“Right. And I’d just like to thank you because their lager turned out to be just what I needed to finish my current book.”
Now the wide, squat man seemed to grow a few inches from the compliment. “I’m flattered my little piece could be of service. So…if you don’t mind my asking, who’s the publisher for your book?”
“Random House,” Collier said.
Mr. Sute’s extra inches dropped back down very quickly. “Well, regrettably, I’ve never been published by so lofty a house but”—he pointed to the fifty-dollar edition—“that one there is my pride and joy. Published by Seymour and Sons, in Nashville. It’s sold a thousand copies so far.”
Collier got the gist. The poor sap’s just a hack and I’m rubbing Random House in his face. He decided to bite the bullet, and he took a copy down. “I planned on buying that one, too. Would you sign it for me?”
Sute blustered. “I’d be honored.”
“I’ve only been here a day but I’ve become enthralled by all the local color. Harwood Gast and his railroad, for instance.”
“It’s quite a story, and as I was saying previously, a little too harsh a story for the big publishers. I’ve had to publish several on my own for the same reason—”
“Too harsh?”
“—and I don’t think I’m being conceited to say that I am the only true expert on the local color and history of this town. All my works are based on original letters, photos, and estate archives. This one, for instance”—his finger gestured another slim paperback, entitled Letters of Evidence: The Epistemological Record of Gast, Tennessee—“and it’s only five dollars.”
Collier took down a copy. “I’ll be digging into all of these soon, thanks. But I was also wondering, since you write for tourist and dining sites, are there any other brew pubs or regional taverns in the area? What I’m looking for are more places that might specialize in regional beers based on old recipes.”
Sute seemed downtrodden that he could offer no more expertise. “Not really, I’m afraid. The South is more known for whiskey and mashes. There are a few taverns in Chattanooga that brew their own beer but I think it’s more faddish than authentic.”
Well, I guess I knew it was too good to be true. But at least Cusher’s had been a stunning success…And I suppose I owe part of its discovery to him.
“I wish I could be more help.”
“You’ve been quite a bit of help already, Mr. Sute. If it hadn’t been for your piece, I might never have found out where Cusher’s is located.” Collier supposed buying several of the man’s books—especially the fifty-dollar job—was gratitude enough. “Let me take these to the cashier, and then you can sign them.”
Sute gushed behind Collier, and eventually signed the tomes with a confident expression. Maybe they’d be interesting, maybe not. But then something ticked in Collier’s ear.
“You said this one book was too harsh for a New York publisher?”
“That and a number of others. Not even the local college presses would touch them, even though these are the only books ever written on this aspect of town history. And it’s an important history, too—there are dozens of books on the railroads of Chattanooga during the war, yet the most unusual railroad of the same period was the one that Harwood Gast built. My book details, among other things, Gast’s actual use of the railroad, which was…atypical.”
The comment seemed bizarre. “I presume that any railroad during a war is used chiefly to transport troops and supplies.”
“Um-hmm, but not this railroad, Mr. Collier—and my sources are firsthand evidence. No supplies, and not one single soldier was ever transported on Gast’s railroad.” Sute nodded sternly, and indicated the books under Collier’s arm. “The railroad’s actual use is touched upon in those books, however. I hope you find them interesting.”
What is it with people in the South? Collier wondered, aggravated. They deliberately evade the point. The best storytelling ploy, keep the listener in suspense. “Come on, Mr. Sute. What was the railroad used to transport?”
“Captives,” the obese man said.
“Oh, you mean they used it to take Union prisoners to detention camps? Andersonville and all that?”
“Not…Andersonville. That was on the other side of Georgia, and, yes, that’s where most of the captured Union troops were sent. But I’m afraid Gast’s railroad had an exclusive utility: to transport captive civilians. Women, children, old men. The innocent. It’s unfortunate that the complete story was never published.”
“Yes,” Collier added, “because it was too harsh. You told me. But you’ve got my curiosity going. So…Gast transported captured Northern civilians on the railway—do I have that right?”
Sute nodded.
“And I guess they were transported to a separate detention camp…”
“In a sense, you could say that. It’s a harrowing story, Mr. Collier, and probably not one you’d like to hear in detail on a beautiful day such as this. You’re a celebrity, after all, and it’s wonderful to have you in our humble town. I’d hate for such a story to spoil your stay.”
Collier smiled. “It’s some ’ghost train’ or something, then, right?”
A curt “No.”
This guy is ticking me off now, Collier thought.
Sute shed some of the grim cast, and raised a finger. “But if you like ghost stories, I’ll admit, a few of those are touched on, too. Some nifty little stories about the house.”
The house, Collier stalled. The Gast House. “I knew it all along! So the inn’s a haunted house. I knew Mrs. Butler was bluffing…”
J.G. Sute’s broad face turned up in a grin. “Well, I’m on my way to lunch now, Mr. Collier, but if you stop by tomorrow I’ll tell you some of the tales.”
Collier wanted to bang the books over his head. “Come on, Mr. Sute. Tell me one story about the house. Right now.”
Sute drew on a pause—of course, for effect. “Well, without sounding too uncouth, I can tell you that many, many guests of the Gast House—dating back quite a spell—have reported a curious…influence. A, shall we say, libidinous one.”
Collier squinted at the thick mustachioed face. “Libidinous—you mean, sexual?”
The schoolmarmish cashier frowned over her glasses. “Please, J.G.! Don’t start getting into all that now. We want Mr. Collier to come back, not stay away forever!”
Mr. Sute ignored the crotchety woman. “I’ll only say that the house seems to have a sexual effect on certain people who happen to stay there. One of whom was my grandfather.”
The cashier was fuming, but Collier couldn’t let it go. “A sexual effect in what way?”
Sute’s shoulder hitched up once. “Some people have experienced an inexplicable…amplification of their…sexual awareness.”
Amplification. Sexual awareness. Collier’s mind ticked like a clock. “You’re saying that the house makes people h—”
Before Collier could say “horny,” Sute polished up the inference by interrupting: “The house will incite the desires of certain people. Especially persons who are otherwise experiencing a decline in such desires. My grandfather, for instance, was in his eighties when he stayed there.” Sute smiled again, and whispered, “He said the place gave him the sex drive of a twenty-year-old.”