Vail

VAIL

by

James B. Riverton

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without the written permission of the publisher. Requests for such permissions should be addressed to luckylambbooks@gmail.com

© 2018 by James B. Riverton

Published by Lucky Lamb Publications and Donald H. Dildy

This book is a work of fiction.

Names, characters, places, and incidents

are products of the author's imagination,

or are used fictitiously.

Cover art designed by Clarity Book Cover Designs

Vail

Chapter 1

He moved like liquid behind the bar, his hands flying, mixing drinks for the après’ ski crowd squeezed in two deep bellying up to the bar reliving the day’s skiing to anyone who would listen. It had been a beautiful sunny day on the slopes of Vail, covered in the early morning with four inches of fresh snow from a gentle night’s snow fall. The weather was perfect, not to cold and not too hot, unusual for late February. The weekend crowd from Denver had rushed up to take advantage of the perfect weekend conditions. Steiner’s Austrian Lodge was full, every room taken. Ryan Carter, head bartender, was pushing, the other bartender had quit over an argument with the German Maître d’. Ryan had worked the day alone; lunch, happy hour and then still had the dinner shift, plus closing up the bar. It was a real bitch, 10 AM to 2 AM the next morning. He had five cocktail waitresses and five waiters taking drink orders plus all the customers standing or sitting at the bar. Without a bar back to assist him, he was doing the work of two bartenders and didn’t even have time for a bathroom break. At least he had had a good breakfast. He still had the Saturday night dinner crowd coming in, and the entertainers started their first set around eight. Then the bar really started hopping, especially when it began to snow again, as another magical moment for the quests. Powder snow that made the early morning ski runs like a floating heaven.

Thank God he was in shape. He jogged three and a half miles downhill and the same back up hill to his condo. He would work until closing, 2 AM, count the register, shut down and shag it home. He would have to be back before ten in the morning to start the prep work for the next day. If he was prudent, six hours of sleep, unless he got lucky and scored, and that was never a given. The cocktail and wait staff at Freddy’s Bar in the lodge were all professionals, and you didn’t mingle. After slinging drinks and listening to all the conversations, complaints, and drunks you didn’t need to rehash it with a fellow employee. You had seen enough of each other. The only problem with working and living in a ski resort was not being able to ski if you had a job that required long hours. You almost had to take a vacation. Getting up to the slopes took time and if you missed the afternoon happy hour and dinner crowd, your income would suffer, or in the worst case someone would fill in and take your shift. It was a dog eat dog world. The owners didn’t care who worked providing the money flowed, even if you were left alone to handle three shifts by yourself.

It was amazing how you could work at this pace and still do your laundry list in your head. The work had become automatic. Ryan had a hundred jokes he could lay on the ten seats at the bar to hustle tips and raked in an additional ten percent from the cocktail waitresses. On a good night that came to around a hundred bucks under the table, and twenty-five for the shift, whether it was eight hours or like today, sixteen. Hell, it was what it was. It was still better than crawling through the muck in Vietnam after finally finishing college, and bartending to pay for expenses. He had almost gone back in to fly jets for the Navy, but a coin flip landed him in Vail, after his two roommates egged him on to learn how to ski. They promised rich life of skiing, whiskey and dames. It was funny how the snow-covered mountain seemed so distant, and the dames seemed even further away. He was lucky to get up on the slopes a couple times a month, and when he did, all he wanted to do was quit his job and just ski. It was always the same problem, lack of money to live the carefree life of a ski bum. Three years of living in Vail, and he had only saved few thousand, even living like a miser. He had spent all his Navy savings, traveling and trying to forget about Vietnam, searching for a direction in his life, or that special someone. He always thought someone would recognize how hard he worked and offer him an opportunity but being part of the wallpaper meant you just didn’t stand out. It was frustrating to be around all this money and successful people, and not be noticed. He laughed at himself for being stupid.

What are you laughing about, Ryan? Denise, one of the best-looking gals in Vail, was waiting on him to fill her order.

Nothing, nothing at all. Here is another Whiskey Sour that your customer dumped on the floor, tell her it’s on the house. He looked down at the six drinks he had just made, noticing his bar customers were close to reordering, the ash trays filling up and two of them wanting to pay up.

Screw her, she’s a real bitch. All she does is complain… and acts like the queen bee. All I want to do is yank her hair out and… snatch her bald headed!

I think she is giving you a hard time, because her husband is hitting on you.

Well, you just watch me, I’m going to entice that son of bitch. Watch me slide my hip across his back when I take the next table’s order. Tell me what you notice.

Denise moved off to play her little game as Sherry moved up, Three drafts, Gibson, Whiskey sour, two white wines, and four hot spice wines.

Ryan watched Denise as he filled the order… and who wouldn’t watch Denise walk anywhere, especially when she was working over her customers. A real killer, blue eyes, short blond hair and a body made by Picasso with legs up to her twenty-one-carat ass. The only other woman that topped her was one of the owners, an Austrian. And no one could get on of top her, unless they owned Monty Carlo. Her husband had won two skiing gold medals in the Winter Olympics for Austria, and she had danced with the Lido from Paris, when they came over to Las Vegas. She had dated every major and minor movie star and politician that was rich and famous. She had married her famous countrymen and put a deal together for Steiner’s, in Vail, a Lodge, ski shop, bar and restaurant. In German they called it Gasthof Steiner. It was a partnership between the Mafia, Wall Street and Victoria von Steiner, using the reputation of two gold medals hanging in the lobby of the Steiner Lodge. Ryan had seen a lot of women in his short life, but he had never seen anything like Victoria von Steiner. English mother and Austrian father. The closest thing he could come up with, was Cleopatra. Long jet-black shining hair, dark skin and emerald green catlike eyes. Her complexion was so pure she only used lip gloss. Everything else was perfect. Elegantly built as a world class dancer she had grown up on skis living in Austria. Her 36-23-35" figure honored anything she wore, and she liked low cut tops that shamed other woman. When Victoria came into a room, the room became her stage, as she flowed around it, leaning over the affluent men. Breasts perched forward, while looking into his wife’s eyes, her hand gently caressing his shoulder, while he looked down two Double Diamond Slopes… inquiring about their day’s skiing. Every man in the room wanted to leap on her and drag her off to Tahiti. Ryan had a special relationship with Victoria von Steiner, she was the boss and he was the wise ass from Texas who helped her keep the affluent happy, and the till straight. He handled most of the special catering and private parties for the rich and famous. There seemed to be chemistry between them, some kind of small electrical attraction that made their relationship fun, like entertainers performing a routine. Sometimes, late at night, after closing, Victoria would come into the bar when he was counting the cash and closing down. Just the two of them. Victoria, tired after a social event or party, would tell him about her life, and all the things she had been through. It was a special quiet time, and a friendship had developed, one where the world was outside, and inside here she could let her hair down. He never wanted to take advantage of that vulnerability. She was, for all her position, a lonely person, trapped in a world that demanded her constant attention. Ryan knew she had been deeply in love with a Formula One race car driver, the world champion. He had been killed racing two years ago. He had come into the bar once and Ryan served him. You wait on people at a bar long enough and you can read them most of the time by the nature of how they order a drink, their body language and expressions. You are like looking into a mirror. Some customers need the bartender to reflect on themselves, listen, and at other times just disappear. This man was special, self-assured, a legitimate super star, and also deeply in love with Victoria. The two of them really did belonged together, and everyone knew it. Ryan saw the look in both of their eyes, when she came into the bar… surprised he was there, glad. The three of them, Ryan the mirror, and the Gods. Occasionally the world does stop, or maybe it was time that stood still. It was however, a special moment to witness, for a bartender.

Ryan had watched them both as they sat at a corner table, trying not to touch each other, nursing their drinks, in awkward silence. Bartenders have excellent hearing, and as a former Navy SEAL, exceptional senses. He had heard the proposal of marriage, her gasp, and then hesitation. The offer to walk away, move to Greece and have a family. Victoria never got over his untimely death, and no one knew what her answer was, or would’ve been. They say the accident was strange, and no one would ever talk about it. After his death she began coming into the bar late at night, as if they had shared that special moment together, still clinging to the memory, and regret. Good bartenders are apt listeners, and Ryan cared about her, knowing how deeply she had been hurt by the loss. Ever since, they had become unofficial good friends. That friendship only extended to their special time after closing, and Ryan had never crossed that boundary. Victoria found out about some of his special operations background during their time together and listened to some of his story. She seemed to enjoy his travails, to his amazement, laughing at some of his stories. They both were from the blue-collar worlds, and when you stripped it all down, they were just two people on life’s journey, full of ups and downs. The sad part for her was having to walk away from your personal happiness. The princess was trapped in a make-believe world she had created for herself. In many ways she told Ryan she was envious of him, carefree, independent, and not tied down by commitments to others. Ryan just wanted to hold her and tell her how much he cared for her, take her away and save her from a demanding world that seemed to be draining away her spirit.

Ryan, hello, Ryan the bartender! Are you open for business, anytime soon?

Jesus, I need to go to the head.

Not until you fill my order, and it looks like it going to be another killer tonight. Man, I am glad I am off after seven! My feet are killing me.

Well, you’re lucky, I’m pulling another triple.

And then you jog home! What are you, like… nuts? It’s snowing out there again.

So, much the better, come on, what’s the order, and the guy’s wife kicked him under the table after you rubbed your sorry ass on him. Might hurt our tip.

Might be, but he slipped me a hundred to meet him later.

Are you?

Hell, no, are you kidding me. No, way. I got a date later. Pour him a double on me, and let’s get the both of them so drunk they might wind up fucking each other for a change. I’ll tell him to meet me on the slopes in the morning, and then rub him off in the powder somewhere in the back bowl.

Like I said, working with pros.

It was silent, all Ryan could hear was his running shoes on the soft snow. The snow had stopped around one in the morning, an hour in half before he locked up. He was half way through his run, and the Moon was full, clear as a crystal, reflecting off the glistening fresh snow. The clouds had vanished, and the temperature had dropped to twenty-five degrees. He loved this run at night, two small steams to traverse, constantly up hill, working the muscles that had been walking on concrete with rubber mats. Stretching out, regulating your breathing, a small back pack for your work clothes and anything else, like a bottle of fine wine, cheese or a saved dinner. It was heaven and you could feel it as your running shoes briefly touched the snow, lightly. Icicles forming on your mustache, sweat running down your chest from the heat captured in your parka.

Sometimes he would see a rabbit or small critter moving around in the night. Even when the stars and Moon weren’t out, Vail, and I-70 would back light the mountain you were jogging up, reflecting off the snow-covered peaks that towered above you.

He lived in a two bedroom and single studio loft condo. The loft was used for an office and bedroom for Art Winslow, former SEAL, teammate and commander of SEAL TEAM Two. Art had become a C.P.A. and worked as a bookkeeper for the merchants in town. He was an avid mountain climber, cross country skier and world class distance runner. A great friend, and a devout follower of Jesus Christ.

Ryan came up the three flights of exterior stairs, entered the covered entry, shook out his outer garments and pushed the rear entry door open into the small mud room. He opened the side door to his studio bedroom, kitchenette, and bath, throwing his back pack onto this bed. He went back through the mud room into the kitchen. The tea pot went off, and Art dropped fifteen feet after hanging onto the loft’s ledge doing finger pull ups. He landed like a cat on all four paws. His thinning hair and bushy mustache peering over the counter top as he popped up.

Morning, governor! Another late night or early morning? Art moved into the kitchen, pouring the hot water into a tea pot. Want a cup?

No, just some water, and off to the rack for me. You’re up late again, I see.

Yes, tax season is almost upon us. Do you have your receipts, and W-2’s?

Heck no, I haven’t even looked in my shoe box yet.

Shame, shame on you! He poured his tea into his mug. You are getting worse than Ralph.

Ralph Kruger, their other roommate and former SEAL TEAM Two team member, now working as a construction super for a commercial company out of Denver, building hotels and retail in Vail. Ralph worked anything that was outside, never an inside job. He was a bow hunter, cross country skier and hiker. He loved fly fishing and would spends days out in the mountains in the spring, just fishing. Work was a necessary evil that provided for him living in the wild. Ryan could hear him snoring through the door to his bedroom, a two hundred twenty-pound six foot three physical specimen, and former college linebacker.

The good thing about living with these two combat brothers was Art was vegetarian and Ralph was a meat and potato man. When the two of them cooked, it was for four normal people, half veggies and with steak and potatoes. Ryan handled cooking breakfast, when he was off. Lately there hadn’t been an off.

How’s life in the fast lane?

Busy as bees I am afraid. I just wish they would hire another bartender. Hans is still on vacation, and it takes three to make it all work. Two can handled it for a short time, but one is certainly not enough to go around.

That sucks, well, you’ll have to just stick in there, partner, and fade the heat. Say, your boy is coming into town. His first trip after becoming President. Think he will remember you.

Sure, old habits die hard. I’m his wife’s favor bartender.

An important job my main man, bartender to the stars and the President of the United States. I am so honored to be your roommate. Art bowed, flourishing with his hands, and stayed low stretching his body, crossing his bare feet, holding onto his heels, then placing his palms flat against the floor.

You’re full of bull tonight, Art. What’s going on in the real world? Since we don’t have a television or a phone, I am out of it.

We are… somewhat isolated up here, but there are new international threats, different than our former days on the teams, intellectual in nature. Actually, they are just screens for the same old reasons, corruption and control of the masses.

What threats, the war is long over, the Russian’s can’t support their military, and the Chinese are land locked. The Cubans aren’t doing well in Africa. Europe and the Middle East will never change.

The Germans, a radical faction, Red Army Brigade. Bad guys, ex-military financed by the East Germans and Russians. Seems they are going into business for themselves, or that is what I hear. Art stood up using the counter top to do push-ups on his fingertips.

Who is financing them now?

Middle Eastern money, don’t know who, but it takes, as you know, serious cash to fund international operations like this new threat. You mix politics and religion together you get dynamite in Cracker Jack’s Box.

Well, I am just a bartender and you are just a C.P.A., no… correction, a bookkeeper. So, let the world figure it out, I mean who in the heck is going to attack Vail, Colorado, in the middle of the winter. I am going to bed, and your tea has gotten cold. Good night, my mountain goat roomie.

Hell, he couldn’t sleep, tossing and turning with stupid dreams interrupting him between the tossing and turning. He finally gave up and wandered back into the kitchen and made coffee. The smell woke up Ralph, who staggered out of his private den, yawning, stretching and scratching his privates. He yawned at looked at Ryan.

Hey buddy, what are you doing up so early, can’t sleep again?

Right... stupid dreams.

Or, nightmares?

You know it. Do you think they will ever go away?

Mine did after I subscribed to Playboy. I look at the centerfold before I go to sleep and try to envision her sleeping with me.

Does it work?

Hell no, and when it does, it looks like something out a circus chasing me around. I don’t wake up like you do, I just wake up in sweat, sometimes exhausted from running from my dreams, always looking over my shoulder at some freak chasing me.

"Here, have a cup. Isn’t it interesting that they spent so much time training us, and then you’re discharged in one afternoon, back into being a civilized civilian? It’s a wonder we haven’t gone crazy and