Doubleback: A Novel by Libby Fischer Hellmann Read Free Book Online

lovely woman, I might well be forced to reveal our secrets.”
    He chuckled and rubbed his palms together in little circles. I smiled painfully. Mac kept a straight face.
    Hanover walked us over to the train tracks which led into a small warehouse and out the other side. “Basically the grain comes here in covered hoppers, unless it happens to be trucked in. Then it’s unloaded, and transferred to these.” He gestured to several tall silos behind the warehouse.
    I peered inside. “We could get a great shot from the rail car going into the shed,” I said to Mac. “You know. From the POV of the rail car, shooting up.”
    Mac nodded. Hanover looked perturbed at being interrupted. “The grain is ground into powder and piped into tanks where it’s mixed with water and enzymes and forms a mix we call a slurry.” He guided us past a group of huge cylindrical tanks. “And this is where the mixture is fermented.”
    “Like beer?” Mac asked.
    Hanover nodded. “We let it sit for forty-eight hours. Then, after it’s distilled, which happens here...” Hanover gestured to another group of tanks, “... the alcohol is separated from the solids. At that point, it’s ethanol. One-hundred-nintey proof.”
    Mac whistled. I visualized vats of Jim Beam and Johnnie Walker, and wondered whether they had any place in the video.
    “The alcohol is siphoned out the top while the stillage goes out through the bottom for further processing. Then the alcohol mix is dehydrated, where it becomes two-hundred proof ethanol,” Hanover turned to Mac. “That’ll do some damage, won’t it?” He chortled. “Make you as stiff as a board.”
    Mac pasted on a smile.
    I checked my watch. Hanover had been talking for half an hour. I didn’t know how much more I could take. As we walked, his hand touched the small of my back. I recoiled, but he didn’t seem to notice.
    “The finished product—ethanol—is ultimately transported in tank cars to processors that mix it with gasoline,” he said cheerfully. “Today we’re processing corn, but tomorrow, who knows? Our scientists are working on other grains and prairie grass. Even garbage.”
    How had Hanover ended up a tour guide flunky? He had to be pushing fifty, a little old for PR. Was he a ne’er do well son-in-law or nephew? The guy they couldn’t fire? Maybe they couldn’t find any other place for him.
    He prattled on about state-of-the-art vats and silos while we walked back to the office. He introduced us to the plant manager, a taciturn man with a bulbous nose and gray stubble, who answered my questions in monosyllables. Hanover seemed to realize the guy might not be a great interview and offered to do it himself.
    “We can decide that later,” I said, trying to be politic.
    “Anything I can do, just ask.” Hanover rubbed his hands together again. “Well, I just don’t know when I’ve had a better time on a tour. You are certainly the most charming thing that’s been around here for a while.”
    “Oh, I bet you say that to all the girls.”
    •   •   •
    A few minutes later we were driving gratefully back upstate through tiny towns like Funks Grove and Shirley. We’d skipped lunch, and both of us were famished, so we stopped at a place whose outdoor sign advertised “home cooking.” The menu was on a board above the counter; it featured sandwiches on one side, hot meals on the other, and a Pepsi logo in the middle. Mac went for the pork chops. A tired-looking woman told him it would take ten minutes. Mac said he’d wait and smiled. She smiled back, but when I ordered a tuna sandwich, her smile faded and she pursed her lips. Did I insult her by not ordering a hot meal? Or was she just flirting with Mac?
    “I’ll probably need to bring in some extra crew to handle the lighting, you know,” Mac said as we sat at a small, grimy table.
    “Why can’t we just go with available light? Everything at the plant sparkles.”
    “Not inside. And what if it’s an