Wet Tendencies

One

They say that true demoralization comes when a man falls faster than he can lower his standards. Lenny woke up or, if he was honest with himself, came to on a pile of bricks. The first thing he noticed was the corresponding taste in his mouth. Rat shit, red clay, and bathtub gin. The second thing he noticed was the back pain accompanying unaccountable hours passed out on a pile of bricks. He sat up and winced. 

This drive to drink himself into an early grave had taken Lenny even lower than the gutter, a feat actually possible here in Queen City. Downtown had been built on a giant mud flat, blanketed by the dust of local saw mills. So when it all burned to the ground, as wooden cities will do, civic engineers decided to raise the street level by thirteen feet to facilitate some additional infrastructure. But issues arose as the goldrush era business owners started to rebuild amidst the literal coals of their former buildings. The new buildings went up in days; the new streets took over a year. The practical upshot of which was that, once the roads were finally paved, the first floor of all the shops were a full story below the level of the street. For a time, people simply climbed down to the store fronts. Then, once enough skirts had been looked up from the bottom of a ladder, and enough people were killed by falling barrels it was decided that the city was ready for a change. So the property owners took it upon themselves to build over the deep ditches separating their second floors from the new streets. Now, in the summer of 1924, there runs a vast network of tunnels under all of the sidewalks, and the once-upon-a-time first floors of the buildings have all been condemned, creating a literal underground for the commerce of probation. Sitting upright on a pile of bricks in one of those tunnels, Lenny found himself a new low.

Moving slowly, he wound his way through the underground, passing through a narrow beam of sunlight every so often. The light was tinted purple from a set of glass tiles placed in the sidewalk above. Looking up, he could see pedestrians passing overhead and imagined that something in their gate would tell him where in Pioneer Square he was. After a couple of wrong turns, he came up a set of stairs and through a door that opened into an alley. The daylight did a number on the shooting pain behind his eyes. With visible landmarks it was much easier to find his way around, although much more difficult to decide what to do. The singleness of purpose he had below ground suited him well “time to get out of this shithole” was the only thought needed to move forward. Now, the world of possibilities only reminded him of his complete lack of direction in life. Lenny was an unhappy man in the off-season. Now, with the closure of the Pacific Coast Hockey Association, he was going to have to figure out what to do, aside from drink.

Coffee. Coffee was the next thing. He made his way to a café where his modicum of local celebrity still had some pull. The man behind the counter of the Florence Café was a Metros fan and had yet to call in Lenny’s tab. As life began to soak back in, the old hockey player took stock of his surroundings. The inside of the café ribbons of red, white, and blue hung along the walls. He had regained consciousness just in time for the Fourth of July, the second wettest day of the year in this dry state. Bookending this last thought, Lenny saw two prohibition agents sitting at the front of the café shoveling breakfast. His open stare prompted a look from one of them, a pair of hungry eyes burning from atop cheap brown suit. Lenny had been on the ice last season but, was only recognized by true Metropolitans fans since he rode the bench most of the time. He had been drafted to take a punch, not to handle a puck. There was no glimmer of recognition in the agent’s eyes, just the stare down of a drunk who had spent the night in the gutter. 

The back door to the café swung open and a tall round-faced man wearing denim overalls strode in with a burlap sack labeled “dairy.” The whole scene froze. The blatant bootlegger stopped at the counter; the proprietor held his breath, and the two suits sitting at the window chewed a little slower. Then, after everyone recognized the moment, the transaction carried on in slow motion.

“Your milk, Ed,” said the delivery man holding the oddly shaped sack.

“Thanks Roy, didn’t imagine you’d be out doing the driving yourself.” The barkeeper’s eyes betrayed his anxiety.

“Busiest day of the summer my man. Sometimes there’s nothing to be done but bend your back and help out.” The tension in the small café was rising to a point where something would have to break. With each word the prohibition agents were had less opportunity to save face. In the static of the room’s silence, the delivery man put down the parcel with an audible glass clink and like a pebble hitting a windshield the room fractured.

The two agents threw back their chairs as they stood and the delivery man spun on his heel, making for the back door. Lenny was sitting at a counter running the length of the place. Behind his large person was the narrow space the agents navigated as they pursued the man named Roy to the back door. As the two of them were passing Lenny stood suddenly, his barn of a body completely blocking their way. He smiled broadly at them and said

“Whoa there gentlemen, there’s no need to shove. You can both have my autograph if you’re just patient.” This jarring non-sequitur stopped them short, like someone replying “well yes, it’s 3:30 sir” to being held at knife point. It took them the better part of a minute to figure out what was said and then even longer to decide who should respond. 

“Who are you anyway?” Was somehow what the senior of the two spat out. As Lenny was about to describe his role as an enforcer on the Metropolitans and the downturn it would mean for the city of Seattle when the team disbanded, the other one yelled: “Shut your mouth and get out of the way Bimbo.” Lenny adopted his best hurt feelings face and pushed forward to try and let them pass—a maneuver as graceful as a drunk trying to remove a broken cork. In the middle of it all Lenny looked out the front and saw the delivery man’s round face smiling at him from a truck with a canopy that read Milk and Eggs. The man gave Lenny a nod and drove off. Lenny looked back to the Feds pressed against him; it was clear that they had seen the truck. They started to move back the other way, yelling at Lenny to change direction.

“Alright, alright, just figure out which way you want to go and I’ll get out of your way. Take your beef and leave already.” He held up his arms and let the agents run into the street, where they jumped into a car and started off in pursuit. Lenny sat back down and took a sip of his coffee. Ed, the man behind the bar, was leaning back against the wall with his arms crossed.

“Very nice,” he said. “Do you know who that was?”

“I figured it was the guy delivering your hooch. I might want a drink later and this is the only place left in the city that will serve me.”

“That was Roy.” He said it with the weight of a name everyone knew. Lenny Shrugged. Ed started to open up the sack that had just been dropped off and carried on. “Roy Olmstead. Where have you been the last couple years? Roy’s a national hero, or the city’s biggest crook, depending on which way you lean. He’s the most trusted bootlegger in the country.”

“He just looked like a normal guy to me” Lenny shook his head. Ed started to pull bottles of Rye from the hay-lined sack, placing them under a floorboard. Then he pulled six bottles of milk from the fridge and out them in the place of the whiskey. He looked down at the hiding spot, and then back at Lenny saying

“I’m just going to assume that I can trust you.”

“I’m not going to burn my last bridge,” Lenny said.

“That is the most powerful man in the State of Washington.” Said Ed, circling back to the conversation. 

“Well, I hope he knows how to give the Feds the slip.”

“With the head start you gave him he’s already arrived at his next delivery.” Just then the phone rang. Ed picked it up offering some nondescript dialog “Uh huh… No, no problem. Yeah… He’s sitting right here. Okay.” He handed the phone across the counter to Lenny. 

“Hello!” The voice on the phone was relaxed, jovial. “Is this the man who just saved me a whole lot of grief?”

“Could be Mister, all I recall is offering to sign a napkin for a couple of fans. If that somehow helped you out then we’ll consider it a good day all around.” Lenny was often mistaken for tactless because of his role on the ice but, what few people understood about Hockey is that the men hired on for protection are almost always the nicest people you’ll meet. Lenny himself had a university degree and a number of options before him before he decided to play professionally. 

“I appreciate your manner big man” Olmstead commented. “Say, I’d like to thank you in person. Would you be my guest for dinner tonight?”

“I’d be happy to Sir. Just tell me where and when.”

“Do you like fried chicken?”

“Yes Sir.”

“Great then we’ll meet at Doc’s, ask Ed where it is, I’ll see you at eight. Oh, and Roy’s fine, just call me Roy.”

“Okay Roy, see you tonight.” Lenny handed the phone back to a bemused Ed, who was shaking his head slightly.

“My boy, you don’t have any idea what a big deal that was. If you have a lick of sense, you’ll keep that invitation to yourself.” Lenny asked him for the directions and Ed scribbled something on a scrap of paper sliding it across the counter. “Keep this to yourself too.” He looked Lenny up and down, “do you own a suit?”

“Yes.”

“Then I recommend you go and sleep it off before you bathe and change.” Ed smiled and pointed with his chin towards the door. Just as he did the two prohibition agents came back in, they looked flustered and walked straight back behind the counter, glaring at Lenny. The big hockey player stood, nodded to Ed and headed towards the door. As he stepped out into the morning he could hear one of the agents saying

“Are you kidding me with this?” as he pulled a full milk bottle out of the sack sitting on the counter.

The address that Ed had given Lenny was just east of downtown, up on First Hill. It was close enough to the dirty one room Lenny had found himself in that he could just walk up Union Street to get there.

Lenny’s apartment was grim. Living in a single room required discipline not readily found in a drunk bachelor. Hockey gear was piled precariously into a slope, coming to a point in one of the room’s few corners. Any other clothes that he owned were falling into disrepair, due to behavior like waking up in a pile of bricks. 

The only adult feature of the room was a tidy desk facing the small window that looked out on a brick wall. It’s one drawer was filled with a couple working pens, some old player’s contracts, and a leather-bound journal. Lenny wasn’t a great writer, but he maintained the belief that by keeping a record of his decent into delinquency he might have some hope of amending his misdeeds later in life. After taking a few minutes to write out all that he could remember of the past few days, he fell into bed. 

Hours passed and with some difficulty Lenny lifted his slab of a body out of bed. After using the shower down the hall to peel the rind off his skin, he shaved and transformed himself into a new person by putting on his one clean outfit. A fresh suit. Every player had one at the ready, as it was required to show up at the rink looking respectable, often at a moment’s notice. 

The small space Lenny had carved out for himself, made up of only a desk and a bed, sunk below the curve of the city quickly as he walked further uphill towards 23rd and Cherry. As he strode towards the address he’d been given he felt the anxiety of a first date wreaking havoc in his gut. Like that feeling of the first fork in a road, one that would continue to split out into a fan of possible outcomes. Like the ever-widening reach of a tree branch with choice after choice in front of him. It was a feeling he hadn’t felt in a very long time. 

He found the door, knocked in the manner that he had been told and was ushered into a small sitting area by a stunning young colored girl. She took his coat and asked him who he was here to see. 

“I came upon an invitation from Roy,” Lenny said after gathering his wits. Her looks had taken him aback.

“Of course, Mr. Lenny right?”

“Just Lenny will be fine, thank you.” 

“Right this way.”

She led him down a hallway, passing by an open door looking to a small kitchen. Cast iron pans covered the stove, all of them filled with frying chicken. The hall took them further into what was obviously a converted apartment. A small bedroom held all the guest’s coats. A broom closet had a large padlock on it suggesting its contents. She took him to the living area where round tables occupied every inch of floor space, and every seat was spilling over with conviviality. Off in the corner he saw Olmstead stand, this time he had lost the coveralls and was wearing a suit that would bankrupt the average man. Lenny was immediately struck by a boxcar of good will. The Man’s presence, even across the room, was enough to inspire affection. He wore a timeless face; only his eyes betrayed his age and the crushing stress of his occupation. 

“Lenny! Now that Ed reminded me where I knew you from you are unmistakable. I’m so sorry that I didn’t recognize you earlier.” Olmstead strode forward offering his hand.

“Well, it looked like you had other things on your mind just then.” Lenny smiled and shook.

“That is really no excuse I would have loved an autograph. I’m a huge Metropolitans fan, season ticket holder you know.” He ushered Lenny further into the restaurant. “Well at the very least it looked like those two men at the café managed to appeal to your celebrity, were they happy to finally meet their hero?”

“You know, they seemed a little disenchanted once they realized who I was. Perhaps they mistook me for Bernie Morris.” This elicited a look from Roy who said

“Son, I bet you could eat Bernie Morris in one sitting. You’re not a small man.” 

They came up on a table full of people. Two empty seats remained vacant on the close side; opposite sat four men. Roy pointed to each in turn, introducing them.

“This is my good friend Prosper.” He placed a hand on the shoulder of a short man sitting to the left of the empty seats. Then, moving clockwise he introduced the rest of the table, “One of my brothers Ralph” brother Ralph was actually wearing his police uniform while holding a drink. A comment on the popularity of the Volstead act if there ever was one. “Here we have Sid Green, a valued partner in business.” Sid Broke in

“Come on now Roy, that’s a little incriminating don’t you think?” His eyes glinted with the obvious humor.

“Sid, I think it’s fair to say the jig is up where your culpability is concerned.” Then, gesturing to the final seat at the table “And I’m sure you recognize our esteemed mayor, Doc Brown. Not to be confused with the real Doctor hereabouts, Doc Hamilton, the proprietor of this fine establishment and a big fan of yours by the way.” Olmstead directed this complement towards Lenny as he pointed him in the direction of one of the empty chairs.

“Well, it certainly is a pleasure. Although, I feel a little out of place.” Lenny looked around the table and nodded at the Mayor.

“So we’re not good enough for you then!” Sid Green broke in with a huge grin.

“Probably get a more lucid political discourse out of a head injury then you Sid,” said the mayor. 

“This from a glorified barber!” Sid Green spoke into his glass, his eyes smiling at the mayor over the rim. 

“I sir, am a licensed dentist.” The Mayor spoke in the voice of an offended politician, a tone that must have carried across city hall countless times. He was a handsome man, with a political jaw line and round glasses—the face of a mayor. He held his offended look for a couple of seconds, pointing it at Sid Green before it cracked and the resulting smile tore the table into laughter. The Olmstead brothers took noticeable pleasure in the Mayor’s display as they shared a look. As things died down, a voice broke in.

“Alright then, keep it down boys. Some of my more respectable customers are trying to take a break from the incessant yammering of police and politicians.” Standing at the side of the table was a colored man; he had on a white apron over a collared shirt and, if it was at all possible, a more infectious smile then anyone sitting down. He leaned across and took Lenny’s hand.

“I’m a huge fan Mr. Lenny. Go to as many games as I can get to, when I can get away from this place that is.”

“May I present Doc Hamilton, the owner of this fine establishment,” Olmstead said, bringing Lenny up to speed. 

“How do you do Sir?” Lenny Said. 

Doc Hamilton had the kind of personality that could just wash over a place, soaking everyone within earshot. 

“Well. Thank you! With such distinguished patrons, one can almost forget that one is breaking the law. So, Mr. Lenny, what will it be?” Doc Hamilton asked. Roy cut in.

“You have to have a gin fizz. You can’t come to this man’s house and not try his specialty. That would be absurd.”

“Alright then, a gin fizz please,” Lenny said, smiling at Doc Hamilton.

“And some chicken for the table please. If the man has another talent, it is fried chicken.” Brother Ralph said. Then Prosper spoke for the first time since Lenny had arrived.

“Yes, your uniform is far too clean.” The arrival of Prosper’s voice was jarring. It was easy to go unnoticed in this group.

“His words may be few, but that just adds to their gravity when they’re voiced.” Doc Hamilton said before turning his back on the table and making his way over to the kitchen. 

“A little chicken grease on the uniform of an officer would only help to corroborate our story of leaving a dinner party at a dear friend’s house,” Roy said, speaking in a way that seemed to remind the group that they were at the table for a reason. He looked over at Lenny “I apologize; we have a little business to go over. I invited you here on a social call but, things have come up since then so the conversation might get a little dry. No pun intended.”

“Would you like me to leave?” Asked Lenny, unaccustomed to criminal etiquette. 

“Only if we’re making you uncomfortable.” Lenny hadn’t felt this at home among a table of men in years.

“I’ll stay then,” he said.

“Good, you really should try that drink. Out of this world. Now, a quick word on the wires just so that we’re all on the same page” said Olmstead.

Prosper leaned in to whisper this into Lenny’s ear. “We’ve just found out that the Feds have been listening in on our office phones,” as Olmstead carried on.

“The telephone conversations themselves are inadmissible in court, nothing we say can be used as evidence. Even so, the real concern is that those empty suits might start to use the info they get to make busts. We need to start watching for tails, need to keep more lookouts, you all get the idea.”

“This is a problem” the Mayor started in. “The very fact that they are using unconstitutional means to gather evidence is what worries me. That Bible-thumping pit bull has tasted blood where you’re concerned Roy—“

“Whitney, the lead prohibition agent in the State of Washington” Prosper charitably added at Lenny’s side.

“—He’s not above trying to use these wiretaps to tie you up in court,” the Mayor said as Olmstead was shaking his head.

“I just can’t believe that it would be possible. No judge would allow that kind of blatant illegality admitted as evidence” Olmstead said.

Sid Green looked somber for the first time in the conversation saying “I wouldn’t be so sure. This stance that the government has taken, first with cocaine and opium, now with the hooch, it’s tearing the country up from the inside out. It’s like a fucking ulcer. We’ll be lucky to come out the other side of this one.”

“Who would think that after the greatest war in human history, it would be an internal policy that would take down this nation?” Ralph had a very different cadence than Roy. While Roy’s prodding questions seemed to inspire debate, his brother’s nail-in-the-coffin manner shut down the table for a moment. 

The stunning young hostess brought over a round of drinks that brought everyone back to life. 

“What’s your take on this?” Olmstead said, looking right at Lenny.
“Well, you’re right. This drink is incredible!” Lenny held up the large teacup full of the Doc Hamilton’s prescription. Olmstead cocked his head, feigning impatience, egging Lenny on “but, I think you were asking about living in fear of prosecution. However unlikely that may be in the present company.

“I think the issues at stake for us as a nation cannot be understated. While rumrunning may have taken on a non-violent tone here in the Pacific Northwest—something I’m now realizing is the result of the brain trust at this table—that’s not the case elsewhere.

All over the country, people are being put in the ground by prohibition. It might be bathtub gin; it might be a bullet. Regardless of the source, this solution to the perils of alcohol is a far greater danger to the safety of our citizens then the problem it was trying to resolve.”

“You’re awfully lucid for a man who’s taken so many blows to the head. No offense.” Sid Green chuckled.

“None taken. However, despite all that is happening now, the rampant corruption of the police” a nod to Brother Ralph “the widening political gap” then the Mayor “or the solidification of vast criminal networks” the rest of the table, “I think that our real concern is the future of these three trends. It is my uninformed opinion that the prohibition of alcohol will end in time. It is simply too expensive and too divisive a policy to enforce. However, the long-term problem we are going to face is this philosophy of prohibition altogether. When the Volstead Act is repealed, we will still be faced with an insurmountable problem, what chemicals are considered acceptable for recreational use? How will that line in the sand be enforced? Unless we, as a nation, redefine our whole approach to drug enforcement at the end of this era of prohibition, we will struggle with these issues and the criminal element they inspire for decades to come.” Lenny stopped talking and realized that he had drawn the focus of the table, along with the attention of a couple of other patrons. He could see Doc Hamilton listening from across the room.

“Well, that was unexpected,” said Olmstead. 

The table went on for a while longer along that train of thought. Olmstead trying to distance himself from his counterparts on the east coast, Brother Ralph maintaining that the police still had some frayed strand of moral fiber, the Mayor making pointed references to Lenny’s electability, and Prosper quiet but never board. 

Two

A month or so later.

Elsie cut through the chop of the open Pacific like a blade, her bow severing each wave and sending an arterial spurt over the bow with a steady pulse. Light was still visible on the wide horizon, although it was fading fast. Lenny was out on the inaugural run of Roy’s new boat, a beast of a craft he had commissioned to pick up stock from open ocean vessels moored off of the southern point of Vancouver Island. The Elsie was narrow and lean, much like the woman it was named after, Roy’s second wife. There were no seats and no interior features at all. Only the three Liberty aircraft engines dominating the stern. Roy said that the engines had come straight off the line at William Boeing’s factory, made to order. Those engines drove the thin vessel through the night like a bullet through a scarf. 

As they flew along, leaving the pale lights of Victoria to starboard, a large ship drew itself together out of the mist. Under the fresh cover of darkness, they came up alongside the huge steamship riding low in the water. Ropes were exchanged and a ladder thrown down. Lenny came up on deck after Prosper, who has been at the helm of the Elsie, to see an almost comical sight. The whole deck of the gigantic ship was piled high with crates, each of them blatantly labeled with their contents. A Mountain of Rye buttressed by hillocks of Vodka, Gin, and the occasional knoll of Rum. Lenny walked over to Prosper, who was chatting with the skipper. 

“This is quite a lot of cargo; I count at least a hundred cases of Rye alone.” Lenny paused after saying this, seeing a shared smile growing on the lips of the two men. The Canadian kept his eyes on Lenny but spoke to Prosper

“Got yourself a green one here eh?” His accent bent and pulled the English language, placing too much stress on the “o” sounds.

“Yep, takin’ him out on his first run. New friend of Roy’s, played for the Seattle Metros last year.” Prosper said, changing the Canadian’s opinion of Lenny in a fraction of a second. 

“Well shit Pros, Way to bury the lead! What do you play? Big man like you must have been on the D eh?” Prosper could have fallen overboard without calling attention to himself, the Canadian took Lenny by the shoulder and started to walk him around. 

“Well, they put me at left wing but, to be honest, I was only ever on the ice to settle a score.”

“Ah! An enforcer then, that is a valuable role on any team. The goal scorers can’t go out and act with impunity if they don’t have someone to watch their backs.” The Canadian was clearly planning to talk hockey for the rest of the night, so Lenny gently guided their stroll back in the direction of Prosper who stood quietly near the side of the ship. 

“So, do you always carry this much?” Lenny gestured to the stacks and stacks of liquor crates that crowded the deck. The Canadian smiled at him,

“son; this is a cargo ship. We’ve only put above deck what we couldn’t fit into the hold. Why did you think we were riding so low in the water?” He nodded towards the rolling waves that were only ten feet lower than the ship’s deck. Lenny’s head turned, his understanding of the situation pitching with the roll of the hull. 

“You mean to tell me that this whole ship is loaded with booze? That must be thousands of cases.”

“Eight thousand, six hundred and twenty-four.”

“Since we’ve made it around to the subject, we’d like to lessen that burden,” Prosper said and pulled out one-half of a dollar bill with an order number written on it.

“Of course,” the captain said. He then pulled out an envelope filled with other bill halves and read the number off of the one in Prosper’s hand, matching it to one he had on file. Finding the number, he put the rest of them away and took Prosper’s from him. The Canadian took the two bill halves and reunited them, matching the tear and validating the order. He grinned at Prosper and said

“Don’t know why I even check; Roy’s the most trustworthy business man I’ve ever dealt with.”

“We wouldn’t want to do business with someone who didn’t check.” Prosper returned the smile but, locked eyes with the man as he said this. 

“Right you are eh” The Canadian handed the two halves to a deck hand that ran off to start unloading the order.

Later, after the Elsie was loaded to capacity, Lenny used a polearm to shove off from the hull of the massive steamship. He could hear the Canadian Captain calling out to him

“Listen son; you ever get tired of living in the United States you give me a call. Hockey players are treated right in Canada!”

“He’s not kidding; he would take you on his crew in a heartbeat.” Prosper chuckled and kicked the boat’s airplane engines into a low rumble.

As they pulled away, they could see another boat coming up to match their own torn bill and sail back across the watery border with a load of contraband.
“You know them, Prosper?” Lenny said.

“Nope, but you can believe that they’re the competition. Call me Pros.”

“Alright Pros, tell me about the competition. It seems like there isn’t much.”

“You’re right about that. Roy as soaked up or out priced everyone that took a swing at the liquor trade in the Northwest. The only ones left are the real crooks, those who make their own or buy the real shit to mix it with grain alcohol and food coloring. That other boat was picking up hooch to dilute and put fake labels on; you can be sure.”

They pointed the bow of the boat back towards Seattle, threading their way through a chain of islands running all the way from the southern half of Vancouver Island down to the Olympic Peninsula. It was fully dark by that point, and Pros seemed to be navigating by a sense of touch. His hands on the wheel soaking up information from the rhythm of the waves on the hull, the man’s own callused sonar. 

As the Elsie came up on Bainbridge Island Pros eased up on the throttle, slowing their pace and wearing an expression of doubt for the first time that night. He pulled them and their cargo to a stop, they had been running without lights and with the huge engines cut they just bobbed—silent in the dark. Lenny made a move to speak but stopped when he made eye contact with the skipper. Pros looked perplexed, like a dog before an earthquake. He shuffled a stack of whiskey crates making a place for the two of them to sit and pulled out a thermos. They sat and drank some coffee. Pros whispered,

“something’s not right.” Lenny cocked his head in silent reply. “I don’t know what to tell you; something doesn’t feel right tonight. It’s the wrong kind of quiet out there.” He nodded out into the black. “It’s giving my skin a crawl. Let’s just wait here for a while and see if it’s paranoia or not. Keep one eye on the shore; we don’t want to be brought up on those rocks with the tide.” The two men sat, Lenny watched as the Elsie slowly drifted towards the rocky coast and Pros stared off into the black. 

After some time they heard the dim whine of an engine, the source of the sound seemed to change a couple of times as it echoed off different islands before clearing up. It was the boat they had seen picking up an order from the steamer. She came around the end of the nearest point and broke into the night. Her running lights were on and her throttle was wide open. As she blew past the two of them they could see everything on board, three ugly men and a boatload of whiskey.

As the other boat came up on her approach to the city of Seattle, the bright white cone of a spotlight flung itself at them, and the small boat was on stage in the black sea. It continued along its course, already at full throttle, as a rapid concussing boom started to echo around the sound. Lenny saw splashes whipping around the moving boat. Then he heard the sound of splintering wood. 

Pros flew into action starting up the Elsie and jamming open the throttle. Lenny struggled to stay on his feet. They were so much faster than anything else on the ocean that they caught up to the other boat in seconds, getting a great view of it being torn apart by what must have been a huge gun located at the source of the spotlight. As they left the other boat in the distance, he looked back catching fragmented impressions of shattered wood, broken glass, and blood. In a heartbeat, they had found the safety of darkness again, with nothing between them and the city but open water. 

Bottles shook in their crates as Lenny carried them up a ramp that came up into one of the Donavan brother’s many warehouses along the downtown waterfront. The two brothers had forged themselves a key link in the chain of booze that came ashore into the distribution centers of the Olmstead machine. Lenny barely noticed them as he stared at his white knuckles. 

It took some time to unload, such was the capacity of the Elise, and when they were done they had a full convoy to drive. Lenny walked up into the morning light and saw a line of canvas backed trucks. At the head of the procession was a police car with a boy in full uniform.

“Of course,” Lenny said, shaking his head at another thread in his string of disbelief. He started towards the nearest cab and was stopped short by Pros’ voice

“Come ride with me son.”

The suspension of the dairy truck fought the cobbled streets of Seattle with the subtlety of domestic violence. The two men rode in silence for a little while, just navigating the city center. After they had cleared the downtown core, Pros spoke up.

“That, back there was the Arcata. She’s a coastguard tug that they rigged up with a deck cannon. To be honest, I’ve never seen her actually hit a target before. God knows she’s never going to catch anyone in a footrace.”

How did she know where to lay in wait? Is that a route you often take? And what the fuck! Why haven’t we bought off the coastguard?” Lenny’s fear started to roll out of him in waves as he spoke. He kept seeing flashes behind his eyelids illuminating splinters and blood. Pros looked over at him with an expression of understanding. 

“It’s good to feel sick. One of the best things about working for Roy, there’s very little violence. I’m sorry that you had to see something like that on your first run.” They drove for a little longer in silence, then “You’ll never see one of us draw a gun, I can promise you that.”

That pass is a bottleneck on the way back to the city and usually a safe bet. We’ll talk to Roy after this. My guess, the feds found out about our plans on the wire.”

Roy had taken a long time coming back down to earth. He wasn’t the loud screaming sort. He just fumed and paced. Lenny had watched him wear a ring into the carpet thinking that it would be better if the man just exploded. In some ways, a slow burn was harder to predict. Roy’s first reaction had been gratitude for their safety. The next hour and forty-five minutes had been determined pacing and measured rage. There were many comments about “crossing the line” and “no value for human life.” In the end, after some of the steam had been let off, a plan was laid out. Roy’s last words before they headed out were “I wonder if it’s not time for everyone to just lay their cards on the table.”

For the next hour or so it seemed like their plan was to sit in the downtown office and call everyone. Call after call, until every member of Roy’s inner circle was on their way. Pros hung up the receiver after the last one, looked at his watch and nodded towards the door. 

They drove up to a mechanic’s shop on Rainier Ave. A close friend of the cause, the owner had agreed to meet them there and unlock the place at what was still a very uncivilized hour. Lenny and Pros arrived in time to be tossed the keys before the proprietor drove away. The mechanic had been thoughtful enough to put some coffee on before he left and the two of them drank it. 

Over the next hour, man after man walked through the door of the shop. Each one was dressed for work, pressed suits, polished shoes, only the bags under their eyes betrayed the ungodly hour. After everyone Pros had called was in attendance, the head count broke twenty men. The last to arrive was Roy. The door opened to reveal the silhouetted angles of his suit.

“Thank you all so much for dragging yourselves out for this. I know that morning is not always our brightest hour.” The beam of his smile swept the room, like a floodlight and drew the scattered group into a close knot. “I trust that none of you have broken protocol where firearms are concerned?” The group all made mumbles of consent. “Then, let’s just sit and wait. This shouldn’t take too long now that we’re all here.”

Sure enough, about ten minutes later both doors of the garage were kicked in as every prohibition agent in the city – and some of the surrounding counties – poured into the small space. The enforcement of the Volstead act was so undermanned that the numbers were about equal. The agents flew at Roy’s men; they were all armed, many with shotguns. Everyone just stood where they were, calm, not even raising their hands when that demand was shouted over and over. Every one of them, including Lenny, was patted down and found to be unarmed. 

This was Lenny’s first exposure to Whitney, the lead agent for the State of Washington. He watched with interest as the agent in charge ground his teeth and screamed orders to his men. Whitney wore the deranged expression of the evangelical warrior, a man for whom shades of gray did not exist. After finding no guns on Roy’s men, he set about searching the mechanic’s shop, turning everything upside down. The agents did a number on the place; in the end it was unrecognizable. As the whole farce came to a close, and it became increasingly clear to all parties that Roy was fucking with Whitney, a stillness fell upon the wreckage of the shop. 

Forty men stood in silence, and the whole plight of prohibition could have been immortalized in a painting of that scene. In a cluster at the center of the room stood Roy’s closest friends, at least the ones that weren’t running for public office or active on the police force. Every one of them wearing suits that cost as much as an average man’s monthly paycheck. Surrounding them stood every prohibition agent within driving distance of the city, armed, angry, and underpaid. Dusty morning light drifted in on the scene at an acute angle, lending credit to the feeling of a moment preserved on canvas. 

Roy smiled at Whitney and the furious agent moved forward to face the magnanimous bootlegger. Roy spoke first.

“Your floating cannon on the water seems to have made contact with a boat earlier today. How could they have known where lay in wait? For that matter what brought you all here on this fine morning?”

“Shut the fuck up!” Whitney was nearing a breaking point, his face cracking under the strain of shattered expectations. It was clear from his many looks at Pros that he had hoped it was the Elsie they sunk that morning. Now, with this failed raid stuck in his craw he stood there trying to drum up some pretense so that he wouldn’t have to leave empty handed. Finally, after more silence, he just spun on his heel and waved for his mob to follow him. 

“Wait!” Roy called out. The whole room looked at him in disbelief, to prolong this kind of awkwardness was just cruel. Lenny could see the shoulders of the lead agent sag slightly. Whitney turned to face his man again. Roy spoke in a convivial tone, the voice of an old friend wanting to reconnect. “Look, you and I, we haven’t had a chance to get to know each other. It’s early; I got all of these men up out of bed for nothing” he gestured to everyone in the room, Prohibition agents and bootleggers alike “Let me buy you all breakfast. It’s a big crowd, but I know a place that will seat us all. What do you say?”

Whitney stared in disbelief; his face twitched involuntarily. Roy’s men smiled, the rest of the agents in the room looked conflicted, like a free breakfast wouldn’t hurt at this hour. 

Roy had closed the gap between them so that they were within whispering distance before speaking to Whitney in a slow and deliberate way. Lenny could just barely make it out.

“It was one thing for you to listen in illegally on the private conversations taking place on my home phone. You and I both know that anything you get from those wires will never be admitted in court. But now you’ve bugged my office, and you’ve decided to use that information to try and murder my friends.” The word murder came cut through the morning air reaching every corner or the room.

“I will bury you for this,” Roy whispered. 

Whitney spat on the floor and left.

Three

Lenny walked, his feet feeling a little unwelcome on solid ground. It was something he never noticed until his first time in skates. He was nine years old and knew with a sudden certainty that he would never move with the same ease on dry land. He felt it now, a resignation to his lumbering body, as he moved through one of the sub-sidewalks lurking below the respectable thoroughfares of Downtown. He wore a new suit, a smartly manipulated mosaic of gray fabric that would have bankrupted him a month ago. Tucked under his left arm was a burlap sack with the word “dairy” stenciled crookedly on its side. 

Rounding another in a long sires of corners, Lenny stopped. There, off to the side of the well-used path slumped a pile of red bricks. The same one that birthed him into this life of respectable crime, still only in its infancy. He looked on fondly, the pile of bricks stirred up an air of affection in him. The kind only understood by the truly desperate, now inspired and reformed. He was pulled up sharply by a voice. An unpleasant voice. 

“What you got there Goon?” Lenny turned to face his accuser. He stood a few feet away, angry looking, disheveled, and holding a dirty revolver. “Out on a milk run? I think that delivery might be for me.”

“Might be,” Lenny spoke slowly, measured. No one in Roy’s crew was allowed to carry a gun. He maintained that no amount of money was worth a human life, yours or theirs. So, everyone delivering hooch for Roy Olmstead was given specific instructions for regarding how to act when being held at gunpoint. Smile and hand it over. “How about I put it down here and walk away.”

“Do that.” The man holding the gun looked unhinged like he was running out of options. Lenny felt a pang of compassion and looked into the man’s eyes as he placed the sack of whiskey on the ground between the two of them. Lenny nodded at the man, straightened his back and started to back away. “Don’t move!” the gunman lurched forward as he spat out the words. “Don’t move; you’re not leaving…” His voice trailed off in a way indicating he had no idea what he was going to demand next. 

“Okay. Take a breath, I’ll stay right here.” Lenny’s hands had been raised ever since he put the package down. He lowered them, putting them in the pockets of his new suit. “So, what’s next?”

“I need money.” The gunman said. An admission before circling back to a state of angry resolve. 

“I believe that you do. Much like most people walking these tunnels. I tell you what, I’m not a wealthy man but, you’re welcome to everything I have on me, providing you put the gun down. You’re making me pretty nervous.”

“Fuck you!” The gunman spat, moving a couple of steps closer. “You’re going to take me to some real money. Let’s go.” The gun was now right in Lenny’s face; he could see grime in the barrel. 

“Alright now, here’s the thing. I gave you the booze, I offered you the money in my pocket. You’re starting to come across as unreasonable. You must know that I would never take you back to one of the cash drops, what’s your end game here?”

“You ready to find out?” Lenny hadn’t spent much time on the wrong end of a gun. Once,  when he was a young man, he looked down the barrel of a shotgun. It was held by the father of a young woman that Lenny had come to know and, in truth, may have been warranted. He thought back to that night, realizing how much more that concerned father understood about the advantage of a firearm. Guns are at their best when used from a short but, calculated distance. Close enough to be sure your shot lands on target, but far enough away to enforce safety. This crazed man was under the impression that the closer he got to Lenny the more intimidating he was. A handgun is most effective when it’s held out of reach of your intended victim. Lenny knocked it from his grip with a swift, well-rehearsed motion. Just like taking a man’s helmet off, he thought as the pistol fell to the ground. It broke into a couple pieces. Lenny looked back into the man’s eyes. Something behind them broke. 

Lenny would look back on the moment following the disarming of that man and reflect that some small piece of himself relaxed for the first time since he left the ice. 

His assailant threw the first punch, a half-decent right jab that came straight towards the bridge of Lenny’s nose. The man was no slouch but, didn’t come close to the level of skill needed to fight on skates. Lenny’s hands automatically up, Lenny bobbed to his left and let the man’s fist slide past his right ear. In that moment of full extension, Lenny landed a blow to the left side of the man’s ribcage. The desperate man stopped, winded and clutched his knees. 

“Alright now friend, this has gone far enough,” Lenny said, fists still up around his face. The man became incensed by this graciousness, reaching down to the ground and picking up one of the dusty red bricks, he shuffled towards Lenny with it held up in the air. As the brick started to come down with the swing of his arm, Lenny stepped into a left jab. His left shoulder followed his fist, cutting off the downward motion of the brick and striking the man square in the jaw. The lonely drunk fell backward into the pile of bricks. Lenny picked up the sack of booze and as he walked off towards his delivery said over his shoulder,

“I hope that pile of bricks is as transformative for you as it was for me.”

Later, sitting is his little one room apartment, Lenny hung his coat on the back of the door and answered the ringing phone. 

“Lenny? It’s Roy.” It wasn’t Roy. On his end of the phone, Lenny paused, thrown by this odd turn.

“Okay… Hey there Roy. What can I do for you?” The man’s voice on the phone sounded like a teenager trying to imitate their parent. Like someone who had spent a lot of time around Roy but would never have the anatomy to fully capture his voice. They went on.

“We’re having a celebration over at our place, can’t be missed. The whole city’s going to be here tonight. Come over as soon as you can and bring some hooch.”

“Right. Will do. See you soon.” Lenny hung up. He stood for a couple of minutes, just thinking of the kaleidoscope of things that could be going wrong. Then he called Prosper. No answer. In the end, all he could think to do was show up. With no one to call and collaborate with and no willingness to skip town, Lenny figured that if he wanted to know what was going on he’d have to see for himself. 

As he pulled up to the Olmstead’s stately home in Mt. Baker (the neighborhood not the mountain itself) things continued to feel off. Roy and Elsie had chosen this house because of its quiet location and for the status that the community imbued. Today the whole place was too quiet, still like a frozen pond. Various cars filled the driveway; Lenny recognized some of them. But there was no activity anywhere on the block, no dogs being walked, no children to reprimand for playing in the street. Only the feeling of closed shutters. 

The moment continued to thicken as Lenny put one foot after the other, up the path to the front door. The rising tension felt like static in the air, the hot thickness before a lightning strike. He knocked. Whispers behind the door. Lenny sighed.

“Look, it’s obvious by now that this is a setup. Why don’t you just open the door so that I can find out how my boss is doing?” That seemed to stymie whoever was planning this surprise, causing another delay. Lenny grew impatient. “Whitney? If it’s not you behind that door, I know that it’s at least one of your thugs. Why don’t you just let me in and we’ll talk this whole thing over. I was invited after all.” The door opened, and Lenny’s friendly face was greeted with a revolver for the second time that day. “Aright, Jesus. Put that thing down.” Lenny said while putting his own hands up. 

He was ushered into the living room, the same place he had watched Roy burn a ring into the carpet after their run in with the Arcata. The front of the house was full of probation agents. In fact, probably the same group that had been roused to bust the mechanic’s place. They looked suitably self-satisfied. Whitney was there, at the center of it all, gun drawn and twitchy. He had a look in his eyes, something new and terrifying. He looked like a man gripped with conviction. He betrayed throes of spiritual mania with a look of unquestioning certainty that is only achieved by the mad. 

“Get in the kitchen!” He spat, flicking his gun towards the back of the house. 

“Not a problem, seeing as I’m unarmed would you mind putting the safety back on when you conduct my movements with that pistol?” 

“Shut the fuck up!” Whitley spat.

Lenny did as he was asked. 

As the door to the kitchen was pushed open by the uninvited and unwelcome hand of a young agent, Lenny saw Roy, Elsie, and most of the crew’s inner circle packed in there. It was shoulder to shoulder, with some of the Seattle’s most respected politicians and businessmen taking the few seats. Elsie was making the rounds, pouring coffee and trying to keep things civil. 

Lenny’s big body struggled to find space in the packed kitchen, looking around he saw that Roy was ensconced by out-of-uniform police officials, midlevel politicians, and a local Chaplin. Feeling way out of his depth Lenny gave his boss a nod, accepted a cup of coffee, and waded away from the deep end of the room towards Prosper. 

“You have got to be kidding me!” Lenny’s exclamation came out as a whisper, wedged in amongst the who’s who of the city. “What the fuck is going on here?”

“Well…” Pros shook his head slightly as he spoke. “I think that we loosened Whitney’s last screw with that breakfast offer. That morning in the mechanic’s garage must have been when he figured out that we knew about the wiretaps. To be honest, I think we painted him into a corner. He figured that he was as close as he was going to get and that wasn’t close enough. So today he came and barged into Roy’s house. After they tossed the place and found nothing, he just lost it. Grabbed the Olmstead’s little black book and started calling everyone. Party’s over here and shit.”

“Yeah, that was odd, getting a Roy impersonator on the phone like that. Sounded like a radio actor playing a part.”

“I would have killed to hear that. I was already here when they burst in.” Pros adjusted the course of the conversation. “The really crazy thing though, is that Whitney’s got nothing. Everyone here can dodge the shitty little charges he’s got them on by coercing their attendance, and he hasn’t got Roy on anything at all. Everything he has to charge us with has come in over the wiretaps, and those are completely unconstitutional. Nothing we’ve said on the phones can be used in court. I just don’t understand his play here.”

“There was a look in Whitney’s eyes when I walked in the door. I’m not sure how to explain it. It’s how I imagine the torturers looked during the Spanish Inquisition. The kind of conviction that destroys the possibility of any truth but your own, the kind you need to fabricate when you’re doing something you know is wrong.”

“Shit,” was Prosper’s only thought.