“Well, I’m dumbfounded, old son. I suppose that Flackyard could have applied pressure on someone. But if that’s the case, I can see that a few phone calls need to be made. We can’t have our clients getting one over on us, can we now?” His voice trailed off, lost inside his own scheming thoughts for a few moments.
“LJ, I’m not happy about handing over anything to this character until the firm has taken possession of the currency that he promised as part of the package. By the way, I’ve already seen a sample, and the quality is quite outstanding.”
“I agree with you for once. Sit tight down there for a little while longer, will you, just while I make a few arrangements at this end, and don’t let those packages out of your sight.” With that he hung up.
Except for Charlie, none of the others knew about my chat with LJ. We sat around doing nothing until Harry Caplin called to invite us to his place for coffee. We went.
“Jazz and Swing music,” Harry was saying, “some of the greatest tunes of all time come from performers like Nat King Cole, Frank Sinatra and Sammy Davis Jr.” An espresso coffee maker was bubbling away on the dark slate hearth and Fiona, in her bronze-coloured linen trousers, was sitting cross-legged like some special sort of Buddha. Around her were scattered the brightly coloured CD cases of all of those great entertainers and many more as well.
On the walls hung a series of contemporary paintings by local Dorset artist, Samantha Bush, along with photos of a young Harry standing with a rifle underarm, foot resting on a rock, surrounded by other men. What looked like carcasses lay before them, so obviously a good day’s hunting had taken place. The words at the bottom read, Toronto, Canada October 1963.
Charlie was listening to Harry doing a quick run down on New York (Charlie had lived there for three years). I was looking at Harry’s books, multi function exercise machine, and the pristine 7mm Mauser sporting rifle and its beautiful Carl Zeiss x8 telescopic sight. I looked at his collection of rocks and minerals in their fine wooden case and listened to the mellow music playing. Harry commented on each as he selected it. “This is a song about a man so infatuated with a girl that he feels compelled to tell her about his love and admiration for her. Of course, he does this because he’s off to war and may never see her again.” Harry said it in an impassioned and melancholy voice.
Fiona clapped her hands and on her face was the sort of smile when a woman is thinking about how the smile should look.
Harry took a bow and laughed loudly. He poured more coffee for everyone and I took mine back over to the shelves. In them he had almost every DH Lawrence novel in print, including a special edition of Lady Chatterley’s Lover. There were various art books, many of them about modern artists dating from 1945 up to the present day. Tucked away on the higher shelves there were many geographical reference books concentrating mainly on southern Europe.
We made small talk over coffee and then Charlie said, “What made you come to live in Europe, Harry?”
“Well,” said Harry, “I was eating tablets to sleep, pep pills to stay awake and vitamin supplements instead of proper meals. Here I drink the best Champagne all day, and what’s more, it’s cheaper!” Harry was lacing the coffee with French cognac. Charlie and I declined.
“Yes,” he said, and took a swig from the bottle before recorking it, “there I was you see, up to my neck in credit card and mortgage debt, and worrying about what sort of season the Yankees were likely to have. How to break out of it? I knew there were jobs for Americans abroad but I was already to old for the big corporations. So one day I’m standing in a bar near Grand Central. Watching all of those sad little commuters walk by outside and thinking about how I would like to step off this farcical treadmill that I called a life, and I say to myself; what are these sharp suited executive nuts looking for that I could supply them in exchange for money? Well, what do you imagine I conclude?”
He looked at all of us in turn, his captive audience, picked up the pot and poured more coffee, enjoying the pause before answering.
“Wine.” He continued. “Now that handed a laugh to every low life creep in my home town, because that kind of booze, ain’t something to put your arms into like a Hugo Boss suit.”
“But me and a guy named Marcus Cohen, who was an old buddy of mine from our college days, we struck it rich with a couple of deals supplying an outlet in Chicago with as much as we could lay our hands on, he then sold it on for a good profit. But after a short while we decided to cut out the guy in Chicago and sell direct to Mr Average Fella.”
I walked over to the open doors that overlooked the harbour. There were occasional smacks of warm raindrops on the balcony tile-work. On the water an elegant yacht, her crew busy preparing her rigging, glided by under the power of her inboard motor. The crew spotted us watching and gave a friendly wave, as sailors often do.
Harry was saying, “Balls to the big time wine guys, I said, I’m for the little guy every time. So we set up “wine direct inc.com.”
“Harry, you really are priceless,” said Fiona. “Whatever were you selling?”
“Well, we published a one page web site called ‘Wine in your cellar’, see?”
“We sent promotional flyers out to restaurants, office blocks, bars and joints as well as running a few small ads here and there. We do all right — our overheads are small and what we sell is paid for in advance by credit card.”
“But one day my buddy Marcus Cohen says to me, ‘balls to these average guys, Harry, they’re just a set of low spenders. What we need is a class angle’.” He comes up with one there and then; ‘Connoisseur Wine.com,’ he says.”
Harry Caplin walked across to the bookshelf and removed a leather folder.
“Did it work out?” Charlie asked, who was lounging back on the bright red sofa holding an empty coffee cup on his knee.
Harry flipped open a copy of Time Magazine to a full-page advertisement.
The caption read Connoisseur Wine.com is proud to present a selection of fine wines from some of Europe’s most exclusive vineyards. Buy one case and receive another free of charge as an introductory offer, all beautifully and individually presented in hand-made wooden crates and chosen by a panel of famous growers, accompanied by a detailed history of each wine by Mr Harry Caplin.
Fiona started to clap her hands; Charlie and I didn’t join in. Harry didn’t seem to take offence.
“But,” said Charlie, “how come as you live here in England?”
“Simple. I look through these books…” Harry grabbed two large reference books on wine from the shelf, “…and choose one for the ad in Time Magazine.”
When these books were removed they revealed a smaller one that had fallen down the back of the row of books.
“But…” said Charlie, “…it says…” Charlie’s face bloomed red in embarrassment.
I quickly plucked out the book.
“…it says there’s a panel of famous wine growers!” Harry agreed with a smirk.
The small book, on closer inspection turned out to be the type reporters keep for jotting quick notes down in. The entries made at the beginning were mostly to do with detailed timetables of passenger ferries around Southern Europe.
“They choose the wine…” Harry went on. “… but I, Harry Caplin, select it.” Harry laughed a great boom of a laugh and slapped his thigh with his enormous hand.