Jerry lit a cigarette then nudged John, who dragged his attention away from the brunette, and both brothers leaned toward Walter, all ears.
“Let’s start from when we walked into this place,” Walter said. He started to cough, but just then the waiter brought their drinks, and Walter drained his glass to clear his throat. “You wouldn’t have noticed, but there’s a spotter watching the entrance from an upstairs window. Bertha used to get visits from the law more often, but then she took in a young kid named Louis. The kid does his homework up there, and while he’s at it, he looks out for the police. If he sees them, he signals to another fellowin the little shack in the parking lot. That guy presses a button that flashes the lights on and off inside the building. That way everyone knows what’s coming.”
Jerry gestured to the open booze on the table. “And if they get past the kid? What happens with all the liquor?”
Walter stomped his boot on the thick carpet underfoot. “The minute there’s a raid, everybody dumps their hooch.”
That explained the plush, soft floor, Jerry thought. And the smell.
“And see the long tablecloths on every table? Underneath each one there’s a bucket for the glasses, but the tablecloths block the view. The best part is the bar itself.” He pointed toward the mirror behind the bar. “One little tap of a stick and those shelves tilt, sending the bottles down a chute. Soda magically appears where the booze used to be. Everything is quick and slick these days. It’s a riot.”
Jerry stared across the room at the bar, impressed by the mechanics.
“There are buzzers and false walls everywhere around here,” Charlie chimed in, having read Walter’s lips. “This place has more hidden passageways and tunnels than all of Europe, and they’re all for the liquor. People over here are making a fortune selling over in the States. I know of one rumrunner on this side of the border who bought a case of cheap scotch for eighteen dollars, then sold it across the river for a hundred and twenty.”
John’s eyes widened. “You don’t say.”
“Yeah. Over there, everything about booze is illegal, but that don’t mean folks aren’t thirsty, if you follow me.”
Jerry frowned. “But Prohibition’s still in place here, ain’t it? Or did I miss something?”
Walter tilted his head from side to side. “It is and it isn’t. During the war, the making, importing, and exporting of liquor were all illegal federally, but they’re planning a referendum on that soon. I’m taking bets on which way that goes, but I’m fairly sure they’ll throw Prohibition out. Then there’s the provinces, and they set their own rules. They’re alldifferent. Here in Ontario, our distillers and breweries can manufacture booze, but we can’t legally buy it here. Wecanbuy it from another province, though.”
John snorted. “Government.”
“Yeah, well, they got nothing to complain about now. They’re raking it in since the States are going dry. While the American authorities are doing their best to shut rumrunners down, the Canadian border men are behind it all the way. As long as the sellers pay the Canadian export tax, they don’t care where the booze ends up.”
Jerry’s mind returned to the rows and columns of names and numbers his father had written in his journal, creating a business plan for his sons. “What about producing it independently? That still illegal?”
“You gotta have a federal permit.” Charlie grinned. “Or be real quiet about it.”
Someone hollered something, and Walter nodded toward the staircase at the far end of the room. “Take a look! There’s Miss Bertha Thomas herself.”
The speakeasy’s owner was a tall, slender woman not much older than Jerry’s twenty-four years, wrapped in black and draped in furs. A low cloche hat covered most of her face, but he saw a flash of a smile when the men around her raised their drinks in her direction.
“What’s she like?” John asked. “Have you met her?”
“A couple of times. She’s a nice enough gal, but she’s a big shot, so folks try to stay on her good side. She’s better as a friend than an enemy, or so I’ve heard.”
“Has she ever been arrested?” Jerry asked. “I mean, as glamorous as all this is, even with a spotter out front raids do happen—here and at the docks, right?”
“She’s been raided,” Walter agreed. “But never arrested. She might get a fine or two, but she’s so rich, those are like mosquito bites to her. She’s paid most of the coppers off, so they stay away.”
“What’s upstairs?” John asked, indicating the stairway she’d just descended.
“She lives up there. And she’s got rooms for important fellas who needed their palms greased, you know? Private gambling, drinking, girls, whatever they want. Bertha doesn’t like the general public to know about that, though.”
“So how do you know? You one of them important types?” John teased.
“I hear things,” Walter said mysteriously, wiggling his eyebrows. “I ain’t exactly been sitting around twiddling my thumbs since I’ve been back.”
“What’s that supposed to mean? You in the business already?”
Charlie laughed. “He sure is!”
Jerry and John exchanged a smile. “So, Walter, tell me,” Jerry said. “How does—”
“Well, well, well.” A shadow fell over their table, punctuated by the glowing end of a cigar. “If it ain’t John Bailey.”
