The Black Train

bonnets, billowy skirts, and frilled, low-cut white tops. A line formed at the hostess stand, and Jiff muttered, “We ain’t waitin’ for a table, not when I tell ’em we got a TV celebrity here.”

Collier grabbed his arm, afret—“No, please, Jiff. I’d rather sit up at the bar.”

“Cool.”

Jesus, Collier thought. Brick, brass, and dark veneered wood surrounded them, while framed Civil War regalia hung on the walls. A tourist trap, yes, but Collier liked it for its divergence from L.A. big-time, and its effort. “Great bar,” he enthused of the long mahogany top and traditional brass rail. Buried in the bar top’s crystal clear resin were bullets, buttons, and coins from the era. Another familiar—and pleasing—sight greeted him at once. Behind the bar, service tuns—beer’s final stage before consumption—shined with edges of gold light, cask-shaped brass vessels the size of compact cars. A chalkboard posted the specialties: GENERAL LEE RUBIN, STONEWALL JACKSON MAIBOCK, PICKETT’S PILS, and CUSHER’S CIVIL WAR LAGER. Collier started a tab with his credit card and ordered two lagers from a barmaid who would’ve been nondescript save for a bosom like the St. Pauli Girl.

“I guess them big things there are where they brew the beer.” Jiff gestured the brass vessels.

“They’re called service tuns,” Collier explained. “The beer’s actually brewed in bigger tuns upstairs called brewing vessels, but it all starts in the mash tun. There are about ten steps to making beer, and beers like these— lagers—take at least two months to ferment.”

Jiff clearly couldn’t have cared less; he was just looking for familiar faces.

He seemed to be searching the crowd for someone, to the point that Collier began to look around himself, hoping not to be missing something. He must be eyeballing girls… A moment later, an attractive diner in her twenties sailed by: tight stonewashed jeans and a tube top that satcheled prominent breasts. What a hottie… He got a crook in his neck watching her wend between tables. But then he saw that Jiff hadn’t so much as cast her a glance.

Before Collier could focus his newfound sexism on other diners, two pilsner glasses were placed before them. Collier immediately expected a Samuel Adams rip-off when he noted the sharp amber color, but when he raised the glass and sniffed…

“Oh, man. Great nose,” he said.

Jiff looked perplexed. “Who? The barmaid?”

Collier sighed. “No, Jiff. That’s how beer writers describe a beer’s aroma. A rich but tight aroma like this means the brewer uses good water without a lot of minerals. It’s also a sign of extensive filtering and refusal to cut corners with pasteurization.”

“Uh-huh.”

Collier reexamined the beer’s color, as if the glass were a scryer’s ball, then, Here goes, and he took the first sip, holding it in his mouth.

The emergence of the grain was immediate. The astringency of the hops—six-row, he was sure—rounded off after the initial sensation that experts called mouthfeel. After the first swallow, Collier’s palate delighted in the complex, if not perfect, finish. “This is outstanding,” he said.

Jiff had chugged half of his already. “Yeah, good stuff.”

Good stuff. This guy wouldn’t know the difference between Schlitz and Schutzenberger Jubilator. But what did he expect? Two sips later, the beer continued to retain all of its character. “Oh, how about ordering us something to eat, Jiff. Have whatever you like; I’ll just take a burger.” But food couldn’t have interested him less right now. Further sips drew the lace down low; then he let the last inch sit for a few minutes to see what characteristics appeared or vanished as the lager’s open temperature rose.

“So you like it, huh?”

“Indeed, I do, Jiff.” Collier sat calm and sedate, the awe of any beer snob who’d come across a surprise. “This might be one of the best American lagers I’ve ever tasted.”

“Didn’t you say somethin’ earlier ’bout how you’d heard of Cusher’s from someone else?”

“Actually, yes. A few friends in the field had tried it—but they couldn’t remember the name of the town. So I did some Web searches to try to pin the place down. In fact—” Collier extracted a folded printout. “Maybe you could help me with something.”

“Help ya anyway I can, Mr. Collier. Say, can we order two more?”

“Oh, yes, yes, of course.” Collier opened the sheet of paper. “Like I said, I was Web-searching—”

Jiff’s eyed scrunched up. “Web—You mean, like, spiderwebs? Thought you were beer searching.”

How could Collier not appreciate that? “No, Jiff. The World Wide Web—”

“Oh, that ‘puter stuff, information highway’n all,” Jiff assented.

“Yes.” He didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. The sheet he’d printed out off the “dining out” section of an obscure Southern-tourist Web site. The passage he’d flagged read:

…some of the most extensive collections of authentic Civil War regalia in the South, not to mention Cusher’s, the only restaurant in the South that features a menu of genuine Civil War cuisine and beers brewed from actual recipes dating back to 1860.

The address was found at the bottom along with the name of the article’s author: J.G. SUTE, AUTHOR OF FIVE BOOKS AND THE AREA’S HISTORICAL SCHOLAR.

“See, right here.” Collier pointed to the bottom. “This man, J.G. Sute. It says he’s a local scholar. Have you ever heard of him?”

For whatever reason, Jiff stalled. Then he blinked and answered, “Oh, sure, ole J.G. we call him. He’s a townie, all right.”

“Sounds like he’s a successful author.”

Another weird stall. “Oh, sure, Mr. Collier. He’s written some books.”

“About local breweries, by chance?”

Jiff still seemed off guard but was trying not to show it. “No, sir, not that I know of. He writes history books, mainly books about this town.”

“Books about Gast?”

“Yeah, sure, and how the town worked into the war’n all. And also local history and such.”

Damn. Collier was hoping for an area culinary writer who might point him in the right direction of any similar breweries. “I’d really like to talk to him but he’s not in the phone book. Where might I find him?”

What’s wrong with this guy now? Collier wondered after asking the question. Was it his imagination, or was Jiff uneasy about this man Sute?

“Well, he usually eats here every day for lunch, sometimes hangs out at the bar down the corner at night.” Jiff wiped his brow with a napkin. “Uh, and he spends a lot of time at the bookstore durin’ the day, hawkin’ his books. The owner don’t mind ’cos he’s a talkative kind’a guy and he gets tourists to buy stuff.”

Collier had to ask. “Jiff, you really seem bothered that I asked about this guy.”

The younger man sighed, clearly ill at ease. “Aw, no, it’s just—”

“He’s a local gossip? You don’t want him bad-mouthing the town?”

“No, no—”

“Then you don’t want to bad-mouth him? This guy’s like—what? The local jackass? Some old cracker-barrel kind of guy, mostly full of crap? The town dick?”

At least Jiff cracked a smile now. “He’s a nice enough guy, but yeah, pretty much everything you just said. Ain’t that old—late fifties, early sixties, I think. Drives around in his brand-new Caddy talkin’ his malarkey. Nice set of wheels, though. one’a them fancy Caddy SUVs. Enchilada it’s called.”

Enchil—oh, the rube means Escalade. “So he is successful from his books. A brand-new one of those will set you back fifty grand minimum.”

Jiff shrugged and kind of nodded.

“Do you know him well? Are you friends?”

Jiff sprang a gaze at Collier that was nearly one of fright. “Aw, no, er, I mean, I know him, sure, but—” He gulped. “But only ’cos I do odd jobs for him, handymantype stuff. I do a lot’a work on the side for folks, includin’ him. Trimmin’ hedges, fixin’ doors’n windows and such.”