The Black Train Part 7

"Yes, sir, it is." Jiff pointed. "That there's the charcoal chute, and there, the ore drop. That l'il one there is the outflow, and there a'course, is the airway," he said, pointing to the pipe that extruded from a bellows the size of a refrigerator. "The smith'd yank this chain, to pump the bellows"-he demonstrated, and they could hear the device whistling air-"and the air'd shoot into the bed. It'd get up to 2,300 degrees in there, turn iron ore or d.a.m.n near anything else into a red-hot puddle."

Now Collier noticed other features: a cooling barrel, a tool hanger, a grinding wheel and stand. The anvil, which he'd spotted earlier, had a date engraved: 1856. Collier was finding himself staggered by the nostalgia. These weren't props; they were genuine relics of a longdead way of life. Real people built this thing, he thought. Some guy, in 1856, MADE that anvil with his own two hands.

"Has anyone used it, I mean, recently?"

Jiff scratched at a mortar seam with a penknife. The material was still hard. "For iron forging? Naw. But there's no reason why it wouldn't still work. You melt the ore against a wall of charcoal while pumpin' the bellows. All we use it for now is cookin' during holiday weekends. Sometimes we'll hang a couple of pig quarters inside and smoke 'em for twenty-four hours with hickory. But way back when, they even had to make their own charcoal; they'd pile up twenty, thirty cords of wood, light the middle, then cover it all over with sod. See, when the carbon in the charcoal mixes with the pig iron, it becomes steel. They didn't even know it back then, but that's what they were makin'. All by hand."

Smart guy for a hayseed, Collier thought. "This is pretty specified information. How do you know so much about it?"

"Grew up 'round all this stuff, so I asked. Most folks in these parts all have ancestors going back to even before the war. You learn a lot when you ask the right folks."

"That you do." Collier was impressed. Behind the charcoal shed he saw a pile of blocks. He picked one up. "Oh, here's another mold like the one your mother has displayed. A scissor mold."

"Shears," Jiff corrected. "Probably took some poor b.a.s.t.a.r.d a full day just to chisel one of those things."

But Collier saw a veritable pile of them. "That's an awful lot of molds," he pointed out. "Two blocks for each single pair of shears? There must be enough there for fifteen pair."

"Yeah, that is strange. Shears were important tools, a'course, but I don't know why the smith would make so many molds."

"Almost like a production line. I'll bet he made hundreds of pairs with these blocks." Collier thought about it. "I wonder why?"

"Ya got me, Mr. Collier. But the funny thing is there was only one single pair of shears ever found on the property-the one in the display case."

It was an unimportant question but one that needled him. What the h.e.l.l did they need all those shears for?

"Nice, uh, nice car," Jiff remarked when he got into the Bug. "What, it's foreign?"

Collier pulled out of the front court, chuckling. "I got stuck with it at the rental office at the airport. I know it looks ridiculous. It's a woman's car."

Jiff raised a brow.

The horizon darkened as they drove down the hill, the air getting cooler. Collier saw the sign again-PENELOPE STREET-and remembered something. "Would this road be named after Penelope Gast?"

"Yes, sir. You must'a seen the portrait at the house. She was Harwood's freaky wife."

"Why do you say *freaky'?"

Jiff sighed as much to himself as he could. "Just more bad talk. See, Mr. Collier, I love this town and got respect for it. I hate to spread garbage talk."

"Come on, Jiff. All towns have their folklore and their notorious figures-big deal. I have the impression there's quite a bit about Harwood Gast that's actually very interesting. To you, it's hundred-and-fifty-year-old gossip but to me, it's fascinating. Let me guess. She killed herself right along with Gast, and now their ghosts prowl the house at night."

"Naw, naw. It's just that she weren't the finest of ladies, if ya know what I mean. She got around."

"Promiscuous wives are part of every town, Jiff."

"Yeah, sure, but, see, she weren't no good at all if ya believe the stories. There's lots of 'em, and they're all bad. Makes me feel like I'm bad-mouthin' my home. We've always tried to tone down that kind'a stuff. It could give the town a bad name, hurt my ma's business."

Collier grinned, egging him on. "Come on, Jiff. Don't jive me."

Jiff shook his head. "All right. Penelope Gast didn't kill herself, it was her husband that murdered her."

"Why? Did he go crazy?"

"No, sir, he killed her 'cos he found out she'd been pregnant with some other fella's kid. What'cha gotta understand is that once the railroad construction started to get close to the Georgia border, Gast would be away from home for weeks at a time. And for months, towards the end."

"The more track they laid, the farther it took him from his house," Collier a.s.sumed.

"'Zactly. To get back home to visit, he'd have to take one of his own supply trains that kept feeding track and ties. But there weren't a whole lotta them. He'd have to wait."

"And while he was away-"

Jiff nodded, morose. "She'd take up with other fellas and got herself pregnant that way three times. She also got herself an abortion three times. They had abortions back then, ya know. I suspect Gast knew all along but waited till the railroad was finished before her killed her."

"He wanted to see his project completed, in other words."

"The railroad was very important to him. He told people that he believed by 1863, the Confederate army would have secured Was.h.i.+ngton, D.C., and his railroad would be crucial in moving supplies father north."

What a strange way to phrase it, Collier thought. "When you say he *told' people he believed that...do you mean it was just a sham, that there was some other reason he went to the monumental expense and effort of building the railroad?"

"Oh, turn here, Mr. Collier." Jiff leaned forward, pointing. "Cusher's is right there on the corner. Yes, sir, you're gonna love the beer they got."

"Yes, but do you think Gast might've-"

"Folks just rave about the beer, yes sir. And they got several kinds. Beer expert such as yourself'll really get into it."

Collier smiled. He's ducking the topic again. That's really bizarre. He thought it best to drop it for now, but in all, he couldn't have been more intrigued.

With the sun dipping behind the mountain now, the light was being sapped. Streetlights with carriage lamp tops were coming on; shop windows glowed bright. Now that they were downtown, Collier thought of a dollhouse community: spotless streets, storefronts and building walls s.h.i.+ny in new paint, picture-perfect flower displays. Even the people were immaculate, mostly married couples strolling the quaint streets, window shopping. No riffraff, Collier saw with some relief. Typically he'd see psychotic b.u.ms sullying Rodeo Drive and Crips and Bloods blemis.h.i.+ng Redondo.

"And there it is."

Collier saw the cursive sign-CUSHER'S-topping a slats.h.i.+ngled awning on the corner. CIVIL WAR CUISINE AND HANDCRAFTED BEER. The building itself stood three stories, ideal for a brewery, which processed beer from top floors to the bottom, exploiting gravity. Large windows showed a full dining room.

"Wow, not what I thought," Collier admitted. "I pictured a small place, kind of a dive."

"Oh, no, sir," Jiff spoke up. "It's fancy inside, and, well, big-city prices, if you wanna know the truth."

"Makes sense, for tourists."

More pa.s.sersby shot funky looks at the car when he parked. Collier just shook his head. As night beckoned, the little town seemed to bloom in crisp yellow light and smiling strollers.

He grinned the instant he got out of the car. You can tell there's a brewery here...He took in the familiar aroma: the mash of barley malt being heated.

Inside, waiters wore the Confederate equivalent to military dress blues; waitresses were adorned in white 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, bra.s.s, 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 bra.s.s rail. Buried in the bar top's crystal clear resin were bullets, b.u.t.tons, 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-s.h.i.+ned with edges of gold light, cask-shaped bra.s.s 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 bra.s.s 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 b.r.e.a.s.t.s. 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 s.e.xism on other diners, two pilsner gla.s.ses were placed before them. Collier immediately expected a Samuel Adams rip-off when he noted the sharp amber color, but when he raised the gla.s.s 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 gla.s.s 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 sn.o.b 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 a.s.sented.

"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 pa.s.sage 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."

d.a.m.n. 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 jacka.s.s? Some old cracker-barrel kind of guy, mostly full of c.r.a.p? The town d.i.c.k?"

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?"