by Mark Lashway
“Yes, I think so. He was with us several years, had made it through….”
“And he was also a traitor,” Cam calmly interrupted.
“A traitor? What on Earth do you mean, Cam?” the abbot replied, flustered now.
“Just what you’d guess. He was workin’ against all of you in the abbey.”
“How could that be?”
“Tell me, Abbot John, after Manuel was killed, how long was it before Joey showed up on your doorstep?” Cam asked, pressing the issue now.
“Only a day or two, I guess. But that doesn’t mean….”
“Ned just received information that Joey was Duke Lando’s nephew.”
“Oh my, oh my Lord,” the abbot gasped as the implications sank in. “Duke….”
“Duke simply had another operative ready to go when the original plan with Manuel hit a snag. You know, a Plan B.”
“So what’s this original plan you’re referring to, Witter?” Inkwell asked, intrigued.
“Put yourself in Duke’s shoes, Ned. His efforts at gettin’ control of the abbey’s wonderful beers had fallen through and they were wary now. So if you’re a stubborn fuckin’ bullhead like Duke, what do you resort to then?”
“The simple expedient of stealing,” Inkwell replied, grasping it now. “But Witter, what was he going to steal?”
“Yeast.”
“Yeast?”
“Yeah, yeast, brewer’s yeast. You’ve heard me refer to it, and I’m sure the Stardust Boys talked about it that day you stayed and watched ‘em, right?”
“Right, but….”
“Abbot John, you did say that the abbey uses its own proprietary yeast makin’ your beers, right?”
“Yes. It took years of work to develop it.”
“I’m missing the significance so far, Witter.”
“Yeast is as crucial an ingredient in beer as any other, Ned. Different strains give particular characteristics to the beer.”
“OK, I’m with you so far.”
“My guess is that the abbey developed yeasts that are different enough from any other to be considered new strains in their own right. They are what make the abbey’s beers so delicious, isn’t that right, Abbot John?” The cleric merely nodded.
“But what about all of the other stuff, like the malt, for instance?”
“Yeah, they have an influence, but with enough tinkerin’ an enterprisin’ brewer could get in the ballpark and come close to guessin’ an actual recipe. But when you’re talkin’ about yeast, it’s not that simple. Usin’ a different, similar strain might get you in the same neighborhood, but it clearly wouldn’t be the same great brew. See what I mean?”
“I guess I shouldn’t be surprised, but it still seems far-fetched that….”
“No, it’s not!” Cam exclaimed. “Listen to me. There’s a beer revolution that’s been goin’ on in this country the past two or three decades, Ned. High-quality, tasty brews from smaller outfits have caught on with the drinkin’ public. Duke said it himself, that the abbey’s beers would gain a large followin’ in North America. Duke is a visionary in some ways, he could see the way it was goin’ and wanted to cash in. He’s a hyena lookin’ to rip the flesh off these monks. If he had possession of their yeasts, he could make millions and leave them out in the cold, understand?”
“So it comes down to cold-blooded industrial espionage?” Inkwell asked.
“That’s pretty much it. When Abbot John mentioned the yeast the other day, it was like a bee in my bonnet, a buzzin’ that I just couldn’t explain. I couldn’t put my finger on anythin’ until we saw that second body. Those two young men had to have been out in the boonies for some reason, right? Manuel worked in the brewery regularly and would’ve known where the yeast was kept, which of course was in the walk-in cooler. Joey would’ve been briefed by Uncle Duke as to what he was lookin’ for, and where to go find it.”
“So, you’re saying that they both lifted some samples of yeast and took off into the night? We didn’t find anything….”
“Nope! And in order to keep those yeast in healthy condition, the thieves would’ve been carryin’ the samples in cooler bags, or some such item. We found none of those.”
“So the fate of the stolen yeast remains a mystery?” Abbot John wondered.
“Possibly, but I think you’re safe,” Cam told him. “What I want to know, Abbot John, is why you didn’t go to somebody when Duke started shapin’ up bad?”
“We began receiving vague warnings about possible violence should we reveal our concerns to anybody. They were very subtle messages, delivered in such a way as to make it impossible for anybody to determine the source, so I was not going to take the chance of exposing my brothers to such terrible things. Maybe it was naïve, I know, but we’re just peaceful servants of the Lord seeking a quiet life of contemplation.”
“Well, I’ve got to believe that time is also getting short for Duke,” Inkwell observed, “so I think his next move is really soon. My advice to you, Abbot John, is that you have a few of your people stay up through the night and watch around the brewery. I’m going to assign a few of my people to stake out the outside and hopefully catch Duke in the act.”
“I will cooperate fully in this,” the abbot declared. “Is there any potential for….”
“Violence? Maybe if they were only encountering your people,” Inkwell explained, “but with my guns there, they’ll fold in a second. I have no doubt about that.”
“I appreciate the help from you gentlemen and look forward to the end of this.”
“We’ll talk some more later, Abbot John,” Cam said, giving Inkwell the look that he wanted to speak to him privately. Darryl Stayne, the FBI agent, hadn’t said a word the entire time and followed them outside.
When they were alone, Cam looked around a moment before speaking. “The one lingerin’ problem is that the killer’s still out there. Ned, I’ve gotta believe it’s somebody inside the abbey,” he concluded.
“The Lutheran mole,” Inkwell began, then thought about it. “Wait a minute. There is no Lutheran mole after all, is there, Witter?”
“No, Ned, there never was.”
“So it was some monk inside the abbey and they got the yeast samples back to safety?”
“Or at the very least, destroyed them so they would be useless.”
“Well, gee, this is a let-down,” Inkwell decided. “I guess there’s no anti-Catholic hate crime angle to it after all. I’m sorry, Darryl, I didn’t mean….”
“Don’t worry about it,” the FBI man said. “It’s great getting out of the usual rut and roaming around a bit on occasion, you know? Well, I suppose I should head on out and hit the road back to Minneapolis.”
“Wait up and I’ll walk you out,” Cam told him. “Ned, I suggest that you take the opportunity to grab a few hours of sleep before everythin’ gets goin’ after dark. That’s what I’m gonna do. We’re gonna need it badly.”
“Why do you say that, Witter?”
“Instinct, Ned. I got the same feelin last year just before that big night. Tonight is gonna be a long one, and a dramatic one. We’ll need to rest in the meantime.”
♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦
Duke Lando gave a slight groan as he awoke from his nap. It had been fitful sleep. The intense heat of the day had not allowed him to rest comfortably in his hiding place and now he was groggy, trying to gain some energy. His mood wasn’t helped by the fact that he was sweaty and hungry. He would wait until dark to discreetly make his way over to the showers, then return to his tent to grab some food.
Taking out his cellphone, Lando called Lyle’s number yet again. Once more it was sent to voice mail. Goddamnit! he raged. He was getting worried now. The rest of his crew knew the place and time to meet, but not those two. Apparently he would have to take the risk of sneaking around GWIBE to find them. He found it unbelievable that neither man had attempted to contact him yet. Nothing like this had ever happened before.
Not long now,
he thought. Darkness isn’t too far off, and then I can start moving again.
♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦
“Frank, don’t!” the slim, flirty brunette yelped as Frank pulled her down onto his lap with one hand, maintaining firm control of his beer with the other. Slapping his hand, she got off and stood up. “Britt and I are going to go out and get some food for us now. Do you guys want anything in particular?”
“Nah, I’m not picky,” Lyle answered, then lightly kissed the hand of the strawberry blonde named Britt.
“Chloe, anything you get will be fine,” Frank added.
As the two woman walked away Lyle leaned over to his partner and said, “You know what? I like those two gals.”
“Yep, me too. It was a lucky break coming across those two.”
“That’s for sure,” Lyle concluded, taking a deep gulp of his latest beer, a märzenbier that they had gotten from Gerhard Streicher shortly before when they’d dropped in to check out Little Germany. “You know, I just can’t understand why that Gerhard seemed ashamed of this beer of his. It’s absolutely great!”
“Yeah, I love it too,” Frank replied. “You know something, Lyle? This is living, it really is. I love this stuff.”
“Yeah, it’s easy to take to. Frank, let me ask you something about our job….”
“You mean am I also thinking how great it would be if we never heard from Duke? Yeah, I sure as hell am. I don’t want this right here to end.”
“I’ve been thinking about my life, Frank. I’m kinda tired of killing people.”
“Same here. I mean, all of the guys we scratched were lowlifes, after all, but it still bothers me now. I wouldn’t mind retiring from that business.”
“Phew! That’s a relief, that you think the same way. I mean, we both have money stashed away, right?”
“Right. We could go legit and do other work. Maybe we could be consultants.”
“Yeah. We can think about it more when we leave here, but lemme tell you that I want to stay here right up to the last minute.”
“Damned right. These are good folks here, and I’ve never drank so good, you know?”
“When we head home we could get started fitting ourselves out to start homebrewing, then next year it all wouldn’t seem so mysterious to us.”
“Right. Dale gave us those catalogs from the supply places. They’re interesting.”
“So are those books he lent us about brewing. I almost never spend much time reading, unless it’s the sports section, but those things have me hooked.”
“If we could get something going with Chloe and Britt, then our lives will really be looking up, won’t they?”
“You bet. Great brew and good women. We can’t ask for much more than that.”
♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦
“Well, thanks for showing me the way back to the parking area,” the FBI agent Darryl Stayne told Cam as they stood among the multitude of neatly parked vehicles.
“No problem. It’s almost dark. Are you sure you want to start back to Minneapolis this late in the day?” Cam asked. “We can always find a place for you to sleep over.”
“Thanks, but I’ve got to head back. My desk is full. I wish I could, though. This event has one wild reputation, we heard about it out here even before this place hosted it.”
“You must mean last year,” Cam muttered, feeling his face redden.
“Yeah.” Stayne had the good grace not to mention that the “don’t pull a Witter” lesson was also being taught to new FBI agents. “It’s too bad that it caused you major problems in your career, from what I’ve heard.”
“It didn’t help that your agency added to my headaches.”
“Hmmm? What do you mean by that?” Stayne calmly asked, a quizzical look on his face.
Cam took a few minutes to efficiently summarize the events of last year, taking great care to leave Andy’s name out of it. Stayne’s confused expression turned slightly amused at first, but then clouded over with a look of deep suspicion.
“As for FBI involvement in that case, that’s flat-out wrong,” Stayne told him with a shake of his head.
“Look, that’s what I was told from a very reliable source,” Cam told him.
“No, apparently not so reliable, Cam. I highly doubt that the FBI was involved.”
“How could you know that out here? Each FBI field office doesn’t tell each other about their cases necessarily, right? Security and all that?”
“Officially, no, unless they’re somehow involved. But let’s just say I know almost all of the agents in the field offices back east. I worked in the east for several years before coming out here. I would’ve heard something about it, Cam.”
“But the word was that the FBI was interested in Trub in some unspecified national security way. Besides, what if the agents came from out west? Would you know all of them?”
“No. But maybe somebody took them as FBI agents, and your source misidentified them. Just out of curiosity, where was this Trub character from?”
“Oregon,” Cam replied. There, he’s not so confident now.
“Who were these so-called reliable sources?” Stayne persisted.
“Well, some people I knew from last year,” he said vaguely, acting confused, determined to give nothing away.
“Did you witness any of those events?”
“No, I was gone by then, yanked out. Some of my acquaintances here….”
“Who, as I’ve seen, consume beer practically from the time they wake up in late morning until they pass out, comatose, in the wee hours,” Stayne said, smiling broadly now. “Cam, have you wondered why FBI agents from out west would go all that way and not turn it over….”
“Uh, yeah, right,” Cam could only mumble, his head swirling. I didn’t think of that.
“Besides, you know how unreliable second-hand information is and how it gets worse with more re-tellings. Christ, if it was this crew here filling you in, then it’s a wonder that it wasn’t the CIA or goons from a secret corporate hit squad.”
“Gee, don’t I feel like an asshole,” Cam groaned, keeping up the front.
“Well, hopefully you can put your mind at rest, at least as far as that goes,” the FBI man told him, shaking his hand. “Good luck with your career, Cam.”
“Thanks.” And he undoubtedly figures that I need it, Cam thought as he began walking back toward the main settlement. Goddamnit, who was it who suckered me? I don’t think Andy would’ve deliberately misled me like that. Maybe the people higher up in the food chain lied to him, just in case he did spill something to me. That means that they’re still looking to get me, that they’re not going to accept the hearing decision.
He took out his cellphone and dialed Andy’s personal cell number. It rang several times and then went to voice mail. He left a brief message but knew that Andy would not be calling him back tonight. Then he took his own advice and returned to the tent to nap.
♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦
“Fuck you all to hell!” Duke Lando raged, ready to smash his cellphone with his foot, suppressing the scream so as not to draw attention. He had tried to call Lyle and Frank yet again, and it had predictably gone to voice mail. They were the keys to the plan’s success. Now there was no choice. He would definitely have to venture around GWIBE and find them. Wait a minute. There’s no point in doing all the work and putting myself at risk. Deville and Sharper are free. I’ll put those two idiots to work instead. He dialed Tom Deville’s number. Thankfully it rang and didn’t go to voice mail.
“Hello?” said Deville at the other end.
“Tom, it’s me,” Lando said, knowing that Deville would recognize his voice. “I need you guys to do something for me.” He gave Deville a concise summary of what he wanted done, providing good descriptions of Lyle and Frank. When he hung up he felt a sense of satisfaction and relief. Things would work out in the end despite all of the problems, he calculated.
“What did Duke want?” Clay Sharper asked his friend after
the call had ended.
“To find a couple associates of his,” Deville replied simply. “You know, Clay, I’m picking up a whiff of desperation about Duke now, you know?”
“Yeah. Between now and midnight we really have to seriously consider whether or not we’re gonna….”
“We have no choice,” Deville cut him off. “No job, no money, it’s as simple as that. Let’s find these two guys and get the damned thing over with. Maybe after that we’ll have a few days to still enjoy things, OK?”
-25-
Phil Utah moved around the Ace Brewing tent as he finished getting ready for tonight’s upcoming competitions. His shoes had been buffed, he had shaved earlier, his hair was perfect, his tie had been done with painstaking care, now he went to stand in front of the mirror to practice his smile and salesman routine while flashing those pearly whites. He was just about ready to leave for the demo area. A particular sense of contentment filled him as he looked over the back wall of the tent, where there were now patches covering the holes cut by those savages. I did a very nice job with that, he told himself.
“Phil,” came a voice from behind him and he startled. Turning quickly to see which of his many enemies it could be, he relaxed when he saw Cameron Witter standing there.
“Why, hello, Cam!” Utah exclaimed, then noticed Witter’s somewhat haggard look. “Why, you look like you should have gotten some rest!”
“Believe me, I tried,” Cam replied, “but I just couldn’t fall asleep. Too many problems on my mind, Phil, and I’m restless.”
“Well, then, I suppose you’ve come here to ask me something, right?”
“Right. There’s somethin’ that’s been buggin’ me all along, Phil, and maybe you’d have the answer for me.”
“Why, I can try to help you. What is it, Cam?”
“I need to know how GWIBE ended up here, this particular place in the middle of a North Dakota nowhere.”
Utah didn’t answer at first, merely giving Cam a curious look. He hadn’t expected such a question and was wondering if Cam was serious or asking the sort of question a GWIBEr would ask while drunk. The look on Cam’s face indicated that he was completely serious. “Well, Cam, it’s a strange story, to say the least,” Utah finally responded.
