by F J messina
Brad took a half-step forward. “Actually, Mr. Bartley, we’re not sure.”
“Then why the hell are you botherin’ me?” The words came out fast. So did the smell of alcohol, perhaps bourbon, perhaps not.
Brad took a moment, scratched his ear. “Damn good question, sir. Damn good.” He smiled. “You see, we’re trying to figure out what happened to a man in Lexington, and somehow, the names of you and your brother came up.”
“And?”
“And honestly, we don’t know how important it is, but some folks are paying us pretty damn well to find out what happened to that man. We didn’t want to leave any stone unturned. Know what I mean?”
The man raised his head in the direction of Sonia. “What’s she doin’ here?”
Sonia could see Brad struggling a bit with the answer. She was pretty certain he wasn’t clear as to how well things would go over if he told the man that she was in charge. Neither one of them were sure how far into the mountains of Eastern Kentucky women’s liberation had made it.
Brad gave it his best shot. “We work together.”
The man pulled a dirty, yellowed handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his nose. As he did, Sonia noticed the redness in his eyes. This man has done some serious drinking already today, and we’re just a little past noon. “We’d appreciate your help,” she called out.
The man gave Brad a crooked smile. “She your boss?”
Brad’s smile was authentic this time. “Actually, sir, she damn well is.”
The man pushed the screen door open and spit some brownish substance right past Brad’s shoulder. “Knew it. She’s the brains. Just brought you along for the muscle.”
Brad’s head dropped as he chuckled. “I’m afraid you got that right sir.” He paused. “Now, about this man.”
“What’s his name?” The question came quickly.
Brad took a quick breath. “Victor Rasmussen. Know him?”
The man’s chin dropped as he shook his head. “Shee-it,” he said quietly. “Come on in.”
Sonia was surprised by the invitation. She looked quickly at Brad, who had turned to get her response, and used her eyes to tell him to accept. She pushed a wisp of hair out of her face. We’re not going to accomplish anything playing coy with this guy.
The man pushed the screen door open a few more inches and waited for Brad to take hold of it, then turned his back and disappeared into the darkness. Brad went in first, clearly choosing Sonia’s safety over chivalry. Sonia followed. As she did, her eyes scanned the main room─large plank oak floors, fieldstone fireplace with a stack of firewood next to it, wooden rocking chair, open passage to the kitchen divided by a wooden counter with a varnished, wood countertop. It was an all-natural, log cabin motif, everything wood except the sixty-inch flat screen TV. He picked up the remote and turned the TV off, the room getting noticeably darker, even at mid-day.
The man swept his arm in the direction of a tired-looking couch. “Have a seat.” When Brad and Sonia sat on it, springs popped and groaned. The whole thing sagged under their weight. “So, you want to know about Victor Rasmussen.” He picked up a Coke can and spit into it. He said nothing more. Clearly, like many folks from the hills and hollers of Eastern Kentucky, he wasn’t the kind of man who was eager to share private information with strangers.
Sonia put her hand subtly on Brad’s arm. She thought that since they had made it this far, she might have more luck getting answers out of the man than Brad. “First, are you Ephraim or Ezekiel?”
“Ephraim, ma’am. I’m the oldest. Zeke is my little brother by twelve minutes.”
Sonia gave him a gentle smile. “Oh, I see.” She struggled for a minute, wondering if she should make some family oriented comment like, “So, you’re the responsible one.” She decided against it. Looking around, she asked, “And is Zeke here today as well?”
“Nope.”
Sonia waited, hoping for something else to come. Silence filled the darkened room.
Though Bartley was not being combative, the tension in the room was thick. Sonia took a quick breath and dove in again. “Well, Ephraim, the reason your names came up is that Victor Rasmussen has recently made some claims about bringing a twenty-year-old bourbon to market.”
“What of it?” There was a real, new edge to his question. He moved forward a few inches in his chair.
Brad must have felt the need to back Ephraim down, because he picked up the thread. “Well, here’s the thing Mr. Bartley. Victor Rasmussen hasn’t been in the bourbon distilling business long enough to make a bourbon old fashioned, no less bring a twenty-year-old bourbon to market.” Bartley’s only response was to wipe his nose, sans handkerchief.
Finally, Sonia tried again. “Some of the folks we spoke to back in Lexington said it was possible you’d have some idea as to where he might be able to get some of that vintage bourbon. Do you?”
Ephraim Bartley picked up his Coke can and spit into it again. He sat quietly for a long moment. Sonia could tell he was mulling over his options, deciding whether or not to tell these folks from Lexington anything about anything. Finally, he took a deep breath and spoke. “Yes, ma’am. I do. But before I tell you about it, I’ve got to explain something else to you, something most folks just don’t seem to understand.”
33
Ephraim Bartley leaned forward in his chair, a wooden, slat-backed affair with a faded floral cushion. His elbows leaned on his legs and he rubbed his hands together as he spoke. “Now y’all need to listen, and listen careful.” His words were not angry but not friendly either. “I’ll tell you about that bourbon, but first you got to understand where you sittin’.”
Sonia and Brad glanced quickly at each other then back to Bartley. Neither responded.
“This is coal country. You know,” he said, narrowing his eyes, “ever since they found coal in Kentucky in 1750, it’s been important, real important. First, they mined it out west, in Muhlenberg County. That was in the 1820s. But come 1900 or so, they started commercial mining in Eastern Kentucky, right there in Floyd County. Some people say that over the years we’ve taken over eight million tons of coal out of this state. And all that meant work to some, good work, and money to others, real money. Me and my brother Zeke, we got our share. Done real well twenty, twenty-five years ago.” He paused a moment. “That’s when we started.”
Sonia raised her eyebrows. “Started?”
“Started with the bourbon ma’am.” Ephraim sat back in his chair, a little smile on his face. “Actually, it was my brother Zeke’s idea. We was doin’ real good with coal back then, but it was hard work─hard, hard work. And Zeke, he thought about those boys down there in the bluegrass, sittin’ around all day sippin’ bourbon and talkin’ ‘bout its complexity and its finish, stuff like that. He come to me and said, ‘Eph, we got to get us some of that kind of livin’. We got to finish the day with clean hands and clean clothes.’ ”
His words drove Sonia’s eyes immediately to his hands. They were the hands of a man who had worked hard all his life─worked with dirt and coal and heavy machinery─hard work─honest work.
Ephraim noticed Sonia checking him out and looked directly at her. She averted her eyes, instantly embarrassed. “Anyway,” he continued, “I said, ‘How we gonna do that, little brother?’ And he tells me all about his plan to start makin’ bourbon.” He stuck his chin out and squinted his eyes again. “But not a lot of bourbon, just the very best bourbon, like Pappy, you know?”
He reached down for his Coke can and spit some more tobacco juice into it, a tiny drop trickling down his chin. He wiped it away with the back of his wrist and continued. “So, I heard him out, how we should have our own still and rackhouse and all, and wait twenty years before we ever sold a drop. He said, ‘By then we’ll be wore out on this coal mining thing, and good and wealthy to boot. Then we can just sit back and start sellin’ the best bourbon anyone ever tasted and live the good life on some nice piece of land out of these mountains. Maybe run us
a few horses. Be able to get into town easy and eat fine steaks at one of those fancy restaurants they have there.’ ”
“The best bourbon?” Brad asked. “How were you going to do that without a lot of experience making it?”
“Without your own yeast recipe?” Sonia’s question elicited a quick look from both Brad and Ephraim.
“There’s ways, ma’am. There’s ways.”
Sonia leaned in, pressing the point. “You mean like hiring one of the Benningtons to be your master distiller?”
The question set Ephraim back in his chair. At first, he didn’t say a word. Then a big smile crept across his face. “Now, ma’am. Sounds like you been talkin’ to some of the gentlemen of the bourbon brotherhood. That right?”
Sonia sent a quick look over to Brad, then turned back to Ephraim. “Well, yes. That’s true.”
“And they told you all about how they help each other out because they’re all one big happy family?”
Sonia didn’t respond. She looked back at Brad, who shrugged his shoulders.
“Now let me ask you a question, ma’am. You ever know a family that didn’t have a little bit of trouble in it? A little competition? Maybe a little back-stabbin’?”
“Wouldn’t be surprising,” Brad said, clearly hoping to direct Ephraim’s attention away from Sonia.
Ephraim rubbed his nose with the back of his big, rough hand. “Then I guess it wouldn’t surprise you that all the jumpin’ around those boys did from one distiller to the other might just have to do with some backroom deals. Maybe stealin’ a boy from one place to another.”
Sonia jumped in. “And a yeast recipe?”
Her question caught him off guard. He just grinned. “No comment, ma’am.”
Sonia could tell that she could waste a whole afternoon listening to Ephraim’s take on the bourbon brotherhood and trying to wangle the truth out of him about how he and his brother got started with their bourbon. She needed to get him on track again. “So, Ephraim, we get it. You and your brother built that distillery and the rackhouse and started making bourbon that you wouldn’t sell for twenty years, right?”
“Oh, not just twenty-years-old, ma’am, but the best. See our inventory was so small that we could rotate the barrels every year. That meant that every barrel would spend some time at the best level, the third or fourth level, right in the middle. We only had the six levels.”
He glanced at Brad, then turned back to Sonia. “Anyway, that meant that every barrel would be like a honey barrel.”
She gave him a quizzical look. “A honey barrel?”
“Yes, ma’am. A barrel that spent its time in the best part of the rackhouse. Not too hot, not too cold. And then, when the master distiller opens that barrel, he doesn’t mix it with any others. It’s not just small batch, it’s single barrel. And that master distiller, he works that whiskey until it has the very best taste he thinks he could ever get out of it.” He looked up at the ceiling. “Now that’s good bourbon.” His whole upper body bobbed up and down as his eyes met Sonia’s. “Good bourbon.”
There was silence in the room for a few moments. Finally, Brad took a breath loud enough for both of the others to hear. “Okay, you went ahead and made the bourbon, drinking, we’ve heard, one small portion a year yourselves. So, what happened to your plan?”
Ephraim was slow to respond. When he did, his voice was filled with frustration. “What didn’t happen? The economy went up and down, the mines around here started to play out, Eastern Kentucky coal became the most expensive coal in the world.” He glanced at Brad. “That didn’t help. Then the government put stiffer and stiffer rules on us. Hell,” his voice was rising, “did you know that since 2000, coal production in Eastern Kentucky has gone down from around twenty-seven million tons a year to about four million?” He looked directly at Sonia. “You think people get that? They hear about the loss of coal jobs, but they don’t get it. They don’t know what it’s like in the coalfields now.” He turned to Brad. “Listen, in 2016 we mined less coal in Eastern Kentucky than we did in 1915.” His voice reached a peak. “What the hell do you think that did to the economy out here? What the hell do you think that did to Zeke and me, to this whole region?” He turned slowly to Sonia, his voice softening, “We haven’t made a decent wage in years.”
There was silence in the room. For the first time, Sonia noticed that there was some sort of small radio playing softly in a back room of the house. She wanted to say something comforting to this tired, broken man. Instead, she had to push forward. “So, Ephraim, how did that affect the plan for your bourbon?”
His face bent downward, then he raised his eyes to her. “Pretty much skunked us, ma’am.” He fell silent.
After a few moments, Brad made an attempt to get things moving again. “You and your brother are pretty much broke. You’re sitting on some very, very fine twenty-year-old bourbon, but you don’t have the resources to get it to market. Is that it?”
Ephraim raised his head and nodded. “That’s it exactly. Costs money to get the master distiller to finish off one barrel at a time. It takes money to bottle the stuff. It takes money to promote it, to advertise, even a little. Hell, just to make the damn labels.” He looked back to Sonia. “And we just didn’t have it. Not a bit of it.”
Sonia thought for a moment then asked. “Couldn’t you just sell it? Just sell the barrels of aged whiskey and let some other company do all the rest. Wouldn’t that work?”
Ephraim used his Coke can again. “Not ‘wouldn’t,’ ma’am. Can’t.” He looked up at Brad, then back to Sonia. “See, Zeke, he just couldn’t let it go. It was his dream, and he’d made it happen─almost. I tried to talk him into sellin’ those barrels, but he just couldn’t get himself to do it. Said everything we ever hoped for was in those barrels and someday, somehow, we were the ones who were goin’ to get rich on ‘em.” He fell silent.
Brad prodded again. “Sooo?”
Ephraim sat up tall and put his palms on his legs. It was obvious to Sonia he was about to say something important, maybe the one thing they needed to learn from a trip that was using up most of the second to last day they had to solve this case. He started. “So, one day Zeke says to me, ‘Come on. Get your ass off that worn out chair and let’s drive down to Lexington. We can still afford a decent steak somewhere. Let’s do it before we can’t afford to do it at all.’
“I wasn’t real excited about the idea, but I figured, what the hell, maybe he’s right. So, we pile in his truck and drive down to Lexington. We go into a decent place, not that fancy Malone’s, but somethin’ decent. We have to wait a bit for a table, so we take a seat at the bar. We’re watchin’ UK basketball on the TV, they was playin’ Tennessee, and sittin’ next to us is this guy, dressed up kinda nice, but he’s alone, drinkin’ and watchin’ too. All of a sudden, he leans over to Zeke and says somethin’ like, ‘I’ll bet UK sinks its next shot. Come on. Twenty bucks. What do you say?’ ”
Sonia shot a look at Brad, clearly remembering what Patricia Huntington-Jones, Victor’s first wife, had told him.
“Well,” Ephraim coughed as he spoke, “Zeke probably knew he shouldn’t bet the guy, but I guess when you’re feelin’ really down on your luck you figure it’s got to change some time, so he says, ‘Sure,’ and dang if he doesn’t win the bet.” Ephraim used the can again. “So, the guy says, ‘Come on, let’s go again. Double or nothing. Next UK shot goes in.’ Again, Zeke shouldn’t have done it, but he does, and he wins.
“This goes on for a while and the guy says, ‘Hey, you play poker?’ Zeke, he turns to me and smiles, ‘cause Zeke is one hell of a poker player. Wins all the time. He turns to the guy and says, ‘Well, I know some of the rules.’ ”
Ephraim let out a sad, tiny chuckle. “Next thing you know, we’re leavin’ the place.” He turned to Sonia, “We didn’t even get to order that steak.” He turned back to both of them. “Anyway, a little while later we’re at this guy’s place, in his fancy basement, with a green, felt card tab
le, and Zeke and him are playing poker, head to head, just the two of them.” He took a deep breath. “Long story short, at the end of the night the guy has pretty much cleaned Zeke out. So, he says somethin’ like, ‘You got anything else you can put up?’
“I should-a seen it comin’. Zeke looks at me and smiles like he’s been playin’ this guy a sucker all night. Then he tells the guy about our bourbon, and that they can play one more hand, five card stud. If Zeke wins this guy has to front our whole production and promotion process and all he gets is ten percent of the profits. If the guy wins, he gets all the bourbon, lock stock and barrel.”
Sonia couldn’t believe her ears. “And Zeke gambled twenty-years of bourbon development on one hand of cards?”
Ephraim took another deep breath. “Again, ma’am. When you’re down on your luck . . . .” He wiped his nose one more time with the back of his hand. “And yes, ma’am, he did. They played one hand, the longest five minutes of my life. In the end, Zeke, he lays down a pair of aces, queen high, pretty good for five-card stud. But the guy, this Victor Rasmussen, he lays down three kings. There it was. Zeke lost. All of his dreams gone, and mine too. No coal money, no bourbon money, no bourbon. No nothin’.”
Brad waited a few moments before he asked another question. Finally, he rubbed his hands together and spoke. “So, Ephraim, how did Zeke take it in the end?”
“Terrible.” Zeke scratched his head. “Terrible. He’s a broken man. Like he’s got nothin’ to live for.”
Sonia sensed Ephraim’s concern for his brother. “And you said he’s not here right now?”
“No, ma’am. He’s not.”
She pressed. “Do you know where he is?”
Ephraim scratched his chin, considering his answer for a long time. Finally, he spoke. “Can’t rightly say, ma’am. He left over a week ago. But wherever he is, it’s the same place his pistol has gone.”
Sonia’s eyes widened. “Do you think he might have gone after Victor Rasmussen?”
