“Angelo, I’d like you to meet a guest of ours. He’s expressed great interest in the quality and safety of our libations.”
“Is that so?” Angelo’s eyes were still fixed on the brown liquid.
Dash stepped forward. “What is it you’re doing?”
“I am testing for methyl alcohol. It will make you very sick if you drink it.”
Dash turned to Fife. “You’ve hired a chemist?”
The gangster was pleased with how quick Dash understood the situation. “I’m sure you’ve no doubt heard the stories of men and women having a drink that later on killed them. Some are rumor but others are quite true. This damnable law has people making their own liquor but without the necessary ingredients to do it properly. Not only does it taste like absolute horse piss, but it’s made up of chemicals one should never drink: gasoline, grain alcohol, and rubbing alcohol being the most common. I’ve even seen a barber use the disinfectant he keeps his combs in.”
Fife shook his head.
“What people will do for a drink. And what a wonderful opportunity for me. If I can provide them good tasting liquor that won’t kill them—well, not right away; some will regardless be drinking themselves to death in short order—then I can make a substantial profit.”
Dash gestured to Angelo and his workbench. “And he tests the liquor?”
Angelo responded this time. “Not only test it, but also renature it.”
“What does that mean?”
Angelo set the beaker down, satisfied with what he saw. When he gave his attention to them Dash saw the full beauty of his face. Eyes heavy with mystery, cheeks smooth with youth and vitality, and thick hair dark and tangled with midnight possibility.
Angelo replied, “I restore it to its natural state. I take out all the additives that make the liquid poisonous and I can make it drinkable again.”
Fife stepped in. “You see, Mr. Parker, the U.S. Government knows this Prohibition nonsense is the most laughable thing since Harding’s crooked cabinet. Not that I mind such moral deviation, but I despise men who claim they’re righteous when they’re otherwise. The government knows Americans, particularly in cities, will keep on drinking despite what the housemaids who proposed Prohibition claim. And they also know enterprising citizens will scrounge around and find anything they can use. Industrial ethanol, for example, is just floating around out there, free for the taking. Now our morally upright government agents are seizing it and adding in chemicals that make it foul smelling, bad tasting, even nauseating. Unfortunately, they’ve gone a little too far in some cases, for they made a good bit of it even more poisonous. That particular process is called . . . what is it again, Angelo?”
“Denaturing, sir.”
Dash was stunned. “You mean, our own government is purposefully trying to kill us?”
The gangster shrugged. “Not completely purposeful, but then, what’s a couple of thousand dead drunks if it scares off the rest from drinking?”
“But that’s . . . that’s . . .”
“Deplorable? Yes, I know.” He gave Dash a sideways look. “Compared to the boys in Washington, consorting with a man like me isn’t so bad, now is it, Mr. Parker?”
Angelo asked, “Would you like to know how I do it, sir?”
Dash held up a hand. “I am not a man of science, so I’m afraid I won’t be able to follow. Thank you though, Mr. Ava—” He stumbled on the last name.
“Avogadro.”
Fife said, “Now I believe you mentioned to my man Lowell something about trying the gin? What was it? Ah, yes. ‘If he has good gin, I’ll sign right then and there.’”
Hearing Dash’s own words parroted back to him by such a dangerous man was oddly threatening. Dash cleared his throat. “I believe I said that.”
“Good.” Fife pointed to one of the beakers of clear liquid on a left-hand shelf. “Angelo, is this one renatured?”
Angelo looked to where his boss was pointing and nodded.
“Excellent.” Fife picked it up and walked over to Dash. “Here you are. Take a sip. Or two. You look like you could use one.”
The gangster placed the beaker in Dash’s hand. Dash stared at it. Was this an elaborate ruse to kill him? Give him the federally poisoned gin rather than the renatured stuff? Or perhaps he would be drinking acid? Burning him from the outside out?
Fife seemed to read his mind and smirked. “Yes, I suppose it does feel like a game of Russian roulette. Does this chamber have the bullet or no?” He patted Dash’s arm. “Only one way to find out. Bottoms up.”
Oh well, if I have to go, might as well be death by gin.
Dash raised the beaker in a mock toast and then took a sip. He waited for some kind of horrible chemical reaction once it touched his lips, tongue, and throat. So far, nothing. In fact, it tasted pretty darn close to regular gin. It was almost good. Not like the real thing, but not like the lighter fluid he’d been serving at his own club.
He looked at Fife, who smiled at his reaction.
“Up to your standards, Mr. Parker?”
Dash nodded.
“And that’s just our version. In the main room you’ve seen, I have what they call The Real McCoy. Booze made in the islands down south and boated up here. Of course, that costs more. Considerably more—as you can imagine it would—but it is delicious, is it not, Angelo?”
Angelo shrugged. “I do not prefer spirits so much.”
“Oh that’s right. He’s more about the wine, which, lucky Catholic that he is, he can get the real stuff with the weekly sacrament. I might convert just for that.”
Angelo smiled for the first time since Dash met him. It was a wonderful smile, complementing the beauty of his face. “Many people have, sir.”
Fife said to Dash, “Would wine go well with your club? Or is it just beer and spirits?” He made an aside to Angelo. “He has a very specific club
