The Bourbon Thief(25)

McQueen laughed, but it didn’t feel right, laughing after hearing that story.

“Depends on the prostitute, I guess,” he said. “I know those old bottles. They aren’t that hard to drink in one long night. What? Ten shots? Twelve?”

“George Maddox had a nickname in certain Kentucky circles. They called him ‘The Baron.’ The good ole boys called him that. He called himself that. One of the last great bourbon barons. He took his title seriously. That man could polish off a full bottle of Red Thread in a night. And then he’d take that little red ribbon off, put it on his finger and wear it into the office the next day. Big man. He liked to show that he could hold his liquor. It was a point of family pride.”

“He has a pretty sick definition of pride. Raping his own granddaughter. Even if Tamara wasn’t his granddaughter—”

“She wasn’t his granddaughter, no, but the whole world thought she was. Any baby she had would be a Maddox in the eyes of the world—even more important, in the eyes of George Maddox.”

“But still...he raised her like a granddaughter. And he did that to her? Really?”

“He did what I said he did.” Paris gave him a look that said Doubting Thomases will not be treated kindly. “George Maddox was a wealthy and powerful man and had the audacity to think he deserved both his wealth and his power. He’d inherited the money, and the power that came with the name, also inherited. The world gave him everything he ever wanted except a son to pass it all on to—the right son, a white son. He thought the world owed him that, as well. What does the world owe you, Mr. McQueen?”

“Nothing,” McQueen said.

“Good answer,” Paris said. “If you really believe that, you might have a soul under all that money.”

“Tamara’s around my daughter’s age. I can’t...” He shook his head, attempting to dislodge the image of a man his father’s age touching his daughter. “Was she arrested?”

“No, she wasn’t. I don’t think the police even questioned her. With that red ribbon around his finger, everyone assumed, naturally, that he’d been drinking heavily. The investigation was open and shut. George Maddox was drunk, went to take a piss, unzipped his pants, fell and hit his head. When the floodwater came in the house, he drowned. George Maddox was a pillar of the community. No one wanted to know any different. No one wanted to know why they found his corpse in his granddaughter’s bedroom with his pants around his knees. They didn’t ask questions. Tamara didn’t answer any. They buried him. The end. Except it wasn’t the end.” Paris smiled a satisfied smile like she’d thought of a good secret.

“You don’t sound like a fan of the Maddoxes.”

“What is it they say? You can’t choose your family? Although, in a way, I suppose I did choose them. But that’s another story.”

McQueen stood and took her now empty shot glass from her.

“What’s your poison?” he asked.

“Can you make an old-fashioned?”

“With my eyes closed.”

He walked to the bar, a polished and carved mahogany number that had once stood in an Old West saloon. Saloon, the dealer had said. All signs pointed to brothel, including the brass plaque on the back that read Property of Mollie Johnson, Queen of the Blondes. He’d bought the bar despite all the little scratches in it that had most likely come from fingernails. He himself had eight claw marks on the back of his shoulders, courtesy of the widow Paris, so he had a fondness for the damage left by the fingernails of well-pleased women.

“My father insisted I get a real job in college,” McQueen said. “Didn’t want me mooching off the family money until I’d proved I could make my own way in the world.” He returned to the sitting area with her old-fashioned and his bourbon, neat with a splash of cold water. “So I got a job in a dive bar.”

She took the drink from his hand, sipped it and nodded her approval.

“They taught you well in the dive.”

“Thank you.” He sat back on the leather armchair opposite her. The only thing between them was a coffee table and the truth.

“You ready for more?” she asked.

“I don’t think so.”

“You think hearing this story is bad, try living it.”

“You’re trying to make me feel guilty,” he said.

“You are guilty,” she said. “Now I’m trying to convince you to make your restitution.”

“Tell the story, then.” Restitution. As if he owed anyone anything. He paid his debts in time and in full. But if she wanted to keep talking, he’d keep listening. God knew it was the most interesting evening he’d had in a long time.

“George Maddox was many things,” Paris continued. “Most of them bad, but he didn’t turn Red Thread into a two-hundred-million-dollar property by being a fool. He was a smart man, and a ruthless man. He knew how to get people to dance for him. Yes, he left everything to Tamara in his will. Of course, he’d fully expected to get something in return for his largesse, but he died before the blessed event could take place. To all the world, Tamara Maddox was the one and only living Maddox. As you and I know, this was not the case. The will was read once Mr. Maddox was in the ground. Everything went to Tamara, but it was held in trust by her mother until that time she was married or she turned twenty-one, whichever came first. George Maddox had likely planned to get Tamara pregnant and then have her married off—very quickly—to one of his handpicked cronies. And the child Tamara would give birth to would be the real heir because George Maddox had fathered it.”