The Black Train by Edward Lee Page A

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—” Hegulped. “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.”
    But it seemed like an excuse. Jiff probably owes the guy money or something, doesn’t want me talking to him and winding up with the scoop. Again, Collier dropped the mysteriously sensitive issue after saying, “I’ll try to find him at the bookstore, like you said. I just want to ask about local beers.”
    Next, Collier winced when the barmaid’s low-cut bosom descended to serve them their burgers. Do I have to lust after EVERY GIRL WHO WALKS BY? he scorned himself. He tried to refocus.
    The burger was fine, but he couldn’t stop enthusing over the beer. By the time he finished his second glass of lager, Jiff looked sheepish at him. “Is it all right if—”
    “Jiff, order as many as you want. I told you, tonight’s my treat.”
    “Thanks, Mr. Collier.”
    Collier tried to cheer him out of his mope. “And I really appreciate you bringing me here.” Collier pointed to his glass. “I’m sure that this is the beer I need to finish my book and make my deadline…”
    Eventually, Jiff did cheer up, as drunkenness impinged. Collier’s rule was generally to never drink more than three beers in a day, so that he could write down his impressions with a clear head. However, when his third glass was done— Oh, to hell with it. I’m on vacation— he ordered another.
    “Careful there, Mr. Collier,” Jiff warned. “This brew’s got a kick that sneaks up on ya.”
    You’re telling ME? “Five percent alcohol, I’ll bet.”
    “Five point three,” a crisp but feminine voice cut in. It wasn’t the barmaid but instead a woman Collier thought must be a cook, for she wore a plain full-length apron.
    “Specific gravity or volume?” Collier asked pedantically.
    “Volume,” she replied.
    “Wow, that is strong. But it doesn’t taste that strong.”
    “That’s because of the six-row Bohemian hops, the same hops that were brought here by Czech immigrants in the early 1840s.”
    The specific remarks reached through Collier’s rising buzz. She knows her beer. And then he took a closer look. Hair black as India ink hung just a bit past her shoulders. She seemed small-framed but something in her eyes showed him a large-framed sense of confidence. Collier’s sexism ranged his eyes over her bosom but the baggy apron wouldn’t hint at her size. An ornate silver cross sparkled just below the hollow of her throat.
    When he tried to say something, though, he caught her staring at him.
    “I don’t believe it. Justin Collier is in my bar.”
    “Dang straight!” Jiff announced a bit too loudly. “A bonner-fide TV star he is!”
    Collier winced.
    “Hey, Jiff,” the woman leaned to whisper. “Mr. Collier probably doesn’t want a lot of attention.”
    “No, actually I don’t,” Collier said, relieved.
    “Oh, sure, sure.” Jiff got it. “Say, how about a couple more?”
    The woman poured two more glasses and set them down. Then she extended a small but somewhat roughened hand. Probably from