Page 91 of Red Mountain Burning
Château Smooth and the Smart Valve
Now that the name of the project was on the tip of everyone’s tongue, it was time to put some color down. Bellflour was sitting in the air conditioning of his Lexus a few hours after the press conference when the concrete mixers pulled up. Standing by a long line of orange tape that had cordoned off the area for paving, he waved the drivers down.
Everyone had doubted that he could pull off dyeing the driveway gold, but doubt was fuel to Bellflour. As it turned out, the idea wasn’t that difficult to execute. After a few phone calls, he’d found someone who was eager to take his money, promising him that a gold-oxide dye and white Portland cement would do the trick. Expensive, but not impossible.
A few cheaper material choices elsewhere would make up for it. He’d learned a long time ago that any framing could be done with two-by-fours, and he’d angrily throw a finger at any contractor who demanded two-by-sixes. He wasn’t trying to make a building that would stand a thousand years. One hundred or so would be fine.
“Wait till they get a load of this,” Bellflour said, chewing on his cigar, looking at the mixers spinning the gold concrete.
One of the drivers pulled up beside him. “Good afternoon,” he yelled over the sound of the big truck. “You’re sure about this, right? No turning back once we get started.”
Bellflour smiled. “It’ll be the most beautiful driveway you’ve ever seen.”
“Suit yourself.”
Bellflour glanced at the gravel making up the U-driveway. By tomorrow, it would be a glittery gold. No, it wasn’t going to be gaudy at all. Far beyond gaudy. That’s why it would work. Just like the name Château Smooth, it was so over the damn top.
Bellflour walked around back. They’d finally finished up with the polycarbonate tile pool liner. It wouldn’t be long before he’d be sitting his fat ass on a Pink Flamingo float with a Fro-gria in his hand and about twenty-five babes, or Flaminglets, sitting around him.
“Harry,” someone called from down toward the vines. It was Steve, who was in charge of his wines when Andy, the Napa consultant, wasn’t around. “Come take a look at this!”
“What you got?”
Harry pulled on his cigar and moved toward the vineyard. The vines were starting to pop out of the grow tubes. One or two more years, and they’d be the most famous vines in eastern Washington.
“What is it?”
Steve and another guy were both on their knees with a saw and shovel. “You know anything about putting in a smart valve? We found this antenna sticking out of the ground. I called Andy, and he didn’t know anything about it.”
Bellflour looked down at the valve a couple feet into the hole. “I don’t either. Why the hell would it be there?”
“Somebody could be messing with you. That’s the only thing we can figure. I ran this irrigation myself just a few weeks ago. I’ve got all my controls up near the pool.”
Steve didn’t need to say another word. Bellflour looked across the property and through the fence to Otis Till’s winery.
It just so happened that Otis was pulling out of his driveway in his truck.
Bellflour pointed. “I bet that son of a bitch is behind it.”
* * *
Otis knewhe’d have to see it sooner or later, that damn sign. He was pulling out of his driveway and riding toward Sunset Road when he saw Bellflour pointing at him from the Drink Flamingo vineyard.
“Oh, dear God,” he said, wishing he’d already built the wall. “Will I have to see his smug face every time I drive by?”
He extended his middle finger in a neighborly gesture and then reached for the radio knob, turning up the classical music on NPR.
As he drove past the McMansion, he saw two mixers pouring concrete along the U-driveway. Men were following the pours with hand trowels, smoothing it out. Otis wouldn’t have thought much of it as he’d been watching this construction site for months now, but the color of the concrete caught his eye as he drew closer.
“That’s not gold, is it?” Otis said to himself.
It sure as hell was.
Then he saw the sign everyone was talking about. Hanging a right on Sunset Road, he passed right by it, and the hideous pink-and-black sign wasn’t as Eli had described. It was infinitely worse. It was as if Bellflour had plucked it right off the Vegas strip. Flashing pink-and-yellow lights lit up in a wave around the border. In huge pink letters, it read:Welcome to Château Smooth.Above the words was their new logo, a pink flamingo smoking a cigar.
A fury filled Otis, and he suddenly had an urge to find a bat and smash the thing to pieces. He might have been having a bit of fun with the smart valve and the pinotage, but this sign was a direct attack on Red Mountain. Wondering if he had a big enough tool in his truck to tear the sign apart, he slid to a stop and switched off the radio.
Not in his wildest dreams could he have come up with something less appealing, something that would insult this mountain more. The idea of the theme park by the highway with the lazy river and the RVs and the putt-putt—that all seemed like nothing compared to this travesty.
