The Bourbon Thief(5)

“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...”