Every year millions of people head into the wilderness searching for peace, beauty, and adventure. But hidden in those same scenic landscapes are stories of violence, survival, and lives cut short. I'm Dilya DeAmbra and on my podcast, Park Predators, I uncover the true crimes that happened in the most amazing places on Earth. Listen to Park Predators wherever you get your podcasts. Poe is a 2021 audio chuck original made for our friends at Sirius XM. We hope you enjoy this exclusive content re-released for free on Full Body Chills. And for the best experience, we kindly recommend you listen with headphones. Hate and jealousy age like poor wine, curdling, corked up. It swells with the taste of anesthesia and a damp cellar. Thoughts like parasites multiply in the bubbling spoil, past boiling, broiling temperaments, temperatures built, pressure rising, plans devising, plotting each step with brick and mortar. And far from exploding, the mess is stored, out of sight and out of mind, chained in the dark where none will find. In this story, one man's sinister legacy comes to light, his secrets long outlasting. The Cask of a Montiado. The Cask of a Montiado, written by Jake Weber, based on the story by Ed Grailand Paul, 2021. If you are hearing this, I am speaking to you from the grave. This is not a confession. My do not regret what I did then, or since. I treated the world as it treated me. It told me I had to fight for everything. They all looked down on me. I was never accepted because I didn't look or sound like them, because I wasn't from the same class as them. My parents were Italian immigrants who worked hard when they got to this country. I was the youngest of seven, and the apple of their eye. I became a Somalia, an American dream, and I could rise above my station. But there is only so high a first-generation Italian-American kid born in 1951, in Bale, New Jersey, can aspire. There is fine print in the brochure. They all thought they could condescend to me, patronize me, but I'm Sicilian, and we never forget a slight. Franklin Harris was born with a silver spoon of his you-know-what. He went missing in 1977 in New Orleans. It was what they now call a cold case. We had trained together as Somalia's, and he was always the big shot. He was tall and handsome and rich from an old East Coast family. Daddy was a big, big Wall Street type, and they lived in Connecticut and vacationed in Maine. Frank was a trust fund kid who never had to walk a day in his life. But he was the black sheep of the family, an underachiever, a rebel, a drunk. His brothers, Chip and Chad, took the train to Wall Street, and their sister, Chloe, married a guy named Chester, who also took the train to Wall Street. They were so happy. I have no idea what their real names were, and nor do I care, but I do know they were kissed into life. Franklin was a disappointment to his family, but they loved him in the restaurant business. He got the plum jobs. He only worked in Michelin star restaurants, and he had his pick. Charming handsome Franklin Harris was a star. I had the palate, and in fairness, sort of Franklin. Somalia training is highly competitive. To be certified, candidates must pass an encyclopedic test to receive the Master Somalia diploma, without which you would never get a position in a top tier restaurant. Frank and I were the best. In those days, there were no women. Now there are, and the test is even more competitive because there are wines to learn from many different countries. In those days, it was mostly French wines, though at the time of Franklin's disappearance, California wines were coming into vogue and I championed those vineyards. You were always learning, always having to up your game, and my game was good. I stayed in the business until I retired at 60. In the winter of 1977, I was working and living in New Orleans. When I ran into Franklin during Maddie Grah, if you have a working class accent, there was only so far you could go in the restaurant world. So I worked like a dog to lose mine. Now I am dead. I have no reason to keep up the facade. I am a kid from Bione, who clawed his way up the ladder of the American dream. Only to learn there was a limit to how high he was allowed to climb. I lived alone in that February night, I was returning from work, walking the opposite way to the people in the parade, moving against the tide of drunks and girls on floats who would never have looked twice of me, but happily lifted their shirts to long haired boys with ridiculous sideburns. Jimmy Carter had just been elected, but I had been a Nixon man and then a Ford man. And as far as I was concerned, the country had gone to hell in a hand basket since the hippies took over. Whatever the sexual revolution was, it never reached my bedroom. I knew him from his walk. It had that confidence. The confidence that comes from knowing the world will never say no to you. He was alone, and though he held his wine well, I could tell he was hammered. I followed him, and when I was sure no one was coming to join him, I caught up. Franklin, I said, out of sight, if it is a little Robbie Marino, the pride of Baleon. He said, he was a gregarious guy, the kind of guy who makes friends easily. I don't think I ever saw him in a bad mood, even when he was battling a hangover, which was pretty much every morning. He had always been nice to me, but that didn't stop me from zapping him. In fact, I hated him more for the generosity of his spirit. It's easy to be nice if everything has gone your way. Was it the looks, the charm, the personality, the money? It was all those things. While I had to scratch and scrape my way to get anything, an opportunity, a position, a girl, my whole life, I had to prove myself. Prove I was better than privileged fox like Franklin, Theodore, Emerson, Harris. I heard you were down here, pal. At Penis? Is it? He said, yeah, say Penis, you should come in. I said, we'll come in tomorrow. We'll put you through your paces. You'll do that. Who is we? We're here with another couple, the Sutherlands. He said, you can meet my foxy lady. Your foxy lady. What's her name? I asked, Jenny Jones. Jenny Jones, you were always lucky with the ladies, weren't you, Frank? I don't know what they see me, but who might argue? You got a Cajun girl, you crazy cat. Somewhere along the way, Franklin had adopted the slang of the freaks and the hippies. But I knew who he was. You can take the boy out of the mansion, but you can't take the mansion out of the boy. I got a whole letter of kittens. He said, just got a de-clawed and first. Franklin laughed, and that transitioned into a coughing fit, which he wrapped up by pulling out a pack of Chester Fields. Those things will kill you, I said. I'm gonna live forever. I'm a Viking, he said. Where is Jenny Jones and the Sutherlands, I asked? I lost him. It's madness here. It's pagan. I love it. Hot running decadence, he said. Come back to the hotel, man. Let's drink my brother from another mother. Your three sheets to the window, I read it, I said. I am from a venerable line of alcoholics, and I have cocaine. What do you say, marino? He clapped me on the back. He was big on physical contact, all that hell-fellow-well-met business. Cocaine, I asked. Are you hip? He said, am I hip? No, Franklin, and nor are you. Be cool, man. He said, why are you fucking around with drugs, Frank? I said, you got everything a man could ever want. You're gonna piss all that away. For what? You're such a square, man. Get with the times. I hated that fucking lingo. I don't do drugs or cocaine, but I will drink with you. I said, excellent. Now, hell-d-d-we get back to the plaza. Come by my house first. I said, I have something I want to show you. A casque of a Montiado. And if you do is your told, we can bring two bottles of 61 Chateau O'Priome with us. 61 O'Priome. Out of sight, you, you are a gentleman of the highest order. And you are going to have eight barrels of a Montiado. You're gonna have to wait on that. I know. I'm in no rush. I could put it away for 40 years if I have to. 40 years? You may not live. You're sharing. I'll get to it. Don't you worry. I said. Franklin had another coughing episode, and I waited for him to recover. Are you not well? I asked. I'm your. What does that mean? It means I'm solid. See worthy. I'm not familiar with that expression, I said. That's because you didn't grow up with boats. My family did. I mean, Sicily. Right on, man. Fishing boats. The salt of the earth. Call me man one more time. And I'm gonna punch you in the mouth. I thought to myself. Franklin took a deep poll off his unfiltered cigarette and coughed again. You're not well, I said. I know, doctor. Should we get you back to the hotel? I asked. We should. We absolutely should, but not without that O'Priome. How far to your pet? Not for it all. Follow me, I said. You're probably asking yourself, why did I do it? Franklin sounded like a good guy. Why would I cut him down in his prime? Why take the life of a young man who had so much going for him? What was the motive? I did it because I could. At the end of the day, we're predators. It's how men are programmed. It's just that some are better predators than others. If you don't give to me, I will take from you. And if you do give, I will take more. You lose. I win. There is a fancy name for this. It's called a zero sum game. It's the game of life. The thing about New Orleans is its history. It's an old city, dirty and decadent, an amoral city. Anything goes down there. To this day, it's corrupt from the top down. The politicians are corrupt. The cops are corrupt. I lived in an old house in the French Quarter that was run down but suited my needs. It had a huge cellar that was perfect for storing wine. Franklin was his usual, generous self about my dilapidated house and meager furnishings. When I let him down to the cellar. There was a section I was in the process of breaking in. I had plans for that area but wasn't sure when the project would be completed. When the time was right, I would know. I was in no rush. I showed Franklin the massive oak cask of a Monteado. That's enough for a lifetime, he said. Not the way you drink. Find the oak for your own. I said, I'll be right back. I left him there and went together what I needed. When I returned, Franklin was grinning at me, a bottle in each hand. What a stroke of luck running into this lovely cat in this lovely old city. Now we get to share these lovely bottles. What a beautiful world it is. He laid the bottles carefully on the ground and gave me a hug. I don't like that kind of contact but knowing what I was about to do, I let him and felt the warmth in his embrace. I want to show you something I said, have a look in here. I pointed to a section of the wall I had built waist high. Climb in, I said. What's in there? He asked. Come look, I said. We climbed in and looked around the dingy seller. Can you believe that? I asked. Holy shit, he said. There were two iron rings bricked into the back wall. Attached to the rings were chains with cuffs that hung open. What the fuck is this? Seb Franklin. It was some kind of holding cell, I guess. I'm breaking it in because I want to look at it. Can you believe people but chained up down here? Slaves would be my guess. Those fascists, Nixon and Holderman did shit like this. Tortured people murdered innocent women and children burned them alive. Whole families. I mean, we're on this earth to love each other. I mean, it's up to us. It's up to us to make this cruel world a better place. I poured into a cloth dish towel from a small bottle I was holding. What is that? Franklin asked. It's chloroform. I answered as I put the bottle on the ground. What do you need that for? It's going to put you to sleep. I said as I stepped towards him. Franklin was not a fighter. He wasn't the type. I dropped him with a right wrap my legs around his back and held the cloth to his mouth. In the movies, you see someone passing out right away from chloroform. But that's not the way it works in real life. In real life, it takes a while, usually a few minutes. I thought he was going to pass out from a cropping fat. But that only forced him to inhale deeper. Plus, he was drunk and he didn't have the strength I had. That's just genetics. He passed out after about 90 seconds and I went to work. When he came to a couple minutes later, I had him on his knees coughed and chained. He registered the predicament he was in and looked at me. You want to cigarette? My ass. He nodded and I got his pack and his lighter from his coat. I put a cigarette in his mouth and lit it for him. He took deep drags until they brought on another coffin fat. I pulled over a wine crate and put it on its side and smoked his cigarette. Why, Robbie? He asked. I don't know, my sad. As I took a drag from his unfiltered chest of field, I looked at it. These are strong, I said. Why would you do this? I don't have the answer to that. Did I do something to offend you? He said. If I did, I'm sorry, Robbie. No, you didn't do anything. Then let me go. Let me out of here. I took another drag off his cigarette. Can I have that? He asked. Sure, I said. He got to his feet and I held the smoke for him. He took shorter drags this time. There was something intimate about it being there together, me feeding him like a baby. I took the final drag and stubbed it out. My pants were dirty from the floor and I brushed them off and went back to the wine crate. This is a joke, right? Say, Franklin, this is a fucked-up joke. You're one strange cat, Roberto. He laughed then and I laughed with him. You're out of your mind. He said as we continue laughing. I am. I'm out of my mind. I replied. I'm totally nuts. As my laughter built, Franklin's began to fade. It's not funny, Robbie. He said, this is not funny to me, so let me out of here, Robbie. Come on. I didn't move from my stool and Franklin went on. Let me out of here now. I mean it, man. It's not funny. Let me go. I mean it, man. I repeat it. Be cool, man. Don't be heavy. It's all about peace, man. Can you dig it? I saw his face fall and no one said anything for a moment. How long are you going to keep me here? He said, that'll look for me. No one knows you. You were just some guy who disappeared in New Orleans during Marty Gras. My family will look for me. They have connections. They'll find me. Not down here. They won't. The police here don't do shit. They will, if they're paid enough. He said, let me go. Let me go. Let me go. And I won't say anything. I promise. I'll never say a word. I sat there picking at my thumbnail with my index finger. Do you want money, Roberto? I can get you money if you need it. Just say, thank you. I don't need your money, I said. Then what? What can I do? What can I do for you? Just tell me. Tell me and I'll do it. There's not much you can do. You see, I don't want anything from you, except for you to not exist. And not exist. Are you going to kill me? Is that what you're going to do? You're going to let me die down here? What did I ever do to you? Tell me. What did I ever do to you? But be a friend to you and support you and speak well of you and treat you as a fucking equal. He was moving into the anger phase. They say there are seven stages of grief. He would make his way through all of them before we were done. I am your equal. I said. I never said you weren't. You just did. What are you talking about? He said. You just said it without saying it. You implied I wasn't your equal because if I were, there would be no need to say it. It would be automatically assumed. If I was like you from your class, you wouldn't say what a great person you were by treating me as an equal. I treat everyone as an equal. I hate that class bullshit. Those are bourgeois notions meant to divide people against each other. I treated you the same as I would anyone. But you're not the same as me. So you don't get to treat me as if I were. You can't ascend to me by not acknowledging the differences between us. What? Which is it, Robbie? Are we equal or not? I was kind to you. If anything, I hate you more for that. Why? It reminds me of how small I am. My kindness? Did you feel small? Yeah. Your pity made me hate you. I said. Robbie, I'm begging you. Let me go. Please, man. Let me go. I don't want to die. I'm scared. I'm scared, Robbie. Don't let me die here. I beg you. It went on like this for a while. He argued, he pleaded, he blubbered, he bargained, he screamed. I just went about my business, mixing concrete and laying breaks. I will say this for Franklin. When he came to the acceptance phase, he took it like a man. When I was on my last few bricks, he called out, said he forgave me. He said he felt for me, for the pain that must be inside to make me do such a thing. After he was immured, I didn't hear much more. I could faintly hear moaning sometimes, but I had sealed up the basement well. Soon the wall would age, and you would never be able to tell it had been an addition and never suspect there was a corpse behind it. It usually takes about four days for someone to die like that. It's not the lack of food, it's the lack of water. The chains were long after Franklin could sit on the floor. It was not the plaza by any means, but he would not hang like Christ from the cross. He would die slowly and painfully. But I didn't torture him. He was a nice guy. He didn't deserve to die. But who said life was fair? I stayed at Chépanise for almost 20 years, even though the restaurant was below me. Those were decent years. People sought me out for advice on all kinds of subjects, not just wine. I was considered an air-you-dite man, a wise man. I lived in that house all those years with Franklin in the basement. When I moved to New York in 1995, I left him there as a housewarming present for the nice young family who bought the home. I never had a family myself. My family were my restaurants. My family were my customers. I lived for that moment. They took that first sip of a wine I had selected just for them, and the light would brighten in their eyes. I liked giving to people. Now I give to you. I bow gracially as I did to all my customers and exit. You are probably wondering if I killed again. You couldn't keep up when I was alive. Can you catch up now that I'm dead? I just gave you a head start. Now give me my legacy. Demontiano, by the way, was excellent. Poe is an audio-chuck original. This episode was read for you by Jake Weber. So what do you think, Chuck? Do you approve? Everyone's told a lie, but what happens when one lie becomes a life, a movement, a conspiracy? I'm Josh Dean, host of chameleon, and I uncover true stories of deception scams so intimate and convincing they fooled the people closest to them. These are strangers. They're lovers, friends, and trusted allies. Because the most dangerous cons don't feel like crimes. They feel personal. Listen to chameleon wherever you get your podcasts.
