The Adventures of Latakia Billows

Episode IV: Fancy Beer


Christopher Billows had long lost his taste for fancy beer, or maybe it had lost its taste for him. His hosts, whoever they were, brought him a bottle of… well, of whatever it was. It tasted fine, he guessed, but the fancy bottle and the fancy label with the name written in a language that made no sense to him just made him wish harder for a Budweiser or a Coors Light or even a Dos Equis. There were a couple places around Albuquerque that brewed their own drafts, and he often enjoyed a local red rye with the boys, but this time he had not been offered the choice, which told him this beer was meant more as message than refreshment. Not being one to waste beer, he drank it anyway.

Jose hadn’t left his appreciation of the good stuff on Wall Street when he followed Chris to the middle of nowhere, and he was savoring every drop of the brew.

“I’m picking up notes of hickory,” he said with an air of superiority, “and a fruity note.”

Chris yawned and brushed him off with a wave, saying, “You know I don’t go in for that hoity toity crap.”

Jose laughed the self-righteous laugh of a man about to land a low blow. “And did they teach you ‘hoity toity’ at Harvard or Princeton?”

Chris responded by pushing his hat down so the brim hid his face and the way his lips were suddenly stuck fiercely to the bottle, but the Mexican was undeterred.

“When you left Wall Street, I understood enough to go with you, but there was no reason to leave every bit of that life behind,” Jose said. “When we get back to Albuquerque, I’ll take you to a fantastic restaurant, in what used to be a firehouse, where they make the best foie gras and a very tasty veal dish.”

Chris met Jose’s eyes for just a second and retreated back behind his hat. “Heard that restaurant’s gone,” he said. “Nothing left but a bar. Even the city is rejecting that stuff.”

Jose swigged his beer. “Dammit, Chris, there’s only so many Frito pies a man can eat.”

Chris, his back still stiff from what seemed like a day’s long helicopter ride, twisted his head toward the nearest of the floor-to-ceiling glass windows surrounding what had to be a conference room, what with its ridiculously long table lined with chairs. He saw only blue.

“Speaking of Albuquerque, have you figured out where the hell we are yet?”

“You’re in the Caiman Islands!” said the clean-cut, suited man who burst through the door at that moment, as if he were waiting with ear to wood for the perfect moment for a dramatic entrance. “Actually, you’re on my own private island off the Caiman Islands!”

Jose spun in his seat, looking for any clue in the waters beyond the window.

“Why here?” asked the Mexican. “Why not the Florida Keys or Las Vegas or a volcano somewhere?”

“Funny thing about shell corporations,” the stranger said, “it’s easier to get away with them if you actually do have your headquarters here.”

Chris only tipped his bottle all the way back and reached blindly for Jose’s.

“And how do you like your beer,” the stranger asked. “It’s a Japanese recipe using water melted from Himalayan snow, rice grown within the Emperor’s private garden, and barley grown by Germany’s first brewmaster. It is fermented in barrels made of golden slats held together with pure silver that are used only once. It used to be the most prestigious and expensive brew in the world, the stuff of legend and legacy, but I couldn’t bear for anyone besides me to own even one bottle, so I bought the brewery.”

Jose continued to search the horizon. Chris let out a burp from under his hat.

“That mean you do or do not have a Corona?” he asked.

The stranger led them from the conference room with its expansive panoramic view, down a hallway trimmed with Athenian-style molding and lined with modern art, into an oversized office, walled in glass, furnished in aniline leather and accented with stainless steel that gleamed in the sunlight. He unbuttoned his Brioni jacket and propped his Chris Lobb shoes on the desk.

Chris let out a whistle. “I’m impressed with you, sir,” he said. “Most guys in your position wouldn’t have had the humility for the subtle approach.”

The stranger laughed.

“You know,” Chris said, “most men who laugh when you insult them want something from you.”

The cowboy sat down in one of the expensive leather chairs and kicked his still-dusty boots up on the desk with the strangers. The man in the suit stopped laughing and returned his feet to the floor. Chris kept his boots where they were. Jose finally let out a snicker at the whole affair.

After a pause, the stranger coughed, folded his hands, and fixed his gaze on the cowboy.

“My name is Dell Cornell, and I had the pleasure of working with your grandfather until his death.”

“Disappearance,” both visitors corrected.

“Ok, disappearance, then,” Cornell said, his eyes searching the room for the words he intended to say. “I was working with your grandfather at the time of his, ah, disappearance, and I want to tell you that it’s a pity we were unable to finish that work together. You see, he was adamant that a groundbreaking discovery was nearly at hand, but, well, I assume you know the rest as well as I do.”

“That’s a terrific story, Mr. Cornell,” Chris said. “Why don’t you get to the part where we’re here in your office listening to it.”

The best-dressed man in the room cleared his throat and reached under his desk.

“Would you like another beer,” he said, setting one out for each of his guests.

Chris grabbed his bottle, took a swig, and then stuck a cigar in his mouth.

“Uhm, this is a non-smoking building,” Cornell said, throwing in a cough for effect.

Chris lit a match. “Not if you want my help it’s not,” the cowboy said.

Cornell sighed the sigh of someone being put upon, but the other two men in the room withheld their sympathy, so he continued anyway.

“We believe you grandfather may have left you some details of his work, something that might lead us to take up where his work, unfortunately, ended,” he said. “Did his attorney bring anything during his visit?”

Chris stood forcefully. “And exactly how long have you been following us?” he demanded. “I bet you could probably tell me better than I could.”

Cornell placed a photo of the puzzle box on the table. “The box was detailed in court documents, but any contents were not.”

Chris shrugged and pulled the actual box from his satchel. “That’s about all there was,” the cowboy said, opening the box with Jose’s help. “Inside were a photo and this pipe, and that’s all.”

Cornell’s face sank. “And the office?” he asked. “Did you find anything there?”

Chris sent a big cloud of smoke toward the ceiling. “Nothing but ashes and memories,” he said.

Cornell stood and smoothed his suit. “Gentlemen, should you find this trail, I hope you’ll let me help you, maybe with a few men and some equipment,” he said. “I still have quite a bit of money tied up in this enterprise.”

Jose adjusted his hat and grabbed his bottle of fancy beer. “I hope you don’t expect a lot of trust for a man with this much money, who knows when the attorney visited and where to find us in the desert, and who still doesn’t seem to know the first thing about the job with which he’s offering to help,” he said.

“I understand,” Cornell said, forcing out a smile, “but a man like you describe probably doesn’t hear ‘no’ often enough to accept it as an answer.”

Neither Chris nor Jose muttered a word until the helicopter was well out of sight and sound, drifting off like the memory of a second long, dull ride. The reason for the silence had as much to do with what they couldn’t hear over the machine’s noises as it did with what others might somehow be able to hear.

Cornell had returned them to find two men in suits had tracked down their horses and were now standing guard over them. They also found the hideaway’s door still closed and sealed.

The partners mounted their horses and went for their cigars, but unfortunately found only one left between both their supplies. Chris checked the saddlebags for a stray smoke, but found only his machete, presumably packed there by Cornell’s guards.

“Well,” he said, using the oversized blade to slice the cigar in twain, “at least they’re not thieves.”

Jose corrected, “At least not this time.”

Chris reached into his boot and grabbed the letters still hidden there.

“There’s got to be something here to explain what just happened,” he said.

While Chris spread the papers as best he could across the horse’s neck, careful not to let them slip, Jose pulled a fresh bottle of that fancy beer from his coat.

“Where’d you get that?” asked Chris, fumbling too much with the letters for his own comfort.

“I’m sneaky,” Jose said, and he pulled a second bottle to join the first. “Want one?”

“Stick it in the saddle bag for me,” Chris said, and the two pulled as close together as the horses would allow.

“There’s nothing here,” Chris said, staring at the scrawled writing, “nothing but a bunch of vague statements that don’t mean anything.”

Jose leaned in close. “What’s that number?” he asked.

Chris looked at it and saw 10161947, and he squinted at it and saw 10161947, and he groaned.

“It’s my old man’s birthday,” he said.

Jose whistled. “New York, here we come!”

All content and characters are the property of the author and may not be republished or recreated without prior written consent.