inhaling deeply. “Mmm. Still wearing Chanel No. 19.”

Elena looked at him, her head tilted to one side. “Still haven’t had your nose fixed.”

As they ate (Caesar salad and Evian for Elena; salmon and Meursault for Sam), Elena went through everything she knew about the robbery. Over coffee, she gave Sam photocopies of the L.A. Times article and the detailed list of stolen wines that Roth had supplied. Watching Sam as he skimmed through them, she had to admit that the broken nose should probably stay broken. It saved him from being handsome.

Sam looked up from the list. “These are some serious wines. Interesting that they didn’t steal anything from California. Anyway, I take my hat off to whoever organized it. Well timed, well planned, nice and clean-my kind of job.”

Elena looked at him over the top of her sunglasses. “Sam?”

He laughed and shook his head. “Nothing to do with me, I promise. I never even saw the article. Besides, you know me. I work for the good guys now.”

“Does that mean you’ll take it on?”

“Anything for you, Elena. Oh, plus expenses, and five percent of the value of anything recovered.”

“Two and a half.”

“Three.”

• • •

After seeing Elena out, Sam went back to his table and sat over another espresso. It had been six months since he’d seen her; six months since the evening that had ended in a verbal slugging match. Now he couldn’t even remember what they’d been arguing about. His reluctance to commit? Her refusal to compromise? Anyway, it had ended badly. And it was made worse when he found out that she’d taken up with one of those pretty young actors, so numerous in Hollywood, who make a career of being not quite famous.

As it happened, Elena was thinking about that same young actor as she drove back to her office. Not one of her best decisions, she had to admit. A rebound that hadn’t bounced. Not quite soon enough, she had realized that her new friend was already conducting a passionate love affair with himself, and if ever the conversation showed signs of turning away from that all-consuming subject, his eyes would either glaze over or seek reassurance in the nearest mirror. How long had that lasted? Three weeks? A month? Too long.

Elena shrugged, trying to clear her head. She was saved from her thoughts by the sound of the first few bars of “ La Vie en rose.” It was the ringtone Sam had put on her cell phone after a trip they’d made to Paris, and she somehow hadn’t found the time to change it.

“So? Any progress?”

Elena recognized the modified snarl that Danny Roth used when talking to underlings. She braced herself before replying. “I think so, Mr. Roth. We’ve just retained a specialist investigator who will be working exclusively on your case.”

“OK. Tell him to call me.”

Sam’s call found Cecilia Volpé in unusually good spirits, the result of her doting father’s latest gift, a pearl-gray Porsche. Her normally brusque phone manner had softened to a purr, and she sounded almost apologetic when she told Sam that Mr. Roth was unavailable right now; he was taking a meeting. (In Hollywood, meetings are not held; like sleeping pills, they are taken, often with similar effects.) When Sam explained who he was and why he was calling, there was even a note of sympathy in Cecilia’s reply.

“He’s, like, devastated . I mean, three million dollars’ worth of wine, plus he was betrayed by that little Mexican creep. Total, total bummer.” She might have gone on in a similar vein if Roth himself hadn’t emerged from his office with one of his younger clients, an actress who divided her time between filming and rehab. Cecilia put Sam on hold until Roth returned from escorting his youthful charge to the elevator.