The Vintage Caper

wine collector weep.
    Shaking his head at the memory, Roth paused on his way to the garage to admire the view: west to Beverly Hills, east to Thai Town and Little Armenia, south across the endless shimmering sprawl to the toy-sized planes that came and went from LAX. Perhaps not the prettiest of views, particularly when the smog was up; but it was a high view, a long view, an expensive view, and, best of all, his view. Mine, all mine, he sometimes thought to himself, especially at night when the lights below made a shining carpet that stretched for miles.
    He squirmed his way into the snug confines of his Mercedes and inhaled the perfume of well-nourished leather and polished walnut. This particular model was one of the great classic cars, so old that it predated the invention of the beverage container, and Rafael, the Mexican caretaker, looked after it as though it were a museum piece. Roth eased it out of the garage and headed for his office on Wilshire Boulevard, his mind going back to his wine cellar and that dumb couple from Malibu, whom he’d never liked anyway.
    From thinking about them, it was only a short mental hop to a more philosophical consideration of the joys of possession. And here, Roth had to admit that the appreciation—even the envy—of others was crucial to his own enjoyment. Where, he asked himself, is the satisfaction of having desirable possessions that others hardly ever see? Why, it would be like keeping his youthful, blond wife locked away from public view, or sentencing the Mercedes to a lifetime of confinement in the garage. And yet, here he was, keeping millions of dollars’ worth of the world’s finest wines in a cellar that was unlikely to see more than half a dozen visitors a year.
    By the time he reached the tinted-glass box that contained his office, Roth had come to two conclusions: first, that inconspicuous consumption was for wimps; and second, that his wine collection deserved a wider audience.
    He stepped out of the elevator and walked toward his corner office, bracing himself for the daily mano a mano with his executive secretary, Cecilia Volpé. Strictly speaking, she was not quite up to the job. Her spelling was lamentable, her memory frequently patchy, and her attitude toward many of Roth’s clients one of patrician disdain. But there were consolations: she had the most spectacular legs, long and permanently tanned, made even longer by a seemingly inexhaustible supply of four-inch heels. And she was the only daughter of Myron Volpé, the current head of the Volpé dynasty that had pounced upon the movie business two generations ago and that still maintained considerable influence behind the scenes. As Cecilia had been heard to say, the Volpés were the closest it got in Hollywood to a royal family.
    And so Roth tolerated her for her connections, despite her lengthy personal calls, her frequent makeup breaks, and that atrocious spelling. As for Cecilia, for whom work was something to do between dates, her duties were largely decorative and ceremonial. Roth’s office provided a socially acceptable base, undemanding tasks (she had her own personal assistant who dealt with all the tiresome but essential details), and the occasional buzz from meeting the famous and the notorious who made up Roth’s list of clients.
    Friction between Roth and Cecilia was mild, and usually limited to a brisk exchange at the start of each working day over the schedule. So it was this morning.
    “Look,” said Roth as they checked the first name in his appointment book, a movie actor now enjoying a second career in television. “I know he’s not one of your favorite guys, but it wouldn’t kill you to be nice to him. A smile, that’s all.”
    Cecilia rolled her eyes and shuddered.
    “I’m not asking for genial. I’m just asking for pleasant. What’s the matter with him, anyway?”
    “He calls me ‘babe’ and he’s always trying to grab my ass.”
    Roth didn’t blame him. In fact, he’d frequently had thoughts in that direction himself. “Boyish enthusiasm,” he said. “Youthful high spirits.”
    “Danny.” Another roll of the eyes. “He admits to sixty-two.”
    “OK, OK. I’ll settle for glacial politeness. Now listen—there’s a personal project you could help me with, a kind of celebrity lifestyle thing. I think it’s the right moment for me.”
    Cecilia’s eyebrows, two perfectly plucked arcs, were raised. “Who’s the celebrity?”
    Roth continued as though he