“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 assumed.
“’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 Washington, 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 shiny 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 bums sullying Rodeo Drive and Crips and Bloods blemishing Redondo.
“And there it is.”
Collier saw the cursive sign—CUSHER’S—topping a slatshingled 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 passersby 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, brass, 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 brass rail. Buried in the bar top’s crystal clear resin were bullets, buttons, 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—shined with edges of gold light, cask-shaped brass 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 brass 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 breasts. 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 sexism on other diners, two pilsner glasses were placed before them. Collier immediately expected a Samuel Adams rip-off when he noted the sharp amber color, but when he raised the glass and sniffed…