Page 8 of Whiskey Kisses

“I’ve been told.” I chuckle, lowering into the chair across from him. A bottle of whiskey and two glass tumblers are already on the table. “Nice to officially meet you, Kenny. I appreciate you getting together on such short notice. I know you’re a busy man.”

“Don’t mention it, son,” he says. “I’ve been working on this deal with your daddy and your brother for quite some time now. It’s only natural we bring you into the fold so we can finally start wrapping things up.”

I nod, watching two riverboats pass each other on the water. “So, talk to me. Catch me up on everything there is to know.”

“Where do I even start? That distillery has been simmerin’ in a stew of trouble for a while now.” Kenny gestures toward the whiskey between us. There’s no name on the bottle’s iconic gold label, just the Doyle family crest. “You drinking?”

“When in Rome,” I say with a grin.

“That’s right.” He nods, opening the bottle. “Thing is, Randall Doyle owes a lot of folks money, not just y’all. He’s always been a gambler, a risk-taker, and that used to work for him just fine. But at some point, he bit off more than he could chew, started borrowing and spending beyond his means, and now, well …” Shaking his head, he slides my glass across the table. “His granddaddy would turn in his grave if he knew the mess that man had made.”

“I’m surprised no one else has tried to seriously collect,” I muse, taking a small sip. I tend to prefer craft beer, but this is nice. Smoky, with hints of honey or maybe molasses. Vaguely fruity.

“He has his way of keeping ‘em at bay,” says Kenny. “He’s on the board of directors for the local chamber of commerce, so he’s got the ear of all the right people. For example, I know for a fact one of his buddies was dumping wastewater from a brewery and Randall bribed officials to look the other way.”

“All of that influence, plus a successful distillery that was literally handed to him, and he’s still struggling,” I say, thinking of how different my own father is. Our family might operate on both sides of the law, but Dad’s always been steady, focused, and responsible. In control of his vices. “That’s a damn shame.”

“That’s what happens when you’ve got a lack of prudence and a proclivity for self-destruction,” Kenny says sagely. “He might’ve met his match with the Deschamps though.”

“Why, who are they?”

“Another old local family, just as influential. They’re big in commercial real estate, own half the buildings you see downtown. They also run a real popular restaurant down on Broughton Street,” he explains, swirling his whiskey. “Always a line of people waiting to get in, day and night.”

“And Doyle owes them, too?”

Kenny holds up his finger and flashes a megawatt smile, blinding me with his preternaturally white teeth. “How you doing, darlin’?”

“I’m just fine, Mr. Kenny,” our server, a slip of a girl with blonde curls, says with a sweet smile. “What can I get for y’all tonight?”

We order a couple of seafood platters on Kenny’s recommendation, and then he leans in, clearing his throat. “The Doyles and Deschampshave been friends a long time. I’m talking decades. There’s always been talk around town that it’s more of a business relationship though, trading favors and such.”

“What kind of favors?”

“Well, both families have connections, so they scratch each other’s backs. Because of his role over at the Chamber, Randall’s got his fingers in policy development, government relations, things like that. He’s big on networking and promotions, attracting new businesses to Savannah.”

“Ah,” I say, following. “And the Deschamps are fellow business owners.”

“Yes, and landlords to a number of other business owners,” Kenny affirms.

“And what do the Deschamps do for Randall in return?” I ask.

Kenny smiles grimly. “This is where things get a little less transparent and a lot more underhanded.”

Maybe that shouldn’t be surprising, but it is. Sounds like my family might have more in common with the good ol’ boy than I realized.

“It’s all hearsay at this point.” Kenny hesitates, probably weighing the merits of revealing what might be little more than gossip. “But it’s a well-known secret around town that the Deschamps use some of their properties for less legal purposes, like gambling and loan sharking.”

Our server stops by, dropping off a breadbasket as I sit back, the pieces all falling into place. “Randall’s one of their customers.”

“He sure is.” Kenny raises an eyebrow.

“But if they’re always greasing each other’s wheels like you said, then what makes this family such a threat now?” I wonder, buttering a piece of bread from the basket. Lucky has a guy he goes to when he needs info, a shadow operative who’ll hack into anything to find out about anyone for a price. Maybe he could do us a solid and dig a little deeper into this whole Doyle-Deschamps melodrama.

“I don’t know. But listen up, because this concerns you and your family, Tristan.” Kenny's voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper. “The Deschamps have started making moves toward acquiring the distillery.”

“Because Randall owes them?” I ask, the bread frozen on its way to my mouth.

He frowns, shaking his head. “That might give them leverage, butno. Apparently there was a deal the two families made way back? I don’t know. But the Deschamps own the acreage next to the distillery and its land, so I’m guessing that part of it is just a desire to expand. Needless to say, their offers to buy have fallen on deaf ears because Doyle Whiskey is an institution in this town, and Randall ain’t selling the family business on a whim.”

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