Sacramento, California
The Ebner Hotel
The heights by great men reached and kept were not attained by sudden flight,
but they, while their companions slept, were toiling upward in the night.
“Well stated, Henry.” Ebner’s embossed wallpaper absorbed Scott’s voice - robbing his spoken words of a hollow echo.
Longfellow accurately describes my week in Sacramento, thus far. Toiling past midnight has become a commonplace occurrence for Seth and myself. Each day’s viticulturist meeting leads to a late-night discussion as we try to predict the next moves of West and Stanford - two greedy men who wish to have it all. Indeed, a challenge.
Challenge. Frustration was a better description. Scott pinched the bridge of his nose while closing his burning eyes. Past practice proved writing in the journal helped organize his thoughts, but fatigue had poked holes in his brain. How did Johnny describe dullness? A ten-dollar Stetson on a five-cent head. His little brother’s philosophical insights brought a smile and restored some of Scott's concentration.
Kinsey’s tarot cards aren’t needed to forecast the future of the less productive vineyards between Sacramento and Stockton. With the assistance of Leland Stanford and his railroad, George West will gradually bankrupt each one by overcharging for freight and processing while underpaying the growers for their harvest. As El Pinal expands and modernizes, West’s intended monopoly gains a stronger foothold.
With decision-making, Seth’s confidence that he speaks for his grandfather matches mine in regards to representing Kinsey. The young lady has no hesitation when taking risks. A part of her personality that has given me one or two gray hairs.
*******
“So Kinsey likes to play poker?”
With their roast beef sandwiches devoured and a second bottle of Westcott wine uncorked, Scott was ready to return to the task at hand - discussing what steps they would take at tomorrow's meeting. However, it appeared Seth’s focus needed a few more minutes. “Yes. And she knows how to stack a deck like a shady riverboat gambler. Neither Johnny nor I can catch her in the act.”
“She cheats?” Westcott's reaction was pure amusement.
“My little cousin embraces victory...” Dipping his chin, Scott raised a wine glass to toast his sidelong glance. “And handles defeat with a tea party tantrum - several more enlightening stories which I'm obliged to share at a later date.”
“Has a temper, insists on winning and cheats to do so.” Seth’s laughter filled the empty dining room. “By God, the little lady will make a fine businesswoman.” His eyes drifted to the papers scattered among their empty plates. “Especially with this bunch. George West is so crooked the man swallows nails and spits out corkscrews.”
Scott pointed to his business partner. “Word has it George West lies so well a man would be a fool not to believe him.”
Seth leaned in. “They say George West is so greedy he’d take the coins from a dead man’s eyes.”
“It’s reported George West is so ruthless he’d steal a fly from a blind spider.”
“I heard George West is so cold-hearted he’d make a freight train take a dirt road.”
A waggish grin spread across Scott’s face. “God told me George West is so bamboozling he’d bluff a buzzard off a gut wagon.”
Seth sat back. “Damn, Lancer. You’re good at this.”
“It’s a gift. I hate to brag.” Several years at boarding school had finally paid off. Scott took a sip of wine and tapped the document in front of him. “Ready to fight this rattler and deliver the first bite?”
*******
According to Seth, his grandfather would agree to any decision that sticks a hot poker up old George’s ass, even if the decision leaned towards a gamble.
By the time our waiter politely cleared his throat to signal the dining room had closed, the obvious move on the chessboard presented itself. We will discreetly speak to West’s easy targets and give them another option - one which should be more profitable for all involved.
*******
Damn. Where was chaos when a man truly needed it? Conducting unscrutinized side conversations with vineyard owners depended on the presence of distracting lack of order. Scott assumed the same disorganized agenda displayed the previous day in Stanford's study would be repeated. Instead, on the second day, orderly protocol ruled in a quiet room filled with proper gentlemen. Damn.
Scott wrote down the names of those he and Seth hoped to approach while a man introduced as Sacramento’s self-proclaimed botanist rose.
“For those of you who don’t know me, my name is Raleigh Greenleaf.”
Botanist? Greenleaf? A snort escaped out Scott’s nose. He swore Winnie sent down a wee bit of heavenly humor when it was needed most.
Speaking on the different types of grapes, their origins and which vines grew best in the Southern California climate, the orator was quite knowledgeable and rather interesting. Until his tongue betrayed him.
Vitis vinifera.
Followed by Vitis labrusca, Vitis riparia and Vitis aestivalis.
Latin.
Scott’s tolerance for the language of scholars had diminished considerably while sorting through Kinsey’s legal affairs. Attention returned to the written names of vineyard owners. Greenleaf and his grapes droned on.
Even though proper decorum stifled opportunities of casual conversations, two important facts existed in the business partners’ favor:
Number one - Viticulturists loved cigars.
Number two - Mrs. Stanford hated cigars.
Smoking was not permitted in the mansion. Leland proclaimed cigar smoke damaged his fine tapestries and priceless paintings, thus the lighting of the devil’s weed took place outside. However, the real reason behind the ban on smoking quietly traveled through the association’s grapevine - Jane Stanford had the final say on everything. Period.
To compensate for the denial of a smoke-filled boardroom, several recesses were scheduled throughout the day’s meeting. Scott scribbled a few words at the top of the list of small vineyard owners and passed it to Seth.
We’re going to need more cigars.
********
Our side conversations with individual owners took place strolling through flower gardens, standing under porticos, leaning against tree trunks - wherever a private setting could be found amongst the swirls of cigar smoke. At the end of the fourth day and a box of Cubans, a common concern surfaced again and again - the scale of power was tipping in West’s favor. However, when suggesting Westcott Winery as an alternative choice for their harvest, hesitation reflected in the owners’ eyes. Doubt laced their tone of voice.
A nagging yawn insisted on stretching the tense muscles in Scott’s jaw.
Seth, Kinsey and I need to present further evidence proving we can lock horns and compete with El Pinal.
~S.
At this late hour, he should be grabbing a few hours of sleep before traveling to the train station. Scott’s bleary eyes settled on the stack of telegrams containing Kinsey’s humorous responses to Murdoch's consequence. This evening, while opening the latest cable, he’d expected another fact on growing clover. Snagging the correspondence on top, Scott read it again.
TIRED OF SLEEPING IN BARN
PUTTING FILLY ON MORNING TRAIN TO SACRAMENTO
GIVE MY REGARDS TO THE GRAPE CRUSHER
J
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