“Et votre mère?”
“Encore une chatte.”
Rivaudais grinned and slapped her on the back. “All right. Let’s get it done.”
Together, they crossed the dock to the Angel. She had new turrets, each mounted to a sizeable generator with a gyroscope icon on the side. The turrets awakened and tracked them as they mounted the stairs to the main deck. An insistent chirping sounded. Rivaudais swiped an invite at the camera posted at the top of the stairs, but the chirping continued. A team of guys in sweaters and orange waders jogged their way. Hwa didn’t recognize them. They seemed not to recognize her, either. How many times did she have to do this gig before the crew just wrote themselves a fucking note?
“What’s going on with your face?” one of the crew asked. He had a fuzzy beard the colour of weak tea, and a huge mop of hair to match.
“What’s going on with your attitude?” Hwa hawked back and spat on the deck. “I have a rare seizure disorder. Thanks for drawing attention to it.”
The asshole in question stared at the glistening wad of phlegm she’d just horked up, and then at her face. His face registered no emotion whatsoever. “Your face fucks up our cameras,” he said. “Is that on purpose?”
Master control room, she reminded herself. Push the buttons. Lock the doors.
“Je reste intéressé,” Rivaudais said, “si ce connard s’excuse.”
“You heard the gentleman.” A blond man wearing vintage, unconnected aviators and a Peruvian wool sweater over a bare chest and loose surfing shorts padded over to them on browned, callused feet. “Apologize to the lady.”
“Sorry.” Moptop turned. “Sorry, Captain.”
Matthews held out one tattooed arm. This year it was pixies emerging from lotuses. As his skin moved, the glowing pigments activated and the fairies danced up to his shoulder and across his chest. “Mr. Rivaudais. It’s good to see you.”
The two men shook hands. Matthews turned to Hwa. “You look good. Healthy.”
Hwa frowned. “Why do people keep saying that? Did I look sick, before?”
Matthews didn’t answer. He gestured for them to follow, and began leading them belowdecks. Lights flickered on as they went down past the bottling floor toward the hold. The two guys standing on either side of the massive, rusting door threw their shoulders back and pointed their chins when Matthews came down the spiral staircase.
“Guys, guys, it’s cool. Calm down. I’m just introducing Mr. Rivaudais here to this year’s product.”
The guys looked pointedly at Joel.
“And me,” Joel said. “I’d like to, uh, sample some of what’s on offer.”
Matthews clapped his hands and pointed. “See? This is good. This young man knows what he wants. And I like a man who knows what he wants. It just cuts through all the bullshit.”
The door spun open and they stepped into a cold, dark place. Hwa held out her hand for Joel. “Watch your step,” she said, as the lights blinked on.
Joel’s mouth opened. “Wow…”
It was vast. To their left, a set of gleaming steel tanks three metres across and two metres deep sprouted pipes that disappeared into the rafters and reappeared on the other side of the room, near tall stacks of barrels. They bore insignia Hwa didn’t recognize from her previous trips to this room.
“Those are new.”
Matthews nodded. “Whiskey barrels. Got ’em in Hokkaido. We’re doing a weiss bier in there, with yuzu peel and shiso decoction.”
Hwa whistled. “Nice.”
“You want? I’ll tap it for you right now.”
Hwa shook her head. “I don’t drink beer. Beer makes you fat.”
Matthews clicked his tongue. He led them toward the bourbon barrels. “You need a little extra fat, for this climate! Otherwise how can you handle the winters?”
“Are you … aging the alcohol on the ship?” Joel asked.
“Oh, my Lord. The alcohol. This one’s just adorable.” Matthews turned around and walked backward, so he could address Joel. “Why yes, son. We do age the alcohol onboard this ship. The Angel from Montgomery used to be a fishing vessel that contributed to the mass-murder of ocean wildlife, and I’m helping that wildlife take revenge by ruining the livers of every human I come across.”
Joel blinked. “Seriously?”
Matthews gave him a shit-eating grin. “No. Booze is good business, that’s all. It’s a good business in bad times, and even better business in better times.” He gestured at the barrels. “As we circumnavigate the globe, the temperature in this room changes and so does the humidity. The barrels expand and contract, and that has an impact on the flavour of my product. The aging process that takes some punk-ass in Okanagan a whole year takes me four months.”
Joel nodded. He glanced at Rivaudais and then back at Matthews. He trailed one hand over a barrel. “So you can sell it faster, and pick up more raw materials as you travel. The wheat, or grapes, or whatever it is you need.”