Read Death in the Distillery for Free Online Page B

around the area. The barrels are
white oak, charred inside. Each holds one hundred and
eighty liters of whiskey, which ages for up to twelve years."
    "How much do you produce a year?"
    Alonzo Jackson grinned shyly. "We're not a world
player yet, Mr. Boudreaux. Just a little over one hundred
and twenty thousand last year."
    "Gallons or liters?"
    His grin broadened. "Barrels."
    "Some operation," I muttered as we left the cistern room
and headed across the quadrangle for the lounge. I noticed
a long, low, rectangular building adjoining the distillery.
"What's that?"
    He snapped his fingers and angled toward the building.
"I'm sorry. I should have thought to show you that piece
of history. It is fascinating. It's where the Saladin Box is."

    "The Saladin Box?"
    He opened the door and flipped on the lights. The room
was empty, obviously closed up for years as evidenced by
the accumulation of dust clinging to every exposed surface.
In the middle of the floor was a concrete trough with a
perforated floor. The trough was eight feet wide, four feet
deep, and at least eighty feet long, the length of the building. Extending the length of the trough were six mechanical
turners that resembled giant, flat-bladed corkscrews.
    "What's this contraption?"
    With a chuckle, he led the way along the bay. "This
contraption was once used to turn the barley, slowly moving it from one end of the trough to the other." He went
on to explain that barley had to be turned and dried properly for good bourbon. "However, the box was too labor
intensive, so now we buy the barley from specified vendors."
    "How much barley are you talking about? Very much?"
    "The box holds about twenty tons of barley, which will
make about sixteen or seventeen tons of malt."
    This whiskey business was more complicated than it
looked. "I'd hate to turn that much by hand."
    Alonzo arched a gray-flecked eyebrow. "That's exactly
what Tom Seldes did in the beginning ... before the Saladin Box. His main job was to start at one end of the building, which had a foot thick layer of barley covering the
entire floor, and work his way from one end of the room
to the other, turning all of the barley by hand, day in and
day out."
    I remembered Seldes, the gorilla man. No wonder his
arms and shoulders looked so powerful. "Twenty tons?
What did he use?"
    "A shovel, but that was years ago. Certainly he wasn't
turning twenty tons then. More like ten or twelve."
    "That's all?" I gave him a wry grin.
    Alonza nodded. "That's all."
    I whistled. "That's enough. I suppose he's been around
a long time, huh?"

    "Yes. He started with Mr. Morrison in the beginning.
Through all the bad times, and finally the good times. Tom
and Mr. Morrison were great friends. In fact, that was the
reason the Saladin Box was put in."
    "What do you mean by that?"
    "Tom developed what is called monkey shoulders in the
business. Years and years of the constant turning of barley
creates a muscular condition that was the precursor of repetitive strain injury. Similar, I would guess, to the current
affliction called carpal tunnel syndrome, except this, obviously, is in the shoulders."
    I looked at him in disbelief. "You're telling me that Morrison went to all of this expense for one man?"
    Jackson laughed. "Oh, no. Primarily, we did it because
business had grown so that hand turning was not cost effective. Then soon, the Saladin Box also became a victim
of the economy. As I mentioned earlier, now we can purchase sufficient grains meeting our specifications from various vendors."
    At the end of the tour, he led me into the visitors' lounge,
which perpetuated the Spanish motif of the distillery. A
dozen heavy oaken tables, their chairs upholstered with rich
red velvet, filled the room like tiny islands, each a discreet
distance from the others. Red and black tile, shiny and
slick, formed a series of diamonds on the floor. Oils in dark,
ornate frames covered the stucco walls, scenes of