Midnight strikes, Chicago changes, the night becomes vibrant. Outrageous young flappers sneak out to meet with their beaus, ready to dance to some jazz and get sloshed to high heaven. They all head for the speakeasies hidden about town, and I’ve done my damnedest to keep ‘em stocked with liquor for years now. I’m leavin’ Poncetti’s gin mill angry as hell with the trouble that I put up with.

How could Poncetti be so stupid? Coullda called me if he was runnin’ low . . . So close to the Canadian border, sneaking the hooch ain’t no impossibility. Had to be cheap, pay some back-alley mugs for substandard bathtub gin. Bathtub gin what killed two girls, two rich, well known dames at that. Doused with antifreeze no doubt, for extra spunk. “Police,” he said, “Get rid of it,” he said. Lousy Macky sold that poison, thought Poncetti was talkin’ about a cop raid, and not sure who to. “Dunno the names,” Macky said, stupid in more ways than one.

I know I gotta, but how am I supposed to find that tainted bootleg?