Switcheroo by Herbert P. Holeman

Author:Herbert P. Holeman
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Contemporary, Suspense
Publisher: The Wild Rose Press
Published: 2013-02-15T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eleven

Nick started the roadster and turned to Erin. “Remember the sheet you gave me from your father’s calendar pad?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Well, the number your father scribbled on that sheet matched what I found in the accounting office files.”

“I knew it! Dad was mixed up with that place. What did you find?”

“Didn’t have time to really look at it, just made a copy and beat it out of there—you hungry?”

“I’m famished. If the guard came out on the landing, I was afraid she would have heard my stomach growling.”

“I’m hungry, too. Let’s go to the Capri first.” He patted his pocket. “Then we’ll see what we’ve got here.” He drove out of the garage into the Stockton Street Tunnel, continued past the outer fringe of Chinatown, and into the Italian enclave of North Beach. Coffeehouses, bakery shops, restaurants, and delicatessens lined the streets, and as usual, parked cars lined the curb. But he was in luck. A station wagon pulled away from the curb almost directly in front of the café, and he maneuvered into the vacated space. Exiting the car, Nick went around, opened Erin’s door and led her toward the café’s storefront entrance. He pushed open a pocket-size door to the strains of a mandolin and the heady aroma of Italian herbs and spices.

Nick’s tension from the escapade at TIP eased as Sal approached, wearing his familiar grin. After a few cordial words of welcome, Sal beckoned them to follow him. Trailing their waiter, Nick smiled at Erin’s hungry glances at the small, crowded tables adorned with dark bottles of wine and baskets of crusty sourdough bread. When they reached the back room, Sal seated them at Nick’s favorite table. Nick ordered the Machiavelli Chianti Classico without referring to the wine menu.

When Sal withdrew, Erin looked questioningly at Nick. He patted his pocket again and said, “A glass of wine, then business.”

While they waited for the wine, Nick watched Erin scan the array of mementos packed into the room. Posters and pictures—mostly depictions of Sicilian fishing villages—lined the walls. Wine jugs, chipped china, pottery, and other memorabilia crammed the rustic shelves that bordered the room. A young server placed a basket of fresh, crusty sourdough bread and a small dipping dish of olive oil on their table. Then he presented them with menus printed on a laminated placard. Sal appeared, holding a wine bottle so that the label bearing the word Riserva in red lettering was visible. After the tasting ritual, Sal filled their glasses and departed.

Erin looked at the label. “Does it really mean anything or is it just marketing hype?”

“Indeed it does. American wines have no legal requirement, but in Italy where this Chianti is bottled, there’s a strict law.”

“Really?”

“Yes. To place Riserva on the label, the winery has to make its wine using only grapes known as the Super Tuscans. The wine must spend a specific time aging in wood, too.” He raised his glass. “Saluda.”

“Mm… Your health,” Erin said, taking a sip. “So are you going

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