"Oh, it's not free. You can pay your tab at the bar."
She's at another door, one that must lock on exit, because she's using a key. She holds it open to usher me through. I step inside ... and get my first look at the heart of the Roc. Isabel's brewery.
Bottled alcohol is flown in, as evidenced by that stockroom. But booze takes up valuable cargo space on supply runs, space better used for staples. Our beer is locally brewed. By Isabel.
This room is more than twice the size of the one we just left. Vats line the walls, batches in progress. At the end, there's an old hand-operated bottling press. Crates of recycled bottles wait beside it. Like the hard alcohol, beer is only available from the Roc and the Red Lion, sold in single servings. The exception would be the tequila bottle in Dalton's house and the half dozen beers in his icebox. But he is the exception in almost everything here--the guy who is allowed to skirt the rules, partly because he can be trusted to and partly because no one dares refuse him. It's goo
d to be king. Or at least virtual dictator.
"Today, I'm bottling one keg of lager, one of pale ale, and my first-ever batch of stout. You get to sample the stout."
"I'm not really a fan of--"
"Too bad," Isabel says. "Your task then is to tell me whether it tastes even worse than stout you've had before."
"And if it does, you'll dump it?"
"I don't dump anything, sugar. I just sell it at a discount. You're going to test the lager, too. I've made an adjustment to the recipe."
I hop up on a stool at a high table. "Eric won't love that."
"Oh, I made the usual, too, just for him. I know better than to annoy him over the trivial. Save it for the things that count. Like convincing him to bring in a case of champagne for New Year's Eve."
"You're going to treat the town to champagne? That's so sweet."
She doesn't even dignify that with a response.
"If you're asking for my help persuading him--" I begin.
"I know better. I'll handle this."
"If your plan involves telling him I'd love champagne for my first New Year's in Rockton, I don't actually care for it."
She hesitates, a glass in hand.
"And yes," I said, "he knows that. He saw it on the menu last time we were in Dawson City. He offered. I said I'd rather stick to wine. You'll need a plan B. Preferably one that doesn't involve playing on his new-relationship insecurities."
"But his new-relationship insecurities are adorable. And terribly useful."
I give her a look.
"Don't worry. I consider you a friend. Which means I will refrain from exploiting your lover any more than absolutely necessary. Now, let's get to this sampling so I can bottle these kegs. Business has been very fine since the rydex supply dried up."
"You really think it has dried up?"
"No more than you do. Eric is hopeful, but the dear boy has far too little experience of the world. We know better. When our purveyors of fine opiates passed on to the great drug lab in the sky, the supply began to dwindle, until poor Will had to beg the council to double our buprenorphine shipment to deal with withdrawal symptoms. And yet..."
"It's too convenient," I say. "There had to be more people involved. And someone on the council itself had to have gotten the base supplies to Rockton. The rydex has just dried up while they retool the plan."
"And in the meantime?" She lifts a sample glass. "My business is booming." She sets the glass in front of me. "Drink up."
I do and then say, "Tastes like shit. Which means, yes, it tastes like stout."
"Excellent. Take the coffee on your left to clear your palate, and we'll move on."
"I must bear a striking resemblance to a guinea pig. Mathias did this to me just a few days ago, with sausage."
"You know, that's something that never fails to amaze me. The man makes people terribly nervous, and yet everyone eats the sausage without question. Then they wonder what happens to those bodies we supposedly dispose of deep in the forest."