Bitter Vintage

By M.L. Grider

It started with a Tiffany lamp in 1995.

Amy Dresden is used to turning men down gracefully. But when Pearce Martini sees her at an estate sale, he knows she is destined for him and doesn’t plan to go away. Not knowing what else to do, she turns to next door gun dealer and ex-LAPD cop Helen Wu for advice on self-defense.

Amy never expected she’d own a gun—or wind up in the arms of another woman.

About the Author
Bitter Vintage is the first published novel to come from the twisted mind of M.L. Grider. In addition to writing, Grider is a professional photographer. He is busy at work on a collection of prequel stories linked to Amy Dresden and Helen Wu as well as the next adventure in the Helen Wu series.

• Language: English
• Publisher: DX Varos Publishing
• Release date: Jan 23, 2023
• ISBN: 9781955065436

M.L. Grider

Bitter Vintage is the first published novel to come from the twisted mind of M.L. Grider. In addition to writing, Grider is a professional photographer. He is busy at work on a collection of prequel stories linked to Amy Dresden and Helen Wu as well as the next adventure in the Helen Wu series.

Book preview

It was the fashionable rip on the knee of Amy’s Calvins that initially caught the eye of Pearce Martini when the tall, blonde woman knelt to examine the legs of an eighteenth-century divan. The first time he saw her he knew he was destined to make her his wife.

He did not dare approach her, not yet. First, one had to know one’s quarry, understand its habits, its wants, its needs. He had seen the girl talking shop with antique dealers that day, and he was sufficiently daring to eavesdrop a little. He learned that she, too, was an antique dealer and her first name was Amy. Amy. How beautiful that sounded, simple, pure. He would have her, in proper time.

For the next three months, Pearce made the rounds of the upscale estate sales, hoping for another glimpse of his angel. Sometimes he was lucky, and she would appear, like a vision of radiance, defiantly hip in her tight jeans and purple sunglasses. She was a beacon of youth among the matrons in their dowdy business clothing.

Finally, the big day arrived, the day to make his opening in the intricate chess game that would win Amy’s undying devotion. He had read all the books on antiques he could get ahold of. He had reread Machiavelli and planned his strategy with care. It was essential not to come on too strong at first. He had made that mistake with Amanda back in school. That had ended badly.

But this time would be different. He would captivate her with his meticulous knowledge of her profession, and she would be dazzled by his charm and wit. Every time he rehearsed in front of the mirror, no matter what excuse she gave him, no matter what course of escape she tried, he headed her off and led her into his arms by that night. It would take some careful persuasion on his part—after all, she was a virgin. He could tell by looking at her face. Angels are not unfaithful, and this woman was an angel. His angel.

Pearce scanned the crowd of bargain hunters browsing the furniture of the late Samuel Van Dusen. His heart pounded in his ears when he saw her there. Today, she wore a white, denim miniskirt and a black, sleeveless T-shirt with a plunging neckline that hinted, but did not quite reveal. Over that, she wore a short-waisted, white denim jacket with brass buttons. The tight miniskirt showed off her curves as she knelt to examine the glass of a Tiffany lamp. The diffuse glow of the lamp illuminated the subtle perfection of her face. Her eyes were aqua, clear and bright. She had a small, straight nose and strong cheekbones, with the slightly squared chin of her forefathers. Her skin was pale but glowed with good health. He was pleased to see she did not wear excessive makeup, just a hint of shadow around her eyes and pale pink lips—not the brassy red of a common harlot. Her hair was platinum, almost white at the ends and with no sign of dark roots. She wore it parted on the side and neatly tucked behind her ears. It fell straight over her shoulders and down her back like a clear mountain stream, shimmering in the afternoon sunlight.

For a moment Pearce was transfixed by Amy’s beauty. He was sure that by this time tomorrow they would be speeding down a desert highway, the top of his sports car down, wind in their hair on their way to Las Vegas for a quick wedding after a night of...romance. But first he had to meet her; he had to say something clever to her, something funny and just a little sexy. All the opening lines he had read in that book on how to pick up chicks ran through his mind. But which one? Which one?

He approached the small end table and feigned interest in the blue and green glass lampshade. He smiled nervously and tried to speak, but then disaster struck. From where he stood, he could see right down the low neckline of her T-shirt. Quite clearly. He gazed at the intricate pattern of black lace over creamy flesh. Every detail burned into his mind and held him mesmerized.

Amy could feel someone staring at her. She glanced up and saw a man in a dark suit gaping at her like a ravenous animal about to pounce.

They…ah…they match, he said at last. Amy stood and wound up to slap his face, but something about the animal look in his eyes made her hesitate.

They are exactly the same shade of blue. Your eyes…and the lamp...I mean. The animal hunger drained out of his eyes as his face burned red, now making him look more like an awkward teen than…whatever it was she thought she saw.

"My eyes are up here," Amy said and walked away.

Amy Dresden knew just exactly how attractive she was. She accepted it as a fact of life and tried to have a sense of humor about it. In fact, she often found it funny when men tripped, walked into walls, or otherwise made fools of themselves while staring at her. Men are such children. Of course, she never encouraged this behavior. She had too much self-respect to try to skate by on her looks. Amy was proud of her appearance but took no credit for it. She also knew that her looks brought her a lot of unwanted attention. She could never be anonymous.

But this guy in the atypical black Armani did not amuse her at all. The way he stared made the hair on the back of her neck stand on end.

Pearce would not be daunted. All he had to do was focus. He would get the girl. The hero always got the girl, in the end. Once he regained his composure he was on the hunt again. It took him nearly twenty minutes to find her as she made her way through the maze of rooms in the old Victorian mansion. He found her at last in an office of sorts, with strange boxy furniture from the 1920s and ’30s. She was sitting behind a massive, black lacquer, Art Deco desk, minutely examining the bottom of a drawer she had removed. She pointedly ignored him as he approached.

I am terribly sorry, Pearce sort of mumbled. I did not mean to…ah…stare. But you are just so beautiful that I could not help myself.

Amy looked up and made eye contact for the first time. He had wild eyes that didn’t seem to go with the rest of him. He was on the smallish side, about five-foot-eight or –nine, and he couldn’t have weighed more than one-seventy. He had the slender good looks and fine bone structure of southern Italians, but he lacked their merriment. His hair was jet black and in perfect order. His hair seemed to go with his expensive but utterly featureless, black Armani suit with a crisp white shirt and dull gray tie, every aspect of which was meticulously straight and neat. He was all right angles and no curves, down to the gray handkerchief in his pocket. He stood with one hand folded over the other as he spoke and never faced Amy directly. His head was always to one side or the other, or slightly nodding. But those wild gray (or were they blue?) eyes were always on her, darting and shifting as he turned his face away. All in all, he reminded her of Rod Serling.

I’m thinking of buying this painting, he said, pointing to a dreadful hunting scene on the wall behind Amy. I understand that Henry Whisher’s works have been gaining value of late.

Amy glanced over her shoulder at the garish thing. Men in red coats sat on badly rendered horses. It was an eyesore at best, and it didn’t fit the décor of the room.

You’re a fool if you do, she said. It’s a fake. A bad fake.

Really? How can you tell? he said, showing exaggerated interest.

First off, the tones are wrong. Even if it has been expertly cleaned and restored recently, one-hundred-year-old paint fades and yellows. See how white the dog is?

Perce nodded in seeming appreciation. Shocking. I might have bought that. You have just saved me five thousand dollars.

Amy looked at him again. The platinum Rolex and handmade Italian shoes said five thousand dollars was not a lot of money to this man. She could not put her finger on it, but something about being alone with this guy made her skin crawl. But he hadn’t really done anything; it was just intuition that was bothering her. The house was full of people, so if he did do anything weird, a shout would bring help in seconds. Still, she did not like being alone with him.

Pearce came around the desk and stuck out a hand. Martini, Pearce Martini. Amy could barely suppress a laugh. She could imagine him watching 007 movies over and over, practicing the line in his bathroom mirror until he got it just right. Comical or not, she could not bear the thought of this guy touching her, so she handed him one of her business cards instead.

I’m Amy Dresden, she said.

He examined the card and slipped it into his wallet with care.

Amy replaced the drawer and excused herself. She was out the door and down the hall, but Pearce was on her heels.

Amy’s next stop was a sitting room where she found a Regency-period sofa. It was upholstered in teal blue velvet and was in fair condition and was clearly the best piece in the collection. It had been restored several times over the years, she could tell, and the frame had been painted over recently. She could pick it up for a song, restore it for next to nothing, and sell it for a tidy profit.

Pearce sat on the sofa as she examined it. So, you are an antique dealer. How interesting. It must be fascinating work.

No, not very, she answered.

Pearce remembered his books about how to impress hot girls. He needed to think of something to say. What was that joke about the antique shop and the gorilla he had read in that joke book?

My entire home is furnished with antiques, he mumbled. It is very old—my house, that is. It was built by my great-grandfather after the old place burned down in 1892.

A stout woman in her fifties quietly entered the room and announced the auction would begin in the dining room in five minutes. Would everyone please assemble there?

In the dining room Amy sat on a metal folding chair in the back row. The auctioneer set up his easel, which held color eight-by-ten photos of the pieces to be sold. Pearce approached and took the seat next to Amy’s. He had two china cups, one of which he held out to Amy.

Tea, milk, no sugar, he said.

Amy was surprised he knew how she took her tea. How’d you know that?

At the Nelson estate, last June, I happened to overhear you. You bought an eighteenth-century loveseat, some silver candlesticks, a china cabinet, an Art Deco coffee table, and a Wedgwood tea service.

That was two months ago. Suddenly Amy remembered seeing Pearce before, skulking around some of the estate sales she had been to. It was creepy. Here he was again, holding out a teacup. She would have liked to refuse but she didn’t want to cause a scene. She accepted the cup and thanked him. All the while she just wanted to get up and leave. She didn’t know why, really; all he had done was stare at the girls. If she got upset every time some strange man stared at her boobs, she would never be able leave her apartment. But this guy was different. He wasn’t bad looking, and he was polite, when he wasn’t looking down her top. He was well, if unimaginatively, dressed and a bit too formal in his speech. But the way he had memorized what she had bought at a sale two months ago was unnerving.

The auction started. The first pieces were all either junk or way overpriced. When they came to the Regency sofa, Amy made her first bid. A few other patrons drove the price up a bit but, in the end, Amy got the piece for thirteen hundred dollars. Two more pieces came and went. Then the blue and green Tiffany lamp she had admired, while Pearce had been admiring her breasts, came up for bid. The bidding began at five hundred. A frumpy woman in a buff-colored Chanel dress bid six, Amy said six-twenty-five, but the frump was determined, and the bidding went up to seven hundred, then seven-fifty. When the woman bid eight hundred dollars, Amy let it go.

Damn it, I had a buyer for that, she said under her breath.

Pearce bid eight hundred and fifty.

Amy watched with wide-eyed wonder as the price of the lamp soared to two thousand dollars before the frumpy woman in buff conceded defeat to Pearce.

She knew the lamp was not worth more than eight hundred dollars. This guy was an idiot.

She added to her purchases a jewelry box and a 1930’s radio, ducking out before the auctioneer could move on to the real estate.

Amy watched two workmen load the sofa into the bed of her white, Chevy 250, crew-cab dually. She took a tarp from the back seat of the cab, climbed into the bed and carefully covered the teal sofa. She heard the inpatient rev of a powerful engine. She looked around to find that the two workmen were nowhere in sight. A British Racing Green Jaguar X-KE convertible had pulled up next to her enormous truck. Pearce sat behind the wheel, wearing a pair of black Ray-Bans on the tip of his nose and looking up at her. The way he leered made her feel like he was looking up her skirt, even though he was too far away for that.

Small world, he said cheerfully.

Small auction, she replied coolly as she slowly climbed down from the bed of her truck and slammed the tailgate closed.

Miss Dresden, would you do me the very great honor of accompanying me to dinner this evening?

Here it comes. Amy groaned inwardly. She tried to be gracious, and not too annoyed, when strange men hit on her. But sometimes were harder than others. At least he was being polite.

I am sorry, Mr. Martini, but—

Pearce, call me Pearce, and I will not accept ‘no’ for an answer. You simply must join me.

Amy tried not to grit her teeth. He might be polite, but he couldn’t take a hint.

Look, Pearce, I really can’t. It’s a long drive back to LA, and I have to work in the morning. Maybe next time, okay? She moved quickly between the two cars and opened the door of her truck.

But you must come, I have already made reservations, he pleaded.

I’m sorry, I really have to go now. Strangely, she felt a tiny bit sorry for this pathetic lecher. If you’re ever in LA though, maybe we can get together and do something. She climbed into the truck and slammed the door. Pearce sat up on the back of his car’s seat but was still too short to see into the window of the truck.

I will hold you to that, he called out.

Amy started the truck and put it in gear, giving him her plastic smile. Bye-bye now. She was genuinely glad to be away from him. She only looked back once she had left the grounds of the estate, to be sure he did not follow her. She passed through Nob Hill on her way to the freeway, pointed the truck south and headed home. It was close to midnight when Amy pulled off the 405 freeway onto Nordoff Street. She decided to leave the stuff in the truck and take it to the shop in the morning, after a good night’s sleep.

Chapter Two

Pearce pulled out of the Van Dusen estate and cruised around Nob Hill, letting the green Jaguar take him where it would. Gradually his ever-widening circle led him through the shabbier areas, past cheap motels, and topless dive bars. He knew exactly where he was going; he just would not admit it to himself.

It was close to five thirty when he saw the girl sitting at the bus stop, the dangling foot of her crossed leg twitching lazily in the red, spiked pump. She would do for now. Pearce slowed the sports car and slid up to the bus stop, smiling a sickly grin.

Would you care for a ride? he asked.

Pearce studied the girl as she approached the passenger side of the car with slow deliberateness. She wasn’t wearing much, just black fishnet stockings with a run on the left knee and a pair of cut-off denim overalls with no shirt beneath, and probably no underwear at all. Her eyes were medium blue with a hard, dark blue ring around the outside of the iris. Heavy, dark blue shadow was caked on the lids. Her lips were just a little too full, and painted bright red. Her hair was teased, spraying in all directions, and Pearce suspected that the honey blonde hue was not natural. When she leaned over the side of the car and smiled, the thin wire of a retainer glittered along the line of her gums.

Lookin’ for a date, mister? Her voice had the rehearsed coolness of repetition, and the pitch was a bit too high. Pearce knew she had asked scores of men that question. He also knew she wasn’t a day over seventeen.

As a matter of fact, I am, he said. Get in.

Uh-uh, she said shaking her head. Money first, honey.

How much for all night? He had been down this road many times before.

You couldn’t afford it, sugar. A grand. As she bent over, she allowed one of her breasts to slip out of the bib of her overall. He no longer looked at her face. His eyes were locked on her exposed flesh. His hands found their way to his wallet and extracted ten, crisp, one-hundred-dollar bills. To tease her, he fanned his face with them.

There is more where this came from.

The girl jumped into the car, snatched the money, and stuffed it into a pocket. An almost visible cloud of sticky sweet perfume wafted to Pearce’s nose. To escape it, he stepped on the accelerator. The Jaguar leapt into traffic like its namesake, the wind clearing away the sticky scent.

In the car, the girl undid the snaps of her overalls and entirely exposed her breasts to him. She leaned over and began to undo his belt. He pushed her away and said, No, not yet. We have all night for that. What is your name, dear?

The girl was confused, a moment ago he was nearly drooling and now he wouldn’t even look at her. But what the hell, she had just been paid a thousand dollars. She had never seen that much money in one place at one time in her entire life. She knew if she played this guy right, there would be a lot more. Trish, she said. This is a great car.

Thank you, he said without looking at her.

Where we going, honey?

My house.

I don’t know your name, lover.

Martini, Pearce Martini, he said and started the drive to Napa Valley.

The sun was low in the west when the green Jaguar turned off the paved highway, north of San Francisco, onto the three-mile gravel road that led to Martini Vineyards. At the end of the road Pearce pulled up in front of a rambling Victorian mansion. The house was painted white on white and looked over a lawn reminiscent of a putting green. The whole effect was like a wedding cake on a green pool table.

He looked up at the old house and thought of the day he would bring Amy here—the real Amy, not this cheap imitation. He was ashamed of the needs that made him do this. But he had to satisfy that hunger, had to extinguish it, if he was to possess the pure heart of Amy Dresden.

Is this your house? You live hear all alone? Trish interrupted his thoughts. She could hear cash registers ringing in her ears. She had hit the big time. She could bilk this freak out of ten grand, easy, and then she could get to Hollywood in style.

Pearce glared at her. She was a common harlot, but tonight she would be Amy. Tonight, he would use her, she would fulfill his need. Then he could control himself again, and he would not lose his concentration the next time he saw Amy. He took the Tiffany lamp from the boot and led Trish up the front stairs into the house.

He walked into the massive living room and carefully set the lamp on an end table. The blue-green glass shade caught Trish’s eye, and she stooped to examine it. She reached out with a red-nailed finger to touch the shade.

"Wow, is that really glass? I bet it was expensive."

But before she could touch it, Pearce grabbed her wrist and pulled her hand away.

Do not touch that. It is very fragile. He could not bear for this slut to touch Amy’s lamp. Amy would know somehow, and the lamp would be…tainted.

Ow! You’re hurtin’ me. Le’go!

Pearce released her, in control of himself again. Come this way. He led her through an opulent foyer into an impressive three-story rotunda with a spiral staircase running along one wall. A massive painting of a scary old woman covered the other side. Pearce guided her up the stairs into a hallway leading to a heavy wood door. He swung the door open with a flourish and ushered her in.

She stepped into the large bedroom and was so awe-struck she forgot the flash of temper she had just witnessed. The room had a wide bay window with ornate wrought iron bars overlooking the carpet-like lawn below. Everything was white, the carpet, the furniture, and all the odds and ends. Everything was covered with lace and ruffles. It was an overdone, nightmarish approximation of a little girl’s room.

Trish browsed around, looking at the bric-a-brac, and wondered what she could get for anything she could steal.

Time for your bath, Trish.

She looked blankly at him as he moved to another door and pushed it open. The bathroom on the other side was larger than the shabby motel room where she lived and worked in with two other girls. She was dumbfounded at the white marble and the oversized bathtub. Jars of cut crystal lined the counter, full of fragrant bath beads and oils. Scented soap and plush white towels were plentiful. Pearce sat at the vanity and stared at her. He looked so out of place and sinister in his crisp black suit, surrounded by all that white marble and gleaming silver fixtures. He just sat there and stared at her. Trish began to get nervous again. She looked in the mirror behind him and saw herself in sharp relief. She didn’t recognize herself in the opulent surroundings.

I don’t get it. What do you want me to do? she said, suddenly embarrassed.

Take a bath.

Oh…a bath, She looked at the tub, shy for the first time in years. She stood for a moment without moving, before she realized he was going to watch. She blushed…she actually blushed. This was so strange, and humiliating. In the two years since she had run away from home and turned to prostitution to survive, she had done some nasty things—group sex, golden showers, spanking old men—but this was different. This john was taking something personal. Trish could have sex with six complete strangers a night and they never touched her, not really. It was just a job, a thing she did to make money. It was nothing personal.

She undid the clasps of her bib and slipped off her overalls, folded them neatly, and laid them on the counter. The folded, blue denim stood out against the stark white marble. She stepped out of the shiny, red pumps and kicked them under the legs of the vanity bench where Pearce sat watching. Trish turned her back on him and pealed the fishnet panty hose off and held them in a tight ball in front of herself. She covered her breasts with the other hand. Slowly, she turned to face Pearce and put the fishnets in the pocket of her overalls.

She had never felt so naked, so vulnerable. She looked at Pearce for something, anything: approval, desire, she wasn’t sure what. But there was nothing in his strange eyes. She turned around and walked to the tub and turned on the water. She held her hand under the flow of water, and when the temperature was to her liking she closed the drain and the tub began to fill.

Bath oil, Pearce said abruptly.

When he spoke, Trish jumped and turned trying desperately to cover herself with her hands. He pointed to the crystal jars but did not speak. Trish took a jar from the rack, opened it and smelled the oil, then another and another. When she had found the one she liked best she poured half of the jar into the steaming water. A new aroma filled the room, smothering the stench of her cheap perfume.

While she waited for the enormous tub to fill, she sat on the side, her legs tightly pressed together, her hands folded in her lap. She tried to smile at Pearce, but she could not stand his dead eyes. What color were those eyes? Not blue, not green. He just sat there and stared at her. He didn’t seem to be aroused at all. She didn’t think he was going to join her in the bathtub. He had not even loosened his tie. That was it, the tie. If she could just get that damned tie off and maybe open his collar.

Stand up, Pearce said in that strange monotone. She complied, standing with one foot in front of the other, and tried to cover herself with her hands.

Move your hands. I want to see, he said coldly.

Finally, she thought, he’s going to do something normal. She put her hands behind her back, moved her feet apart, and threw her shoulders back to enhance her breasts. He stared at the triangle of dark, curly hair between her legs.

You are not a real blonde, he said.

Yes, I am, she lied indignantly. Trish looked down with a nervous smile and said, Sometimes it’s like that, you know, blonde above and brunette below.

"Gentlemen