The Whisky Affair (Raymond Armstrong Series)

by Michael J Gill

  “Now, I have my middle cut, and have added my pure water to it. It’s crystal clear and ready to go into casks. Smell it.” Willy handed a small glass of clear spirit to Raymond who kept his nose well way from the glass.

  “Interesting, it smells of fruit, maybe pears. I always thought it would smell more like pure alcohol or a hospital,” Raymond said, perplexed.

  “Aye, some of those fruit esters can influence the whisky.”

  CHAPTER 5

  Raymond had learned a lot from this whisky icon.

  He now had a better understanding of the middle cut, or head of the spirit and realized it’s impossible to generalize about the production of single malt scotch. If you picked up a book claiming the ‘how to’ of making scotch, and took that generalization to a distillery and chatted with a guy like Willy… Enough said: you’d have a different story. Reading about the prescribed shape of stills and their influence was another perfect example, one that could be so misleading.

  If the longest stills in the world were at Glenmorangie and the shortest were at Edradour, then obviously, a creamy malt would come from a short still and light and fruity whisky from a tall one. He’d learned Bruichladdich stills were quite short but with long necks and they used the trickle distillation technique, so that theory is blown. Therefore, you can’t generalize in whisky making. He decided that while he was there with Willy, one of the best in the industry, he might as well get baffled again and ask another question.

  But before that, he had to turn the lever and take the middle cut. Raymond grasped the small lever positioned on the front of the spirit safe. He moved it, watching the spirit make its way to the awaiting casks. It would be ten years or more before this batch would be bottled and ready to drink.

  “Very good,” remarked Willy, admiring Raymond’s enthusiasm as he moved the lever.

  “Are you still using the slow trickle distillation process, Willy – now when you are so busy?”

  As part of his studying to understand more about single malts, Raymond had explored this distillation process. The trickle technique still baffled him. But he had grasped that the busier a distillery became, the less time was likely taken to distill slowly. He wondered if a distillery would start changing their techniques and identity if demand for their whiskies increased?

  “Of course we are. Trickling is what makes Bute whiskies so creamy and clean – with no impurities. We bottle all our whisky, non-chill filtered and free of any artificial coloring. We can’t hide anything.”

  “So it’s your long necks that are giving you so much copper contact?” asked Raymond, looking toward the roof at the long, thin copper necks winding upward to the arm. They rose toward the ceiling, almost to the roof and then took a slight turn in a downward direction. It reminded him of a swan just beginning to bend her neck toward the water. Finally, he focused on the large condensers where the hot vapors were turned into liquid.

  Willy nodded. “Imagine a trout farm. You’ve hardly fed the thousands of small fish in the pond. A large pond with copper walls. The trout are all swimming around, coming into contact ever so gently with copper walls. Then, you make an opening into the wall with a long, copper pipe, just wide enough for the fish. Put a bag full of food at the other side of the pipe, and what happens?”

  “I get it. A ton of fish trying to get through the pipe at once. They obviously all can’t and while they are trying to get through – lots of copper contact.”

  “That would be like our spirit vapors in our unique Bute stills, with the vapors trying to get to the condensers, through the swan neck and arm,” Willy said, indicating the huge units above their heads.

  Raymond was beginning to understand the process in a new way. Of all the variations in what made a great single malt so different, he was most fascinated by the different production tools each distillery used. Some were subtle and other totally outrageous. But they all worked and together with process, gave each distillery their special identity with the whiskies they produced.

  Knowing each distillery’s special identity was the only way to appreciate their mysterious art and appreciate the nuances found when you nosed and tasted their unique expressions… Unless, of course, it was whisky produced in a big factory-style distillery, churning out thousands of gallons per day.

  It was the regular single pot distillation, the one batch at a time, that intrigued Raymond.

  “Ready for lunch, guys. I am buying,” came Gordon’s booming voice from across the distillery floor.

  CHAPTER 6

  Mitch Farrell was on board the British Airways flight from London to Las Vegas and watched the tall, attractive redhead with the seductive British accent announce the mandatory seat belt sign was now off. Ten hours sitting on a plane was torture to Mitch. He stood for a few seconds to stretch and smiled at the flight attendant.

  He gave her his best flirtatious look, the one he had perfected all those years ago in Tulsa. She smiled back far too weakly for his liking.

  Damn, I’m losing my touch.

  Mitch was just under six feet tall, with dark hair that looked like as if it were slicked back in place with gel. The look was, in fact natural and required no work. He’d worked hard to develop his toned muscular body – a work in progress that involved hours at the gym every day... He was handsome, most women had told him, but with a rugged edge. His piercing green eyes and Roman nose were partially responsible for that impression.

  British women were far too pompous for his style anyway, he decided. In only ten hours he would have his pick of gorgeous women back in Las Vegas.

  He sat down, his thoughts racing back to his childhood and that led to thoughts about his life in Tulsa…

  His dad had been a cop in Boston who took his work and authority home, often beating the crap out of his mum, and occasionally him. They left after each beating, but his father would find them and convince them to come back to Boston, and so the cycle continued.

  After a particularly vicious episode, eighteen-year-old Mitch and his mom, moved to Tulsa. Mitch adored his mom and wanted to make sure she was safe before he made his way into the world.

  Two months passed and then his father found them, yet again. It was the usual, his father swearing he would never hurt them again until he broke into their home one night, after a bout of heavy drinking. His father was about to strike his mom when, without a second thought, Mitch threw a punch that landed on his father’s jaw. Filled with hate, Mitch fought hard, and finally subdued his father who had to struggle to regain his feet. The hate in Mitch’s eyes must have been intense because his father retreated to the other side of the room.

  “Next time I will have a gun and will fucking kill you, Dad. Your choice.” That was the last they ever saw of his father. It didn’t take them long to move back to Tulsa where they settled.

  Finally, Mom had picked a good spot and he would have fought tooth and nail to stay there. From Albuquerque to Lafayette in Louisiana to Portland Oregon, Tulsa was a great town with friendly people and a bit of a mistaken identity. The city was full of skyscrapers and there were some seedy areas on the perimeter that reminded him of those old black-and-white western movies.

  The inner core of the city had been revamped, creating several upscale artsy neighborhoods. Restaurants, cafés, trendy boutiques, and craft beer bistros had popped up almost overnight. This area of town was the cool place to be for those that had money. These were the areas where a young man, like Mitch could spend his days and nights having fun, making easy money.

  He started with drugs and the odd pimping, quickly establishing a network of clients. He landed in jail and that quickly put his life into perspective. He was never going there again.

  Once he was released, he realized his skills were being under-utilized and he needed a bigger city, where he could make a name for himself. So, he chose the perfect ‘gangster paradise’ – Las Vegas.

  When he arrived in LV in the late 90s it was still in a massive expansion mode. Two major conglom
erates were competing with one another to control the massive sin city. Hotels and casinos sprung up everywhere – each one more lavish than the last. Mitch went to work for one of them and was quickly appreciated for being fearless, ruthless, and because he could handle the most dangerous situation.

  Mitch watched the growth of the city and the opportunities that existed for his skill set. He worked his way up the ranks quickly, finally, landing a top job with one of the largest casinos in the city. He was responsible for their special debt collection division.

  This particular corporation ran two sets of books. One was legitimate when it came to debt-collection, working inside Nevada state law. The second set of books was in place for new global acquisitions and other shady, underworld deals.

  Mitch was quite at home balancing the latter.

  CHAPTER 7

  Mitch checked his watch. Five hours to arrival. He closed his eyes and continued to think back to earlier days in Las Vegas. It had taken awhile but he’d earned their trust, and so his job changed: He was chosen to suggest new clients to this division. These gullible clients would be sucked into the world of serious gambling. Not the type normally seen on casino floors.

  His role was to watch regular players’ gambling habits, then eventually persuade them into the ‘private room’ where, at least initially, they played Texas hold ’em. If they met the list of qualifying criteria, extensive background checks would be done to establish whether they were wealthy – and perhaps rather easy marks.

  Easy to check them out. All the rooms had cameras, and the company’s computer system was state of the art and set up to get all the personal information they needed.

  Once they were qualified, Mitch introduced them to the casino’s ‘special’ version of Baccarat, which required lots of skill and a steady hand. He’d explain that the version is open to anybody, Punto Banco, required no skill, and was strictly a game of chance. ‘Our house game is taken from the Banque version and is for the best poker players with high odds on winning large pots in full privacy and discretion.’ He told them the house would cap it off and only one hundred people in the world could play at any given time.

  He would then wait up to three months before sending a private email, saying a spot had become open if the target cared to join the elite group. Not any real pressure, however it seemed to be a real ego boost for patrons when they received the invitation and most, like James jumped at the chance.

  James Reid, green around the gills and representing an up-and-coming distillery on the Isle of Bute had been an easy dupe. The perfect mark and without a great deal of experience in so many areas of life and business.

  The first time Mitch saw him, James had finished hosting a wonderful whisky dinner in the main private restaurant in the casino. He’d presented Bute as a distillery on the brink of being big globally.

  Mitch’s priority list did not specifically include acquiring a whisky distillery on a tiny island off Scotland, however, James’ profile made him the perfect mark. Wealthy father, a prosperous distillery, and James himself…a self-indulgent party boy.

  He sent one of his top girls to have a drink with the young man. Tall, exotic, and provocatively dressed, she easily persuaded James to buy her a drink.

  “Bourbon on the rocks, please.” And so the game began…

  Mitch had a routine worked out and in no time James was chatting to one of his girls. He watched for a while through the monitor, which had hidden cameras in many of the hotel suites. The best champagne, the sex, and the pillow talk. Bridgette had become his best personal assistant for this type of work. By the next morning, Mitch had a full dossier on James, and lots of footage.

  Once James was established as ‘worthy’ Mitch befriended James and took him to nightclubs outside of the tourist district, the best restaurants in town, and the famous ranch with his pick of girls – introducing him to a playboy’s life. Finally, after weeks of socializing and learning the game of Baccarat, James actually appeared quite bored. After all, he was playing the regular game with no skill required and it became purely a pastime, much like pulling the handle on the slot machines.

  Once Mitch was confident that he had chosen the perfect mark, he casually mentioned the backroom game. Their unique house style game required skill, and only one hundred clients in the world were allowed to play.

  ‘Mitch, when do I get chance to be in the one hundred club?’ James had asked, early on.

  In no time, like all the other suckers, James was on board and agreeing to all the terms and conditions. Ten weeks later, not realizing he’d been set up, James received the invitation. Mitch told him that the next time he was in Vegas James would be able to join the exclusive club. He calculated that James would be in LV on business four times per year – probably more now that he had his invitation.

  It was time to reel him in, like a large bass on a taut fishing line.

  This back room of baccarat was only for those elite, yet weak, individuals. The ones that thought they could beat the odds and did not have sufficient funds to pay when they inevitably lost. However, they had always had assets. Mitch had the lists of those.

  CHAPTER 8

  Raymond arrived at the dining room early and ordered a gin and tonic. He wore designer jeans, Oxford shoes, a sharp blue-and-white striped open shirt and a blue blazer.

  He saw Anne heading through the foyer toward the dining room. Wow, she really had filled out in all the right places. He had expected jeans or slacks, but she was wearing heels and a long black skirt with a pale yellow top that was quite revealing – the first two buttons were open. She looked good enough to eat, or take home. But what had she said earlier in the day? Don’t invite me to your room for coffee later. Charming.

  “Don’t we look dashing,” she said while the waiter pulled out the chair for her.

  “You look more than lovely yourself.”

  “G & T I see. I will have the same,” she said, all chirpy, to the waiter. “So, how was your trip to the distillery?”

  “Excellent. I saw Willy and we had a chat on whisky making. After an enlightening morning, and an excellent lunch with Gordon, I decided to have a drive around the Island late this afternoon. The weather is good for this time of year. There is incredible diversity on this one tiny island: pristine beaches, mountains, and lush fields. I never paid much attention to any of it till now,” Raymond explained.

  Anne agreed excitedly. “Growing up here, we never got bored with it. It’s a totally different feeling being in Canada, where space is the least of our worries. But, in some respects I have the same feelings of isolation one gets living on a tiny island. Canada is so large and yet isolated – geographically speaking – with the exception of the USA as our neighbors.”

  She paused, looked out through the bay window next to their table. “Canada is also the next country to here, if you think about it. There is just that immense space – the Atlantic Ocean, getting in the way.”

  “Well we have a lot to catch up on. Why are you living in Canada? What do you do for a living?”

  “I teach art history at a university in Fredericton.”

  “Art… Really?” said Raymond, looking suitably impressed.

  I am quite sure you know your painters and the famous masterpieces.” Anne smiled and picked up her glass.

  “Of course… Well, not really. I appreciate art, but I can’t remember one painter from the next. I recently helped a client track down a stolen painting. A favor of sorts, and not in my area of expertise at all. But it opened up some possibilities. And I like the rush I get when I’m close to success.”

  “Stealing art is getting out of proportion to other kinds of theft. You hear about a famous painting being stolen in the news on a regular basis. The police have given up. It’s like the Nazis and their stolen art escapades, which seems to be a subject that has gained in popularity again. My students are always asking me about stolen paintings these days. What painting was stolen? A Monet, a Van Gogh?” She was inte
rested and he wanted to impress her…

  “I can’t remember the name of the painting. It was a painting of a bridge in London.”

  Anne laughed, leaned over, and hit him on the shoulder.

  “Hey, your fist is bony.” He rubbed his shoulder, trying to look pathetic…and endearing.

  “Well, stop messing about. Art is my life and I’m pretty sure you did not rescue The Waterloo Bridge by Monet.”

  No, but the painting he’d recovered had been similar in value to an original Monet. He’d rather enjoyed the hunt for it and was looking forward to the next ‘missing art’ assignment. He couldn’t really share that with her.

  “What does your husband do for a living?” Raymond asked, changing the subject.

  “Works for the government in the finance department. Easily the largest employer in our capital city of New Brunswick.”

  “I have never been, but did hear about the place recently. We had a whisky ambassador at our club a few months ago who raved about a whisky show there. Seems the founder of their whisky club puts on quite an event.”

  “Yes.” she smiled. “It’s one of the best whisky shows in Canada.”

  “Since we are playing catch up, what did you do, exactly, for your government?” she asked.

  “Nice try.” Raymond had to give her credit for persistence.

  “Okay, random question. Which is your favorite Bond?” Anne asked.

  “Daniel Craig,” Raymond replied instantly.

  “Why?”

  “Let me ask you a question,” Raymond retorted. “Do you read mainstream fiction along with your art history books?”

  “Some.”

  “Well, I have read every Bond book by Fleming at least twice. When they announced Jeffrey Deaver was the new author I cringed. The Bone Collector meets 007… Really? Still, I had to read the book.”