Читать книгу The Bourbon Thief - Tiffany Reisz, Tiffany Reisz - Страница 7
ОглавлениеMcQueen slammed his hand down onto the intercom button and ordered his night shift security guard to lock the gates.
“Already done,” James answered. “Someone tried to get out without the gate code. She’s in my office. I was about to come wake you up, boss.”
He should have been relieved, but he seethed instead, his shoulders tense with his fury, and he nearly wrenched the door off the hinges when he entered the security guard’s small shed. Paris sat primly on a small folding chair, her legs crossed at the ankles, her black Birkin bag in her lap.
“Give us a minute,” McQueen said to the guard.
“Do I need to call the cops?”
“Not yet. I want to hear her story first. Then we’ll call them.”
James left him alone in the shed with Paris. She looked up at him placidly.
“Are all your servants black?” she asked, nodding at the door that James had closed behind him.
“They’re not servants. They’re employees. And no. My housekeeper is white. The security guard who works the day shift is from Mexico.”
“The United Colors of Yes-Men.”
“And yes-women,” McQueen said. He crossed his arms and leaned back against the door. “You’re good. You wore me out, and when I slept...”
“I’m not good. You’re easy.”
“Am I?”
“Interview in the June 2014 Architectural Digest with billionaire investor Cooper McQueen. ‘What do you like to read, Mr. McQueen?’ the fawning interviewer asked you. ‘What keeps Cooper McQueen up all night?’ And you replied—”
“Raymond Chandler.”
“Because, as you said in the interview, ‘I’m a sucker for a femme fatale. Give me a girl with a black heart in a red dress and I’m a goner.’”
“You thought you could seduce me because I read Chandler?”
“And your last girlfriend was a dark-skinned Knicks City Dancer from Puerto Rico, so I knew I had a very good shot at you. I’m your type, aren’t I?”
“I don’t have a fetish for dark-skinned women, if that’s what you’re implying.”
“I wasn’t implying anything, but you immediately seemed to think it was what I was implying. Methinks the billionaire doth protest too much.”
“Of all the bars in all the world...you walked into mine to steal my bourbon. You know, stealing something worth a million dollars is a felony.”
“I know. But I won’t call the police on you if you don’t call the police on me.”
“I didn’t steal it.”
“You bought stolen goods. Also a felony.”
“That bottle wasn’t stolen.”
“I know it was.”
“I told you, Virginia Maddox sold it—”
“It didn’t belong to Virginia Maddox. You can’t sell what you don’t own. And I was happy to buy it from you and avoid an unpleasant legal battle, but as you refused to sell it, I had no choice but to repossess it,” she said with the slightest sinister hiss.
“How do you know all this? How do you know everything you think you know about Red Thread?”
“I am Red Thread,” Paris said with the slightest sigh like she was admitting to a bad habit.
“Red Thread is dead.”
“A nice rhyme. You should have been a poet.” She raised her chin toward the filing cabinet. On top of it sat the bottle. “Look at it. Read the label. Tell me what it says.”
McQueen knew what the label said, but he took the bottle anyway and held it label side up toward the light.
The label was faded and yellowed, close to peeling. It was a hundred and fifty years old, after all. The font was an elegant script that said “Red Thread—Kentucky Straight Bourbon Whiskey.” Beneath those words it read “Distilled and bottled—Frankfort, Kentucky.” And underneath that in tiny script he read, “‘Owned and operated by the Maddox family, 1866.’”
“There we go,” Paris said.
“Where do we go?”
“Owned by the Maddox family.”
“You aren’t the Maddox family.”
“Are you saying that because they were white and I’m not?”
“I’m saying that because I’ve looked for the Maddox family for years, and I haven’t found a single one of them, by blood or by marriage, who had anything to do with Red Thread. The whole Kentucky line died or disappeared after the distillery burned.”
“Why did you look for us?”
“First of all, I don’t believe you are a Maddox. You’re going to have to show me some proof.”
“You’re holding the proof in your hands. One hundred proof.”
“Funny.”
“Oh, yes,” she said with an exaggerated Southern drawl. “I’m a card. Why were you looking for us?” she asked again.
“I wanted to buy Red Thread. What’s left of it. I’ve been wanting to open my own distillery for years. Red Thread is part of Kentucky history. I’d like to be part of Kentucky’s present.”
“Some things are better off history.”
“Bourbon isn’t one of them.”
“It’s too late anyway, Mr. McQueen. Someone else beat you to it.”
“Beat me to what? Buying Red Thread?”
“Reopening the distillery. Under a new name, of course. And under new management.”
McQueen understood at once.
“You,” he said. “You’re Moonshine, Ltd.? I tried to contact you.”
“That’s my company, yes.”
“You own the old Red Thread property?”
“Owner, operator and master distiller.”
“You?”
“You don’t think a woman can be a master distiller? I have my PhD in chemistry. You can call me Dr. Paris if that sort of thing turns you on.”
“I get it,” McQueen said, nodding. “I do. This is the first ever bottle of Red Thread, the original bottle. Part of the company’s history and you want it because you own Red Thread now. Makes sense. I’m even sympathetic. I might even have loaned it to you to put on display when the company reopens for business. But now you’ve pissed me off. And if you don’t tell me one very good reason why I shouldn’t call the police, I’m picking up the phone in three seconds. Three...two...”
“I can tell you what happened to Red Thread,” she said. “I can tell you the whole story. The whole truth.”
Well.
That got his attention.
“You know why it burned down?”
“I know everything. But if I were you, I wouldn’t ask. By the time I’m done telling you the story, you’ll hand over that bottle with your compliments and an apology.”
“Must be one hell of a story, then.”
“It’s what brought me here, the story.”
“Your story?”
“My story. I inherited it.”
“I think I’d rather inherit money than a story.”
“I have that, too, not entirely by my choice.”
“You don’t want to be rich?”
“God favors the poor. But don’t tell rich people that. It’ll hurt their little feelings.”
McQueen sighed and sat back. He buttoned the middle buttons of his shirt, crossed his leg over his knee. He should call the cops. Why hadn’t he called the cops? Embarrassed he’d fallen for the oldest trick in the book? Beautiful woman in red goes home with him, fucks him and robs him while he sleeps. He could laugh at himself, but he wouldn’t let anyone else laugh at him. Yes, he could call the cops.
Or...
“They call bourbon the honest spirit,” he said. “You know why?”
“You aren’t legally allowed to flavor it with anything. Water, corn, barley, rye and that’s it. You see what you get. You get what you see. No artificial colors. No artificial sweeteners. No artificial nothing.”
“Right. So let’s drink a little honesty, shall we?”
“If you’re buying,” she said.
“I’m always buying.”
He picked up the bottle and slipped it into his pants pocket. He opened the door of the security shed and Paris stepped out into the warm night air. Almost 2:00 a.m., he should be in bed now. He’d hoped to be in bed with her. One of these days he’d learn. Not today apparently.
“Boss?” James asked, dropping his cigarette on the ground and crushing it under his boot.
“A misunderstanding.” McQueen had his hand on the small of Paris’s back. “Don’t worry about it.”
“Got it. Sleep well, Mr. McQueen.”
As they walked back into the house and up to his drinking closet, McQueen considered the possibility that he might be making the worst mistake of his life.
“Sit.” McQueen pointed at the jade sofa and Paris sat without a word of protest.
McQueen took the key from the silver bowl and put the bottle of Red Thread back into the cabinet.
“I shouldn’t have trusted you.” McQueen locked the cabinet and slipped the key into his pocket.
“You’re a rich white man. Not your fault for assuming the entire world is on your side. It must seem like it most days. Usually you’d be right, but times, Mr. McQueen, are a-changing.”
“That sounds like a threat.”
“Sounds like Bob Dylan to me.”
He needed a drink, a stiff one, so he poured each of them a shot. The entire time he kept an eye on her as he unscrewed the cap and measured out the bourbon. Now she seemed calm, but it wasn’t the calm of surrender. This was a cat’s version of calm. A calm that could turn into an attack or a run in an instant.
When she had her shot in hand and he had his, he lifted it in a toast, a toast she didn’t return. Instead, she merely sipped her bourbon.
“Pappy’s?” she asked.
“It is. You have a good palate.”
“You can taste the leather in it.”
He couldn’t, but it impressed him she could.
“You weren’t exaggerating. You do know your bourbon,” he said.
“They used to say that about the Maddoxes,” she said. “Ever since Jacob Maddox started the distillery and made himself a wealthy man in five years...they said it about all of us—the Maddoxes have bourbon in their blood.”
“I’ve seen the Maddox family tree. There is no Paris on it.”
“Perhaps you were looking at the wrong branches,” she said coldly.
His words had hit a sensitive spot and her eyes flashed in a familiar way. It was not his first encounter with her sensitive places, after all.
“Now that we both have an honest spirit in our hands,” McQueen said, “tell me something.”
“Anything,” she said, although he doubted the sincerity of that declaration. She was proving to be altogether miserly with her explanations and answers.
“Did you sleep with me just to steal my bottle?”
“Does that sting? I bet it stings.” She winced in feigned sympathy, shaking her head and clucking her tongue like a mother tending to the skinned knee of her child. Right then and there he made a realization—he didn’t like this woman, not at all.
“I think I could fuck you a thousand nights and never actually touch you.”
“Don’t feel bad,” she said. “You’re not the only one with rock fences around you. Built by the same people, too, as a matter of fact.”
“Irish immigrant stonemasons hired by my great-grandfather?”
Paris’s eyes widened slightly. Then she laughed. Finally. He knew he’d scored a point on her. True, most of the rock fences in Kentucky were built by slave labor. His was not, however, and somewhere he had the paperwork to prove it. While he didn’t know the game he and Paris were playing, he knew that while he wouldn’t win it, if he played it well enough, he might not lose it.
“You’re funny. And you’re handsome.” She tossed the compliment at him like a dollar bill at a stripper’s feet. “If it makes you feel any better, I didn’t have to fake anything with you. If I hadn’t wanted to sleep with you, I wouldn’t have. It was convenient that you were attractive. Otherwise, I might have simply hired someone to break into the house while you were away. Does that help?”
“I feel so much better now,” he said. “While we’re being honest...is it true? You’re widowed?”
“I am. Widowed at thirty-four.”
“Awfully young to lose a husband.”
“Not my husband, although he died too young for my liking. He was twenty-eight years older than I am.”
McQueen nearly choked on his Pappy’s. The youngest woman he ever slept with was eighteen years his junior and that relationship had lasted about as long as a bad movie.
“Twenty-eight. I guess that’s what they call a May/December romance.”
She smiled and it was a debt collector’s smile, and something told him she had come to make him pay up. “Twenty-eight years? That’s a January/December romance in a leap year.”
McQueen chuckled and raised his glass to her.
“What?” she asked.
“You get enough bourbon in you and you sound like a real Kentucky girl.”
“I am a real Kentucky girl. Born in Frankfort a stone’s throw from the Kentucky River. That’s not an exaggeration. With a good arm, you could hit the river from our porch.”
“That’s not a good neighborhood.”
“It was the only neighborhood we had. If you have a roof over your head and food in the fridge and nobody breaking down your door, it’s a good neighborhood.”
McQueen tried to take another drink of his bourbon and found his shot glass empty. He set it down again on his knee.
“So you slept with me and stole a million-dollar bottle of bourbon. You must really want that bottle.”
“I don’t want it, no. But I need it.” For the second time that night he saw a glimpse of the real woman behind the mask of the femme fatale, the woman in red. A determined woman.
“For what?”
“To finish something someone else started.” She glanced down at the bourbon in the glass she’d balanced on her knee. “You know what a bourbon thief is, Mr. McQueen?”
“It’s a sampling tube,” McQueen said. “You stick it in the bunghole of a bourbon barrel and extract the contents for tasting.”
“Isn’t that one hell of a visual metaphor?” Paris asked.
McQueen laughed big and long and loud.
“What’s your point?”
“Do I look like a bourbon thief to you?”
“You look like a woman who’s never stolen anything in her life.”
“I haven’t. That bottle belongs to my family. You will return it one way or another.”
“Apparently I’m going to give it to you by morning in exchange for a story. That’s quite a feat.”
“It’s quite a story.”
“Go on, then.”
McQueen looked at her as she crossed her long legs, pulled her hair over her shoulder and met his eyes without a hint of fear even though she was on the hook for a million-dollar heist. It made him nervous, what she was about to tell him, but he wanted to know. Knowledge was power and power was money, and no man ever got rich buying stock in ignorance.
“On December 10, 1978, two very important events in the history of Red Thread occurred—the Kentucky River broke its banks and crested at a record forty-eight feet, and the granddaughter of George J. Maddox, the owner of Red Thread Bourbon Distillery, turned sixteen years old. That was the beginning of the end of Red Thread.”
“What was? The river flooding?”
Paris gave him a smile, a smile that made him momentarily rethink his decision to not call the police.
“Tamara Maddox.”
