Free The Black Train by Edward Lee Page B

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 stagebefore 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…
    “Oh, man. Great nose,” he said.
    Jiff looked perplexed. “Who? The barmaid?”
    Collier sighed. “No, Jiff. That’s how beer writers describe a beer’s aroma. A rich but tight aroma like this means the brewer uses good water without a lot of minerals. It’s also a sign of extensive filtering and refusal to cut corners with pasteurization.”
    “Uh-huh.”
    Collier reexamined the beer’s color, as if the glass were a scryer’s ball, then, Here goes, and he took the first sip, holding it in his mouth.
    The emergence of the grain was immediate. The astringency of the hops—six-row, he was sure—rounded off after the initial sensation that experts