Wine and Gun

For the first two seconds, Herstal did not understand the meaning of the other party, but then his eyes fell on the label of the bottle of wine: the name of the winery "PAZU de San MAURO" was printed in bold on the glass bottle. Below the line is a string of smaller letters marking the white grape varieties used to make this wine—

"Albariño".

Somehow, Herstal suddenly found the scene absurd, and not just in Albariño and a wine made from his namesake white grapes—perhaps because of the kind he mentioned about his family The tone, the tone, gave the illusion that he really cared about someone.

Anyway, Herstal responded with a cold chuckle. And Albarino finally condescended to move the chair, facing him, the body language still looks lazy.

"After all, my father is a big drinker. He met my mother at the Spanish wine festival in August. He must have thought it was appropriate to name me that." There was a smile in Albarino's voice. He stared at Herstal with interest: even though he was dressed in casual clothes - most people would never think that a person like Herstal Amalet would really wear casual clothes - and sneaked into other people's houses in the middle of the night and saw It's like trying to kill someone.

Herstal didn't like the look in his eyes that looked like he was about to wear a barrier that didn't really exist. He breathed slowly, and saw the flares of flame dance on Albarino's wrists.

“My father used to tell me that Albariño is a very strange and changeable grape, with a little change in rainfall and temperature from year to year, or a little different winemaking technique, the wines will taste different. Herstal heard the other said in a flat tone, "so their tastes are so varied that even a good sommelier might judge Albariño as another wine. The first time I drank this wine, I thought it was Chenin Bai."

"So?" Herstal didn't bother to suppress the sharpness in his voice, nor did he take the time to decipher Albarino's metaphors on the subject.

A small smile slipped from Albarino's throat as he put the glass back on the table and looked at Herstal. His eyes were full of curiosity, and then he asked, "Who is the alcoholic in your family?"

Herstal frowned.

"You had a very contemptuous expression when I mentioned my father's 'drinking'," Albarino said in a slightly overly relaxed tone, but of course, he never knew how to respect. "He's the kind of guy who's going to have wine with dinner every night, and he loves it like a young man loves marijuana—but, I guess your family isn't that type, is it?"

His gaze was so calm that it could be called "you know there's no point in cheating me", and Albarino stood up, walked slowly towards each other, and ended up in the living room. stopped in the middle of the sack, as if unaware that Herstal must have a knife in his coat pocket. He turned his back to the light of the fire, and his chestnut-colored curls had a halo of gold.

"I thought we had reached the moment when we could exchange this level of secrets with each other," he said in a voice.

"That can only mean that I don't agree with you about it," whispered Herstal, "and you know I'm not here for this."

Albarino smiled and blinked, but even Herstal had no idea what he would say next. Albarino said, "So, let's get back to Elliott Evans - who among your elders sexually assaulted you?"

"what?"

Herstal felt that when he asked this sentence, it didn't sound like a question. More things—such as the hot river running in his veins—overwhelmed him, his eyes glued to Albarino, but of course he couldn't erase the smile on his face.

“In 1987, there was a murder in a small church in southern Kentucky,” Albarino states, with a pleasant gleam in his mint-green eyes, “a deacon and a very zealous local parishioner. Hanged in the nave of the church, just above the altar, on both sides of the cross - just like the two sinners who were crucified with Jesus. The parish priest of the church disappeared and never appeared again so the local police listed him as the main suspect. However, the two dead were hanged in—”

He didn't finish, partly because Herstal gān slammed him in the face with a crisp punch, and partly because soon the two of them fell heavily to the ground, Herstal pressing his knees on it. Albarino's stomach, his right hand caught in his neck, and he punched him a second time in the face.

The scene is very much like what happened to the police before they stormed Elliott's basement, Albarino's scabbed lips began to bleed again, and he struggled to turn his head from his lips under Herstal's restraint. A mouthful of blood was spat between, and a laughter was choked from the throat at the same time.

"The two dead were hung from the ceiling by the strings of the piano used for rehearsing hymns in the church. That's a lot of work for a fourteen-year-old, isn't it?"

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