This inveigler of invites and slayer of crudités, this drink ticket fondler and slim tipper, open bar opportunist, master of vouchers, queue-jumping wrangler of receipts, goes by the name of J. Sutter, views the facade of the Millhouse Inn through reptilian eyes.
Is he supposed to take this place seriously? The walls of the rustic hotel and restaurant are obviously some factory concoction, J. sees that from yards away, the ridges and pocks identical from stone to stone. He cant figure out what style its designers tried to effect, colonial flourishes abut antebellum wood columns, modern double-pane windows nestle in artificially weathered frames of molting paint. Nice attempt by the toddler ivy along the walls, but hell, he discerns the wire firming it in place. But the water wheel is the biggest atrocity. The fountain jets force water over slats that do not move, the spray energetic and process of no natural movement, splashing into a cement pool lousy with plastic lily pads floating moronically, congregating near the drainage grate. Snug up against a hill, this establishment totally new, intended to service the legions of tourists who will flock here now for John Henry Days. They hope. A hipster kid with more hooks in his face than some ancient, uncatchable fish, strutting down Soho in seventies bell-bottoms, has more period authenticity than this place. What is he doing here? He is going for the record, his works gurgling with slow, heavy fluids.
First things first when they hit the Social Room. Objective One: find a base of operations. Most of the tables had already been colonized by the other factions, but there is Frenchie tracking ahead, wading between chairs before the rest of them have finished taking stock of the room, on point, surveying, dithering a little between two tables to the far left of the podium before dropping his bag on one and motioning the other junketeers over. He nods to himself, second-guessing his choice, but no, this is it, this table is definitely it. As J. and the rest march to join him, they progress to Objective Two, libations, scanning the joint as they advance on their seats. Two bartenders barely out of their teens work their alchemy in a corner under ferns. John Henry Days employment largesse stealing labor from the fast food outlets, J. surmises. The junketeers take their seats and dispatch Tiny and Dave for drinks. A few citizens of Talcott and Hinton hover around the bar, but there is an opening on the left flank, a chink where Tiny or Dave might weasel in and dominate.
I dont see a cash register, One Eye comments, sipping water.
Me either, J. seconds.
These are some real white people, J. thinks, looking around. These people go into hair salons armed with pictures of stars on CBS television shows and demand. He is out of his element. He discovers the food table on the other side of the room. Looks like salad to start. His stomach grumbles again but he decides he can wait until the boys come back with the drinks. Bit of a line anyway. J. notices that the woman in the van has chosen a different table. Probably a good choice to keep her distance.
The drinks arrive, dock, find berth in waiting palms. Frenchie sniffs, asks, This Gordons or what?
Tiny shakes his head. No, tonight theyre breaking out the good stuff. I asked the guy if he had any moonshine and he just looked at me. Was that un-p.c. of me?
Obviously you havent heard of the great Talcott Moonshine War of Thirty-three, One Eye says over the rim of his glass. Youre stirring up old wounds.
J. has forgotten that afternoons vomit incident but then he smells the gin. Bubbles break against his nose. He figures the ham sandwich he discovered in his suitcase has settled his stomach a bit. Cheers, he says. Everybodys already drinking.
One Eye nods to the right, to an efficient-looking lady with a strong stride approaching their table, clipboard against her chest like armor. The handler. Can spot a handler a mile away, just as easily as she identified them. She introduces herself as Arlene. I hope you had an easy trip out here, she says, smiling.
Nods all around. Tiny belches. J. thinks she is smiling at him more than the others. I left some brochures with the press packets at the hotel, she says. You should see what the county has to offer. Maybe you could include a little about the New River in your articles.
Articles? Tiny says under his breath.
I saw them, Dave says, ever the appeaser when it came to the game. Sounds like theres a lot of nice things in these parts.
In these parts. One Eye and J. look at each other: Dave is shameless.
You should check it out if you get a chance, Arlene advises, retreating from the table. Well, you enjoy yourselves tonight; tomorrow is a big day. I see youve already made yourselves at home. If you have any questions, or if youd like to talk to the mayor or one of the event planners, feel free to grab me at any time. She departs, but not before smiling at J. again. Why was she smiling like that. Some kind of overcompensation for slavery or what? He leaves his seat to nab some salad, passing Lawrence on the way, who raises two fingers in greeting without breaking eye contact with the fellow he is talking to. The man is a pro.