The Black Train by Edward Lee

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