Page 6 of Killer Moonshine

CHAPTER FOUR

“Hey, Robey, what’s up, brother?” asked Gaspar, shaking the hand of the owner of The Well. Roughly half their age, he was closer to the age of their own sons with children of his own. When they’d frequented The Well, it was owned by his uncle. He’d inherited it from his uncle, who inherited it from the original owner, his grandfather.

“Gaspar,” he said, waving with a smile. He said Gaspar as if it were two words, Gas Spar! It always made him smile. “Mr. Nine! How you doin’?”

“We’re hanging in there, Robey. We wanted to ask you about the incident the other night with the man who got sick and later died,” said Gaspar. “A few of our boys were here and told us about what happened.”

“Yeah, man, that’s not good for business,” said the younger man, shaking his head. “He was a regular, and like I told your boys, he never drank more than a few beers. Didn’t touch the hard stuff. I hadn’t seen him in a while until that night.”

“We’re positive he died from ingestion of illegal moonshine,” said Nine. “You’re not selling that here, are you?”

“Hell no,” he said, scoffing at the thought of it. “I know what that shit’ll do to ya. That’s how this place got its start. Great-great grandpa had a still in the bayou because of prohibition. He would mix it up and bring it here to this old fishin’ cabin and serve it up to the boys for a few cents a drink.

“He was makin’ money hand over fist, selling that sewer water. That shit’s nasty,” he said, shaking his head. “Pretty soon, though, he had enough money to fix this old place up. He put the deck on the bottom first, then built a new one up top, then another floor, and, well, this is what you see now. Three floors of food, drink, dancin’, and all the fun you can handle in the bayou. All because of moonshine. So, I don’t serve it, but I respect what it’s given me.”

“Anybody try to get you to carry it here?” asked Gaspar.

“Naw, brother. No one stupid enough to put it in a legal bar. People would know. Besides, I get sheriff’s deputies out here all the time havin’ lunch. Hell, I got four boys from Wildlife and Fisheries eatin’ lunch now. I’m too connected to law enforcement, and they know it.”

“Do you have any thoughts about where we should look?” asked Nine.

“I do,” he nodded. “It would be remote places like this in the bayou. Smaller, family places that only locals would go. There’s lots of them places in the bayou. Small little shacks that only hold ten or twenty folks.”

“I remember a few of those places,” nodded Gaspar.

“I think the places you remember are long gone,” smirked Robey, “but you get the idea. If you haven’t been watchin’ the news, I’d say you should talk to that lady who’s been stoppin’ moonshine from becomin’ legal.”

“What woman?” frowned Gaspar.

“She works for that tobacco and firearms department.”

“ATF?”

“That’s it. Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms. Her name is, damn, what’s her name,” he said, holding up a finger. He disappeared behind the bar, pulling out a newspaper and flipping the pages. “That’s her. Estella Beauchamp. She’s the head of the department up there in Baton Rouge at the capital. Real firecracker.”

“That’s helpful, Robey. Thank you,” said Nine.

“Hey, Robey, just for shits and giggles, what are your thoughts on this stuff? Should it be legal?” asked Gaspar.

“Man, I don’t know. After seein’ that boy the other night die right here, I say no. Before that, I watched a few videos about it, just curious. Some of the legal stills in places where moonshine is legal are putting out good products. It’s only legal in Alaska, Arizona, Missouri, and Massachusetts.”

“Massachusetts? That seems out of place,” frowned Nine.

“I guess it’s the whole Boston Tea Party, free will, and that shit,” smirked Robey. He heard chairs moving around in the other room and looked back at the two men. “Listen, I gotta get ready for a big retirement party we’re catering here tonight. Let me know if I can help in any way.”

“Just let us know if anyone shows up pushing that shit again,” said Gaspar. He smiled, waving at him as he moved to help the others with set-up.

“I think we need to send a few boys to Baton Rouge,” said Nine. Gaspar nodded. “They should be easy to talk to, calm, and not screw anything up with the ATF.”

“Right,” nodded Gaspar. “Miller and Trak.”

“Exactly what I was thinking.”

CHAPTER FIVE

The drive from New Orleans to Baton Rouge was only about an hour, but since Belle Fleur was another thirty minutes south of New Orleans, it took a bit longer. Miller and Trak loved working together because they had a similar style. They didn’t need to talk excessively, they didn’t put up with bullshit, and they were better with actions than words.

Following required protocol, they’d made an appointment with Ms. Beauchamp, hoping to get in, get out, and be home by dinner.

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