by F J messina
A smile crept across Oscar’s face, showing his yellowed teeth, probably from a lifetime of smoking or chewing. “Darlin’,” he shook his head gently, “there’s nothing that goes on around here that I don’t know about. The first thing Rollie did when he came back from that meeting with John O’Neal was tell me all about it.” He smacked his lips, leaving Sonia wondering if there was a pinch of tobacco between his cheeks and gums at that very moment. “In fact, if there’s anyone here can tell you about how things go on in the world of bourbon, it’s me. Been part of the brotherhood since I was fifteen. Worked for almost every distiller what is or was. You got a question about bourbon and its people, nobody more likely to give you the answer than me.”
Sonia ran her fingers through her hair and dove in. “Well, it seems we both know what happened to Mr. Rasmussen; and it’s become my job, or my firm’s, to figure out two things, who and why. Obviously, Mason Holiday thought that talking to the leading people in the industry would help me accomplish that. So, I guess I’m here to ask if you can shed any light on either of those questions.”
Oscar gave her an almost fatherly smile. “All I can say is this, I got no idea of the who, and to understand the why you got to understand bourbon, what it is, where it comes from,” his palms opened and traced a circle in the air, “the whole big picture.”
Sonia got the immediate sense that she wasn’t about to get any quick answers here, but she knew a man like Oscar Branch needed to be given time to answer questions in his own way, that there might be some nuggets in his answer that even he wasn’t aware of. She put on a patient smile. “Well, I do know it’s considered the all-American drink.”
“Hmph. You would think so. Wasn’t always the case.” Sonia sensed that behind those dark glasses his eyes were taking on a wistful look. “Listen,” he started, “America’s first drink was rum, even before there were Americans.” His face twitched into a wink. “See, the British grew sugar cane in the Caribbean, turned it into molasses, sent that to New England to be turned into rum.” His head tipped downward as he took a deep breath. “Sent that rum to Africa and traded it for slaves, then sent them slaves back to the Caribbean.” He ran his curved index finger along the top of his chin as if it was a habit grown out of years of chewing tobacco. “Dark times.”
There was silence in the room for a moment, then Oscar brightened. “Anyway, rum was the American drink for a long time.”
Sonia was hoping to get on with things. “So, after independence, we shifted to corn liquor?”
She watched a playful smile cross his lips. “Darlin’, drinking habits die hard. Rum was still the main American drink until well after Daniel Boone and those boys opened up the Cumberland Gap and folks poured in through those mountains to Appalachia, into what’s now Kentucky.” He stopped, reached out, and took hold of his glass of amber liquid. He held it out to Sonia as if in a toast, and took a sip. “Would you like a little something, darlin’? You look a bit parched.”
It being just past eleven in the morning, Sonia decided to decline, though the thought of taking a break from Oscar’s instruction had its appeal. “No thank you. Can we go on?”
“Sure, sure.” Oscar put down his glass. “So, after Daniel Boone opens up this part of the country, the Scots-Irish start pouring in.” His face twitched into a wink again. “Now, those people, they knew how to distill liquor. They also knew that it didn’t make a lick of sense trying to transport molasses over those mountain roads. But there was something else, something better. They were surrounded by beautiful, sweet corn. Corn that grew so easy that even on their tiny parcels of land, up in the hollers of the mountains, they could produce more than they ever could use.”
Sonia interrupted confidently. “Or get to market easily.”
Oscar smiled broadly. “Exactly. Next thing you know, on this side of the mountains, corn is the way to make liquor.” He plucked his chin with his thumb in such a way as to put an exclamation point on his thought.
Sonia was hoping to wrap this portion of the lecture up. “So, as long as it’s made from corn, liquor is considered bourbon, right?”
Oscar shook his head. “Darlin’, I could go on for hours telling you the history of bourbon, but let’s just say it’s got to be made from a mash bill that’s fifty-one percent corn and there’s a whole bunch more rules and regulations you got to follow if you’re gonna call it bourbon.”
Sonia slowly rubbed her hands together as she tried to get back on track. “Now that we’ve got that settled, let’s get back, if not to the who, to the why.”
15
Oscar Branch reached down to the floor and picked up the cane Sonia had failed to notice as she sat talking to him. With effort, he rose up out of his chair. “Come with me, darlin’.”
Sonia rose as well, waited for him to walk past her, then followed the octogenarian through the room and out of the building. They walked together toward the main distilling plant. As she walked next to him in the warmth of the day, Sonia could almost feel the sense of pride that swelled in the old man.
Oscar coughed quietly and looked out over the different buildings. “You know why Kentucky is the heartland of bourbon?” He never looked down at her.
Sonia answered as her eyes tried to follow his. “Actually, no. I really don’t.”
“Three reasons.” He stopped walking. “First, it’s the water. You see, so much of Kentucky rests on a bed of limestone. When the rains come, that limestone acts as a filter that takes iron out of the water.” He turned and looked down at her. “That iron would make the mash dark and the bourbon would have rough flavor.” He grinned. “You know, it’s that iron-free water which is rich in calcium that makes the bluegrass so good for horses, too.” He started walking again. “The water we all use, all the brotherhood, comes from springs full of clean, limestone water.”
He took a deep, slow breath. “Now, the second thing is the climate. We’ve got the perfect climate for making bourbon.”
Sonia felt like she should comment or ask a question, but she was pretty certain Oscar would go on without her doing either.
Oscar pointed with his cane. “You see, we store the barrels in these here rackhouses, tall wooden buildings with no temperature control and dirt floors. We have hot summers here and mild winters. When the heat comes on good and fierce in the summer it forces the liquid to expand, pushing it into the wood of the charred barrels. In the winter, the liquid cools and contracts, drawing it back out. In and out, year after year.” He ran his finger along his chin again. “When they finally pour it out, what went in as a clear liquid comes out with a beautiful amber color and all the rich, vanilla and caramel taste that nature stored in those oak staves of the barrel.” He looked down at Sonia with a mischievous grin on his face. “It’s as if God, himself, wanted us to be the ones who would help Him bring this beautiful nectar to His people.”
Oscar was quiet then. Finally, Sonia nudged him. “And the third reason?”
“Oh. Some folks say it’s the oak for the barrels, but that wood grows all over the country. No, it’s the abundance of good sweet corn. Most of the distilleries here have special relationships with local growers, people who will actually grow their corn with bourbon in mind. Just the right sweetness and flavor for our needs.”
As they walked on, Oscar lifted his cane again to point to a set of barrels that indicated the several major bourbons, James Bennington, Bartholomew Hughes, Kendall Run, that were produced at the facility. “You know how it is that we make all these different bourbons here?”
“Different ways of making it?” Sonia ran her fingers through her hair, a little uncomfortable about her lack of knowledge.
“Well yes, in a sense. The process is the same. It’s the ingredients that change.”
Sonia looked at him. “I thought it was always corn, right?”
He shook his head slowly, “Yes, darlin’, it’s all about the corn. But there’s so much more. The corn got to be fifty-one percent of the mash bill, th
ough it’s usually between sixty and eighty percent. The other grains are barley and rye, though some folks, like Settler’s Pride, use wheat to make the bourbon a little smoother on the tongue. These different mash bills are pretty common knowledge. But it’s the yeast, that’s where it gets personal.”
Sonia’s head turned quickly around. She hadn’t expected the word, “personal.”
“That’s right, darlin’,” Oscar grinned at her as he kept walking. “Each company produces its own. In fact, the reason we can make so many different bourbons at the same facility is that each one uses a different mash bill and a unique yeast recipe.” He stopped, leaning on his cane and looking off into the sky. “And if you want to hear about one reason why somebody might have popped ol’ Victor Rasmussen into that barrel, there’s one right there. If somebody thought Victor had stolen, or was trying to steal, their yeast recipe, or worse yet some actual yeast, some bad things could happen.”
Sonia reached out and grabbed his arm instinctively. “Aren’t there legal protections? Wouldn’t someone just go to the authorities about it?” She wished he didn’t have those dark sunglasses on so she could read his eyes when he looked at her.
“Darlin’, that may be true. But I told you, this is personal. This is family history, family tradition, family reputations.” He started walking again. “Sure, there are legal remedies and all that, but if you’re looking for a reason someone might take things into their own hands,” he spit some tobacco juice into a nearby planter, “that might be one. Yes, ma’am, that might be one.”
Finally, Sonia was getting to the kind of information she wanted. Her eyes widened as she asked the next question. “And is that possible? Could Victor or someone who worked for him have stolen the yeast recipe of one of the other distillers?”
Oscar stopped again and turned to her. As he started to speak, his face twitched into that wink again. “That I don’t know, darlin’. It would sure take some doing. Each distiller got their recipes and their yeasts under lock and key. No question, it would have to be some kind of inside job.”
Sonia paused for a moment, then took a seat on a park-like bench, tacitly inviting Oscar to join her. “So, what you’re saying is that the notion of Victor Rasmussen somehow stealing the yeast recipe, or even some actual yeast, from one of the distillers is hard to imagine but certainly not out of the realm of possibility?”
Though Oscar was sitting next to Sonia, his eyes roamed the vast campus as he spoke, seemingly taking great pleasure in it. “Not out of the realm of possibility.”
Sonia ran her fingers through her hair again as she tumbled ideas through her mind. Finally, she asked, “What about this notion of him bringing high-end bourbon to the market without the years it takes to create it? Without twelve, fifteen, twenty years to age it? What about that?”
Oscar ran his finger along his chin again. “Darlin’, that’s a tough one. Time. It takes time to make bourbon. The law says it takes a minimum of two years, but no distiller worth his salt is selling anything less than four years old.” He pulled a red handkerchief out of his baggy pocket and wiped his chin, returning it without comment. “And if it doesn’t say anything about age on the label you can be pretty sure it spent about four years in the barrel, not much more.”
Sonia’s foot was tapping. She needed to get an answer here and Oscar wasn’t being much help. “And?”
“And there’s no way a man makes a good bourbon right out of the chute. Takes years to refine the process, to develop the yeast recipe, to experiment with the mash bill, to tweak the cooking and cooling processes. And that’s only half of what it takes.” Oscar stood up without explanation and started to walk away.
Sonia stood up quickly but sensed she wasn’t supposed to follow. “Oscar?”
He spoke without stopping or turning to face her. “Nope. That’s a tough one. A real tough one.”
Sonia soon found herself standing alone, watching the old man shuffle back toward the building from which they had come. Whether she liked it or not, she knew their time together was over.
16
Brad’s conversation with Carl Rasmussen had finished around ten forty-five. It being early in the day, and the clock ticking on the investigation, he decided to move directly to his next interview, Sherry Rasmussen, one of bourbon-soaked Victor’s wives, his second. Brad hoped to find out more about the man who wound up floating in a barrel of bourbon, more about who he was, who he was associated with. Sherry Rasmussen lived down in London, Kentucky, about an hour and twenty minutes south on Interstate 75. The trip would cost him several hours.
Brad found Sherry at her workplace, a local eatery just off the interstate, Bob’s Pitstop. He was glad for the opportunity to grab a little lunch in the simple brick building with battleship gray walls. Sitting alone at the faux marble counter, he briefly glanced at two truckers stretched out in one of the four red-leather booths, probably tired of being cramped up in their big-rigs’ cabs. He ordered his lunch and casually observed the middle-aged woman behind the counter as she went about her business.
Her auburn hair color had clearly come out of a bottle, as was evidenced by the gray roots showing in the part at the top of her head. He wondered what her natural hair color had been. With a pert nose, cute smile, and still-relatively-trim figure, Sherry was quite attractive.
She held out his plate. “Tuna on rye toast, chips, extra pickle. Can I freshen that coffee for you?” Her voice was smooth, gentle. She seemed eager to please.
“Yes, thank you.” Brad pushed his hefty, white, classic-food-joint mug forward just an inch or two.
“That do it for you? Can I get you anything else?”
Brad noticed her quick glance at his left hand. “No, thanks. Looks great.” He sat quietly on his stool at the counter, eating his sandwich and trying to get a sense of the woman and the best way to approach her. When he finished eating, he crumpled his napkin and tossed it on the empty plate, then leaned his elbows on the counter.
Sherry approached. “Piece of apple pie and another cup of coffee?”
Brad couldn’t help but remind himself that pie and keeping his body trim and muscular didn’t go together. “Sure. What’s your specialty?” He smiled. The more I eat the more likely you are to talk to me.
“Well, sir,” her eyes sparkled, “whatever kind of pie you like, that’s our specialty. And if you have a real sweet tooth, I’ll just stick my little finger-tip in the middle to sweeten it up. Besides, all we’ve got left is apple.” She gave him a wink and an even bigger smile.
Brad was well-aware that women often found his manly personae and bright blue eyes appealing. He wasn’t above using those tools to move an investigation along. He was also aware that the more information he could get from Sherry before she knew what he was doing, the more likely he was to get something important out of the conversation. He started gently. “Now, ma’am. I’m sure you’ve sweetened many a pie in your time.” He winked at her. “And many a man’s disposition as well.”
Brad watched a tiny blush scoot across her face. She tugged on the ends of the denim shirt she was wearing over her T-shirt and jeans and smoothed it with both her hands. “Oh, I might have given a man something to smile about a time or two.” She seemed at least ten years older than Brad, but in the world of roadside café relationships, a few years one way or the other were often dismissed, no matter which side of the equation one was on. She lingered for just the briefest moment as she handed Brad his pie.
Brad didn’t rush. He took a bite of pie, then a sip of coffee. He looked up at her and smiled his approval toward her expectant look. As he lifted his fork for a second taste, he used it to point at her hand. “I notice you’re not wearing any particular jewelry on that left hand of yours. You’re not hiding something from us, are you?” His eyes were on “full bright.”
Sherry’s gaze went unconsciously to her hand. “Oh. No.” She let out a sigh. “It’s been a while.” Her smile remained in place, but Brad could see a tiny fro
wn touch the corner of each eye.
He took his time with his next bite. “So, you’re telling me some man was lucky enough to have you and then foolish enough to let you go?”
Sherry picked up a cleaning rag and began wiping down the counter to the left of Brad. “You know how it is,” the smile remained steadfast, “sometimes things just don’t work out.” She stepped back from the counter.
Brad’s head was bent over his last morsel of pie. “Some men just don’t know how good they’ve got it.” He looked up at her with kindness in his eyes.
“Gave it my best, you know,” she had moved to the counter on Brad’s right, “tried to keep him happy. But,” she shrugged, “a girl’s best isn’t always good enough.”
Brad looked down again. Dang, I feel like I’m talking to Carl’s second wife, not Victor’s. He shook his head then looked up. “Or sometimes,” Brad pointed with his fork again, “a man just can’t be pleased.”
There was silence for a moment as Sherry turned her back on Brad and headed back to the coffee maker to pick up the carafe. She came back to him and topped off his cup without saying a word.
“Any kids?” Brad tossed off the question as if it had no real importance.
A smile crossed Sherry’s face. “Yes. A boy. Well, he’s a man now.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah. His name’s Carl David, we call him Davey.” Her smile warmed significantly.
Brad took a sip of coffee and put his cup down slowly. Take your time now. Don’t rush this. “He live here in London?”
“No, up in Lexington.” She let out the tiniest sigh. “But he stays in touch. We talk all the time.”
“Nice.” Brad let a few moments pass. “Good-looking boy, I’ll bet,” he gave her his best grin, “based on his mother’s looks.”
The blush came back to Sherry’s face. “Well, I don’t know about that.” She began straightening the already neat condiment basket.