Free The Perk by Mark Gimenez

a
basement dug out of the limestone bedrock. Hundreds of wood barrels stacked on
metal stands filled the cool cavern.
    "We keep it at sixty degrees down
here," J.B. said. "While the wine ages."
    "How do you know when the wine is
ready?"
    "When Hector says it is. Winemaking's part
science, part art. There ain't no gauge or computer program tells you when wine
is ready. Takes a vintner with the taste. That's the art of it."
    J.B. led them back upstairs into another room
with a stainless steel contraption stationed in the middle.
    "Bottling room. Each barrel holds fifty-nine
gallons. Standard-size wine bottle holds seven hundred fifty milliliters.
That comes to twenty-four cases per barrel. Each case is twelve bottles, so
that's two hundred eighty-eight bottles of wine per barrel. We'll bottle
twenty thousand this year."
    "Bottles?"
    "Cases."
    " Cases? That's …"
    "Two hundred forty thousand bottles."
    "That's a lot of wine, J.B."
    "Nah. Big wineries here, they do twice
that. And that's nothing compared to the California outfits."
    "J.B., you've got quite an operation
here."
    "Me and Hector, we've come a long way in
ten years."
    They followed J.B. up another set of stairs to
the second story of the building. Hanging on the walls were antique implements.
J.B. stopped and removed a hammer from a hook.
    "Bung hammer. Five pound cast-iron head.
They used to stuff a leather roll into the end so it wouldn't break the wood
bung. We use silicon bungs now."
    J.B. replaced the hammer and led them into an office
with a wall of windows overlooking the vineyards and the river beyond.
    "This is my office."
    Beck looked out the windows at the uniform rows
of thick green vines. Meggie and Josefina were playing in the shade of the vines.
The white lab lay nearby.
    "Now Butch's got two little gals to watch
over," J.B. said. "Makes him feel useful." He gestured out at
the vineyard. "Fifty acres of vines, ten different varietals … types
of grapes. We harvest a little later here, so the sugar content of the grapes
is higher. Texans like their women and wine sweet. First harvest will be in a
few weeks, last harvest first week of September. We throw a big party. Lots
of folks come out, we pick till sunset, then we eat Mexican food and Hector plays
the guitar and everyone dances. The kids'll have fun."
    Southwestern style
paintings signed by "Janelle Jones" hung on the walls, a leather
couch sat along one wall, and a leather chair was behind a big wood desk. On
the desk were a stack of invoices, several unopened bottles of wine, a ledger
book, a framed photograph of the Hardin family of Chicago, and a computer. Beck
stared at the computer: Were Annie's emails still on that computer?
    Beck looked up and saw J.B. looking at
him.
    Beck turned the Navigator north and drove into town. Luke
was sitting in the passenger's seat and staring out the window; he hadn't said a
word the entire morning. Beck stopped for a red light at Gallopin' Goat Drive,
the intersection fronting the high school. He instinctively glanced over at
the adjacent football stadium. It was only the fifth of July, but the team was
already practicing for the upcoming season.
    "You want to watch the boys practice?"
    Beck took Luke's shrug for a yes and pulled into
the parking lot of the Gillespie County Consolidated School District stadium. They
got out and walked through the main gate and past a sign that read DRUG FREE, GUN FREE, TOBACCO FREE, ALCOHOL FREE SCHOOL ZONE. VIOLATORS WILL FACE SEVERE FEDERAL,
STATE, AND LOCAL CRIMINAL PENALTIES.
    That was different.
    They continued on past the concession stand and stepped
onto the eight-lane running track that circled the field. Drought had turned
the Hill Country brown, but the football field was as green as money and
carried the same hopes. Twenty-five summers before, Beck Hardin had practiced,
played, and dreamed on that field. It seemed like someone else's life.
    Big white boys in black shorts and no shirts were
throwing, catching,