Read Online Salvage by Stephen Maher - Free Book Online Page B

Murphy came into the kitchen. Her freckled face lit up with pleasure and she clapped her hands. She kissed Scarnum on both cheeks.
    Scarnum laughed and hugged her. “You’re a sight for sore eyes, you,” he said.
    â€œWe never see you anymore, Phillip,” she said. “How are you?”
    â€œNot bad, b’y, but I’ve got a mystery for you. Here’s the thing,” he said, unscrewing the top of the flask. “Don’t ask me why, but I want to know who owns this flask. I might be able to figure it out if I knew what was in it.”
    He passed the flask to Castonguay, who pressed the lid against his grey moustache and inhaled deeply.
    â€œScotch,” he said. He took a tiny sip and frowned. “Good Scotch,” he said. “Mary has a better palate than I do.” He passed it to her.
    â€œMmm,” she said. “Islay Scotch, I think.”
    Mary led them into the dining room and took some brandy snifters down from the rack above the little bar. She poured a finger of Scotch from the flask into a glass, mixed a little spring water, and they all tasted it again.
    Then she took down a bottle of Laphroaig and a bottle of Lagavulin. She poured a finger from each, added a little water, and lined them up on the bar — each glass in front of its bottle. They tasted them in turn.
    â€œIt is Laphroaig,” she said. She sipped it again and pushed two of the glasses toward Scarnum. “Taste these two. This one is from our bottle of Laphroaig. This one is from your flask.”
    â€œThey taste exactly the same to me,” said Scarnum.
    â€œThe one from the flask is older,” she said. “We carry the ten-year-old Laphroaig, but they sell older stuff, fifteen-year-old, thirty-year-old. I think this might be the thirty-year-old stuff.”
    She sipped it again. “Taste how smooth it is, but how it hasn’t lost that wild flavour of peat and iodine.”
    She looked up at the two men, who were watching her silently. “This is good fucking whisky,” she said, and they all laughed.
    â€œSo, who drinks thirty-year-old Laphroaig?” asked Scarnum.
    â€œSomeone with good taste and a lot of money,” said Castonguay. “It’s what? Two hundred and fifty dollars a bottle?”
    Mary nodded. She pursed her lips and looked up at Scarnum. “I can only remember one person ever asking for it here,” she said. “I remember because I thought he was a big-feeling arsehole to ask, since he could see we didn’t have it behind the bar. You can’t even buy it at the Nova Scotia Liquor Commission.”
    â€œWho was that?” said Scarnum.
    She looked at him for a long moment, and he knew it was coming.
    â€œBobby Falkenham,” she said, and she took another drink of whisky.
    So did Scarnum.

    S carnum drove north, along the winding, two-lane paved road that led to New Ross, through the woods. After half an hour, he turned right onto a dirt road and drove past a sign that said WELCOME TO THE PENNAL FIRST NATION .
    A bit farther down the road was a much bigger sign: CIGARETTES, FIREWORKS, GAS, COFFEE . Scarnum pulled up in front of the Mi’kmaq Treaty Gas Bar — a set of pumps in front of a little plywood shed on a concrete pad — and went in and bought a carton of duty-free cigarettes from two middle-aged Mi’kmaq women who sat behind the counter listening to country music on the radio and smoking.
    A sad-looking old white couple sat in the back, feeding quarters into video lottery machines.
    â€œYou know where I can find Donald Christmas’s place?” Scarnum asked the Mi’kmaq women, smiling.
    â€œI dunno,” said the older of the two women. “I’m not sure he’s in town. What do you want him for?”
    â€œI’m an old friend,” said Scarnum. “Phillip Scarnum. Just wanna see how he’s doing.”
    â€œI dunno,” she said. “Wait a minute.