The Black Train Page 8

  “No. Then another squad of men were sent up to the house, and…” Her eyes shined at Jiff. “Jiff, tell Mr. Collier what happened.”

  “Shee-it,” Jiff said under his breath. “The second squad never came back, so’s the Yankee commander went up there hisself and saw that the whole squad hanged thereselfs.”

  “From the same tree that Harwood Gast had hanged himself a year and a half previous. The tree’s still there, too, right Jiff? That giant oak next to the fountain.”

  “Yeah, but it all ain’t nothin’ but a bushel basket full’a horse flop, Mr. Collier.”

  Collier chuckled. “I’ve got to tell you, Jiff, it’s a fascinating story, but…I don’t believe any of it. So you can relax.”

  “Thank God…”

  “Regional folklore has always interested me, but at the end of the day,” Collier said, and paused for effect. “I don’t believe in ghosts.”

  “But Jiff’s right,” Dominique added. “There are a lot of ghost stories around here, typical of any Civil War town. Funny thing is, our stories are a bit harder-edged than most.”

  “Harder-edged?” Collier asked.

  Jiff butted in again. “So, wow, that’s really interestin’, that this beer’s been around since the war. I didn’t even know they had beer way back then.”

  Collier knew Jiff was desperate to change the subject. But why would silly ghost stories bother him so much? Another Southern cliché? Were people from the South more superstitious than anyone else? Collier doubted it. But the pedant in him couldn’t resist the deflecting remark. “Actually, Jiff, beer’s been around for at least eight thousand years, and in earlier civilizations, it was the main carbohydrate staple. Before man figured out that they could turn grain into bread, they were turning it into beer.”

  Dominique accentuated, “Early nomads discovered that they could boil ground-up grain, like barley, wheat, and millet, and eat it as a porridge. But when they accidentally let it sit around, or when rain would saturate their grain stores, it would ferment and become ale. It had the same nutritional value as bread but it wouldn’t go bad, like bread does, because of the alcohol content. And let’s not forget the additional fact. You don’t get a buzz from bread…”

  Collier and Dominique spent the next half hour bantering more about beer. When he offered to buy her another, she declined with a comment that struck Collier as odd: “No, thanks. I never drink more than one beer a day.”

  Collier found this astonishing. “But you’re a brewer, for God’s sake.”

  “Well, that’s sort of the point.” She said it all very non-chalantly. “I’m a Christian. I don’t let myself get drunk. You know, the body’s a temple of the Lord, and all that.”

  Collier’s eyes shot back to the cross around her neck. What an odd thing to say…He struggled for a response that wasn’t stilted. “Well, Jesus drank wine, right?”

  White teeth gleamed in her grin. “Yeah, but he didn’t get shit-faced and swing from chandeliers.”

  Collier had to laugh.

  “And that’s the kind of stuff that happens when I drink too much,” she went on, “so…one’s my limit. I figure the least I can do is not insult God by getting pissy drunk.”

  Collier was intrigued by the strangeness of it all. The mild profanity mixed with a matter-of-fact religious sentiment. “My own personal rule is no more than three a day; it’s no fun to write about beer when you’re hungover.” Then he looked at his glass and realized that he’d just finished his fourth. “But I’m being a hypocrite today. One more please. And another for Jiff.”

  “Thanks much, Mr. Collier,” Jiff said, slurring “much” as “mlush” and “Mr.” as “Mlister.”

  When Dominique returned with two more, Collier felt the need to continue. “But I’ve never thought of having a few beers as much of a sin. At least I hope it’s not.”

  “Inebriation leads to temptation,” she said. She was unconsciously fingering her cross now.

  “I’ve definitely been guilty of that,” Collier admitted.

  “Sure, and we all have. Making an effort to stay sober is a form of repentance”—she frowned as if irritated with herself—“but I’m not trying to Holy Roll you. It’s just my personal view. Spiritual beliefs are individual. When you’re in the bar business as long as I’ve been, you learn fast—”

  “Never talk about religion in a bar.” Collier knew.

  “You got that right. Anyway, I don’t want you to think I’m a Holy Roller. Telling other people how to live is the worst hypocrisy. I think it’s best to show your faith by example, not chatter and finger-pointing. If you’re a Christian, Jew, Muslim, Buddhist, whatever. Live it, don’t talk it is what I try to do.”

  This girl is cool, Collier realized. He also realized he was half drunk. Don’t make a dick of yourself! “You weren’t telling me how to live, you were just explaining why you only drink one beer a day. Beer snobbery is a sophisticated science. If you drink too many, you might as well be guzzling domestic draft—”

  “Because no one can appreciate the nuances of fine beer, not with a load on.”

  God, I really dig her, Collier acknowledged to himself. Even the way she talked—half colloquial, half philosophical—seemed sexy. She looked at her watch, then excused herself. “I have to go upstairs and check the wort. But please don’t leave yet.”

  “Wouldn’t think of it. I might even have to have a sixth glass of your lager. See, my rules go out the window pretty fast,” he joked, “but I can only blame you.”

  “Me?”

  “For being the purveyor of one of the very best lagers in America.”

  She smiled at the overt compliment, then slipped away through a door behind the bar.

  Jiff leaned over, concerned. “Shee-it, Mr. Collier. She say she had warts? Man, you don’t want none’a that.”

  Collier was quickly learning to frown and smile in amusement simultaneously. “Not warts, Jiff. Wort. Wort is beer before the yeast and hops have been added. After the solution ferments and is filtered of its excess proteins, it officially becomes beer.”

  “Oh, yeah, well, now that I thunk of it, I’m pretty sure I knew that, and, yes, it’s a damn good thing she ain’t got warts. Not that I ever had ’em—you know, the sexual kind—” Jiff pronounced it “sax-shool.” “And I say it’s plain as barn paint she got a serious torch fer you.”

  Collier’s unconfident eyes looked at him. “You…really think so, Jiff?”

  Jiff’s head lolled back with a big shucksy grin. “Shee-it, Mr. Collier. Her face was plumb all lit up like a pinball machine when you and her was talkin’ all that beer talk.” Then Jiff wheezed a chuckle, and elbowed Collier. “And—aw, shee-it—I can tell ya someone else who’s got a fierce likin’ for ya, but don’t ya dare say I said so—”

  “Lottie,” Collier supposed.

  “Aw, yeah, sure, but I ain’t talkin’ ’bout that silly string bean. I mean my ma.”

  Collier was duped. This guy’s telling me that his MOTHER is attracted to me? “Uh, really?” he said.

  “And I gots to tell ya, there’s dudes twenty years younger asking my ma out all the dang time. Yeah, I know, she’s a bit raggy in the face but that’s some body on her, ain’t it?” And then another elbow jabbed Collier in the side.

  Collier couldn’t imagine an appropriate response, so he just said, “Your mother’s very nice indeed, Jiff, and very attractive for her age.”

  “Yeah, she is, and ya wanna know how I know she likes ya? Huh?”

  “Uuuuuuum…sure.”

  “It weren’t that she told me, now, but it’s ’cos whenever a single fella checks in that she’s got a twinkle for, she gives him room three. Your room.”

  Collier’s brain chugged through preinebriation. What the hell? What could my room have to do with…“Oh, you mean because it’s better than the other rooms?”

  “Naw, naw.” Jiff waved his hand. He elbowed Collier one more time and whispered, “It’s ’cos of the view. Bet she eve
n told ya that, huh? That room three’s got the best view?”

  “Actually, she did but—” The ridiculous conversation was growing more ridiculous. I guess the view from my balcony is pretty good but it’s nothing really special. “The view of the mountain? The garden?”

  “Naw, naw,” Jiff wheezed in his own amusement. He slapped his knees. “I’m gonna leave ya in suspense, Mr. Collier.” A glance to the bar clock. “I best git my tail back to the house ’cos I still got some work to do.”

  “Oh, well, let me drive you back.”

  Another dismissive wave of hand. “Naw, naw, wouldn’t think of it. You stay here’n jaw with Dominique. It ain’t but a ten-minute walk and tell ya the truth I could use some fresh air ’cos I am more hammered than a hunnert-year-old fence post.” Jiff wobbled when he pushed his stool out. “But thanks again for treatin’ me, Mr. Collier. You really are a swell guy”—he winked—“and one I’d be proud to see datin’ my ma.”

  I don’t believe it. This guy’s trying to set me up with his MOTHER. “Uh, yeah, Jiff, thanks for coming out.” He awkwardly shook Jiff’s hand and bid him a good night.

  Yep. Strange damn day—the bar clock showed him it was only nine P.M.—and it’s not even over yet.

  He turned on his stool just to people-watch but noticed Jiff walking the wrong way up the street. The inn’s in the opposite direction…But what did it matter? Probably bored shitless listening to Dominique and me talk beer facts. Still…

  Collier got up and walked to the front window; Jiff took uneven strides to the corner and entered a door under a neon sign. Another bar, Collier realized. The one Jiff had mentioned earlier, where this man J.G. Sute frequented? But again Collier couldn’t imagine why he cared. Jiff was a hardworking and no doubt hard-drinking Southern rube; not the kind of guy to spend much time in a tourist spot like Cusher’s. Collier squinted through the glass. He thought he could barely make out the neon: THE RAILROAD SPIKE.

  Dumbest name I ever heard for a bar…He turned back for his bar stool, hoping Dominique would return. I can’t wait to talk to her some more…In Collier’s business, he met few women he could relate to professionally. And she’s cute as hell…But then he felt as though fate had just hit him in the face with a pie when he got back to his seat and found Lottie sitting in the stool Jiff had just vacated.

  I thought she had to do laundry!

  He put on his best face. “Hi, Lottie.”

  She gave him a big smile and waved.

  “Finished your work early, I see.”

  She wagged her head up and down. She’d pinned her hair back and changed into a shocking tight evening dress that was diaphanous black. Jesus, Collier thought. She looks like a slot queen on a casino boat. Redneck housemaids needn’t dress like this, but there was Collier again, supporting the stereotype. Why shouldn’t the poor girl go out to a bar? He struggled not to shake his head when he noted her shoes: black high heels several sizes too large. Collier thought of an adolescent trying on her mother’s shoes, to feel grown up.

  But despite her petite frame, the rest of her was grown up, and the howlingly inappropriate dress spotlighted her body. Immediately, he noticed an absence of pantie lines…

  A lot of dichotomies here, Collier pondered: Mrs. Butler, the equivalent of Raquel Welch’s physique circa 1980 topped by an old man’s head with a wig; Dominique, the beautiful European-trained brewmaster who only drinks one beer a day because she’s a Christian; and now Lottie, a racehorse bod who couldn’t talk and had a face that…wasn’t the prettiest. But after all the quirks that had already befallen Collier today, what else could he expect?

  Lottie crossed her legs in the tight gown, a foot rocking. Collier gritted his teeth after one glance at the athletic legs, and a spark came to his groin when he imagined them entwined about his back. Oh, man…Next, his eyes flicked to her top and noticed the pert, braless breasts free behind the shiny black fabric, nipples erect. Then a glance to her face…

  Absurd, excited, half-crazy eyes and a warped grin.

  “Uh, would you like to something to eat?”

  Grinning, she shook her head no.

  “How about a beer?”

  She wagged her head yes.

  Collier ordered her a lager from the first barmaid. He felt obliged to engage in conversation with Lottie but of course he couldn’t do that, could he?

  Please, Dominique. Finish checking the wort and get back here.

  “Oh, you just missed Jiff,” he thought to mention.

  She nodded and slugged a quarter of the beer in one gulp. The glass looked huge in her little hand.

  “Looks like he went down the street to another bar.”

  She put her hand to her mouth as if laughing. Her other hand slapped her bare knee.

  “I…don’t get it.” He thought back. “Oh, do you know this local historian? J.G. Sute?”

  Now she belly-laughed—silently, of course—but this time slapped Collier’s knee.

  “I still don’t get it. What, is Mr. Sute a funny man?”

  Another silent belly-howl, and her hand slid halfway up his thigh and squeezed.

  The pig in Collier didn’t really mind her hand there, but…Not here! Dominique would be back, and he didn’t want her to witness this weirdo spectacle. Just as he contemplated a way to remove it, she slipped it higher, her thumb edging his crotch—

  That’s it!

  He plucked the hand off and put in her lap. But she was still silently laughing.

  “Come on, Lottie. What’s so funny about this guy Sute? He’s, like, the town fool?”

  Lottie slugged more beer while roving her hand in a circle.

  “You’ll tell me later?”

  More rapid nods.

  Collier frowned. He knew it was his own flaw, though—his intent curiosity. Why can’t I forget about all this bullshit and just finish my book? That’s what I’m here for, not gossip.

  Nor was he here to revel in all this lust. He tried to glance around inadvertently, but anytime his eyes fell on an attractive woman, his crotch tingled. It got to the point that he forced himself not to look anywhere. He pretended to peruse the cased uniforms on display but even this he couldn’t do without catching a glimpse of someone. Eventually he pointed to a case of Confederate double-breasted frock coats. “Lots of uniforms here,” he said, if only to not sit in silence.

  Lottie tapped him on the shoulder, looked right at him, and mouthed I love you!

  Somebody please shoot me, Collier thought. He struggled for anything to deflect his unease. “So, uh, are you, uh, sure you don’t want something to eat?”

  You! she mouthed and grinned.

  He pretended not to understand. I’m dying here. His next errant glance fell on her foot in the too-big shoe, which she was still anxiously rocking.

  Even her ankle was attractive. Even the vein up the top of her foot seemed erotic.

  I need help! I need a counselor!

  Relief emptied on him when Dominique reappeared behind the bar. She’d removed her brewer’s apron, sporting full B-cups and a trim, curvy figure with wide hips and a flat stomach. The plain attire—jeans and a white cardigan—only augmented her unique, radiant cuteness. She seemed to repress a smile when she saw who was sitting next to Collier. “Hi, there, Lottie.”

  Lottie waved energetically, and gulped her beer.

  “How’s the wort?” Collier asked.

  “Yeasting nicely. It’s for the next batch of Maibock.”

  “I’ll have to try that after I’ve notated the lager well enough.” He watched her washing barley dust off her hands in the triple sinks behind the bar. She’s just…absolutely…adorable…

  Lottie’s hand opened on his thigh and pressed down. Collier almost flinched until he saw that she was just pushing off his leg to get off her stool. She’s faced! “Here, let me help you.” He stood and got her to her feet. She grinned up cockeyed at him; the top of her head came to his nipple. She mouthed something and made hand gestures, then turned
and clopped away in the big shoes.

  “I guess she wants to leave now.”

  “I think she just wants to go to the bathroom,” Dominique said.

  Collier watched the tight buttocks clench with each drunken step. “My God, I hope she doesn’t fall,” he muttered. “Maybe I should help her.”

  “Probably not the best idea,” Dominique replied. Now she was polishing some slim altbier glasses. “She’d pull you into the bathroom with her. She’s a card, all right, but I guess you’re realizing that.”

  “You have no idea.” He retook his stool and sighed.

  “The poor girl’s so messed up. And you shouldn’t have given her a beer; she can’t even hold one.”

  Collier saw that Lottie’s big pint glass stood empty.

  “She’ll be a handful getting back to Mrs. Butler’s place, just so you know in advance.”

  He nodded grimly. “I’ll get her out of here. Hopefully she won’t pass out in the ladies’ room.”

  Dominique laughed. “That’s happened a few times. She’s actually a very nice girl and handles her problems well…except when she drinks. You’ll see.”

  Collier caught the attractive brewer grinning. Oh, boy. With no apron now to cover her upper chest, Collier’s eyes were rioting to stare. Don’t stare! He almost bit down on his lower lip. And don’t drink any more. You’re drunk! The need to make a good impression overwhelmed him, but now he knew that if he even talked too much, he might slur his words.

  “Care for one more?”

  “No, thanks. I’ve had a few too many already,” he admitted. “If I had one more, I’d make an idiot of myself in front of you. I wish I had your moderation.”

  “You should’ve seen me in my younger days.” Another interesting remark. I’ll bet she was an animal. As for the “younger days” comment—How old can she be? She can’t be much more than thirty. When she polished the next glass, he noticed that all of her fingers lacked rings.

  Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh…

  “I’d really like to talk to you some more,” Collier braved, “but I’ve got to get back to the hotel. Do you work tomorrow?”

  “All day till seven. And I’d really like to talk to you some more, too, Mr. Collier.”