“What rum, sir?”
He reached into the garbage can and fished out the glass. He sniffed it. “This rum. Florence, if I report this, it will be your third infraction. Do you realize what that means?”
Her head bowed in shame. “Yes sir, I do. Would you like I should pack up me t’ings now?”
“The rum belonged to me,” I said.
The man turned to me slowly, a pained grin on his face. “And you are?”
“A tourist. I was on the tour and bought a pint. I insisted Florence have a drink with me and she was just obliging. The customer is always right, right?”
He looked back and forth at each of us. Florence did not raise her head. I stared straight ahead, still gnawing away on my piece of cane.
“Florence. Did he pay for that cane?”
She nodded solemnly.
“I wonder, what compelled you to share your rum with this woman, sir?”
“Common courtesy and the desire not to drink alone, sir. I was very keen to try your spiced rum as this was my first visit to the distillery, and this fine woman agreed to drink with me. Is that really so bad?”
He steepled his fingers in front of his lips, then said, “Very well. Seeing as you were complying with a customer’s wishes. Florence, please go back to work. I see some more customers approaching. Remember, I’m watching you.”
Her head bobbed quickly up and down. “Yes, sir. Yes, sir.”
“Good, good. Now, sir, may I walk you around a bit? I mean, you appear to be very interested in our rum.”
He was pigeon-toed but had an athletic build. The man worked out.
“Oh terribly,” I said. “Are you the manager?”
“Yes, you could say that. Foreman, manager, whatever you wish to call the person in charge of the day-to-day operations of this facility. What brought you here?”
“An interest in your rum, but also, I’m assisting Junior in an inquiry.”
He stopped in front of a discarded barrel someone had propped up. A sign was posted on the barrel: Rain Water.
“Do you mean, Herbert Bacon, Junior? Francine’s grandson?”
“Yes, him. And his brother Harold.”
“Now I’m curious. Is there something you need from us here at the distillery?”
“To be honest ... ” I paused.
“Gilroy,” he filled in his name.
“Gilroy. I’m at an impasse. You know about Francine, right?”
“Terrible news. It’s why I wore my black shirt all week. She was a fine woman. Don’t know what we’ll do without her.”
“Was she hands-on here?”
“You know, Mister?”
“Montague. Boise Montague.”
“Yes, Mr. Montague. Do you mind if I see some identification?”
I showed him my license. He pulled out a cell phone and made a call. He stepped to the side while reading my name off the license to someone. I presumed either Junior or Harold. After a minute of whispered exchanges, he returned my license and ended the call with a, “Thank you.”
“Harold confirmed you work for them. I hope you understand, I must ... ”
“Please, Mr. Gilroy, no need. I completely understand.”
“Francine Bacon was very active in all areas of her business enterprises. She believed in this business and the people working here. I am trying to uphold her standards, hence the strict policies you saw me enforcing on Florence.”
“Sure, sure, I get it. No drinking on the job. Makes sense, but kind of ironic, wouldn’t you say?” I laughed.
He forced a thin smile. “Of course, but we do serious work here and people drinking can be dangerous, even if it is our business. Wouldn’t you agree.”
“Yes, yes. Safety first. Can you tell me what kind of wood you use for these barrels to age the rum and give it such a great flavor?”
A huge grin burst from his face. “Ah, my area of expertise. Our spiced rum is aged a minimum of three years in oak barrels.”
We now stood inside a storage area that was not part of the tour. I tapped gently on one of the barrels. “Three years seems short. I mean higher quality whiskey ages ten, even twenty years, right?”
“It is the minimum. Aging happens faster in the tropics, so we cannot age as long as they do in places like Tennessee or Kentucky or Scotland.”
“The heat?”
“Evaporation or what the Brits call The Angel’s Share. While those producers lose two or three percent annually, we are bound to lose up to eleven percent. We cannot afford for all the product to evaporate.”
“How long have you worked for the Bacons?”
“A long time. My family has worked for them since the eighteenth century.”
At this point, my antenna rose like a shirtless wrestler’s nipples in a blizzard. I wasn’t sure how to ask this question delicately so I let it tumble out, my inhibitions lowered by the rum I’d imbibed.
“Were your ancestors slaves?”
Ahead of me he had been walking, the rubber soles of his black shoes lightly echoing in the large space. He stopped. A monstrous silence reigned as if all the workers, tourists, even Florence, had frozen in place in anticipation of Gilroy’s reaction to my incendiary inquiry.
The wedding band on his left hand glinted, catching some unseen source of light. Somewhere a compressor hissed. The sweet smell of liquor and wood permeated everything. What did Gilroy’s wife think every night when he came home smelling of booze? Did she accept this as his job? Why would anyone keep working for someone who had enslaved his family? I didn’t quite have the nerve to ask that question.
“I’m sorry, but what is your name again?”
Had he really forgotten my name after viewing my driver’s license and asking Harold about me?
“Boise Montague. Did I say something wrong?”
“It’s a delicate subject.”
“Slavery or your family?” I asked.
He continued down the passage, passing cask after cask until we came to another area where the bottling took place. There were barrels set on their sides and tapped. A woman filled the bottles by hand and placed them on a conveyor belt that sent them along and sealed the caps.
“Here is where our spiced and select dark rums are bottled by hand,
