John was watching him closely. After a moment he said, “I bet that was her best day too.”
Jerry let the comment go. It didn’t do any good to think about something that was over with. It was time to move forward. Everything for the business was in place, and that’s what mattered now.
When they arrived at the warehouse, Jerry headed to a shelf lined with recently bottled whisky. The liquid gold inside was still a little raw, because it was their own, not their father’s, but that didn’t matter to Jerry. This first glass was just for them. He pulled a bottle out then turned toward his brother.
“It’s time, John.”
John grabbed two glasses from a shelf over Jerry’s desk. “Yes, indeed. I’ll drink to that.”
Jerry handed him the bottle, and John held it up to the light, admiring the amber liquid rocking within. Then he turned it slightly so he could see the label Jerry had had printed up.
“My, doesn’t that look good.” He cleared his throat then read out loud. “Bailey Brothers’ Best. Windsor, Ontario. 1920.”
“Like it?”
“I like it a lot.” John cocked his head, curious. “What’s this little bird in the corner?”
Jerry’s cheeks warmed a little. “It’s a bluebird.”
John didn’t skip a beat. “Only right,” he said, passing the bottle back. “Without her, you wouldn’t be here.”
With great ceremony, Jerry opened the bottle and poured a glass for each of them.
John lifted his in a toast. “Here’s to Bailey Brothers’ Best. May we get richer than we ever imagined and make a lot of people happy while we’re at it.”
“I’ll drink to that.” They watched each other’s face as they clinked the glasses together, then Jerry grinned. “Here’s to the future of the Baileys.”
twelveADELE
— May 1921 —
Clipboard in hand, Adele paused in the doorframe between the treatment rooms and the waiting room, scanning the half dozen people sitting quietly within the medical clinic. A headache was starting up behind her eyes, but she had only herself to blame. She never should have allowed herself to go without lunch, but it had been a busy morning, and she’d lost track of time.
“Mrs. Chalmers?” she called.
A woman Adele estimated to be in her late twenties limped toward her. “Sorry. I’m a little slow.”
“That’s quite all right.” Cursing her growling stomach, Adele opened the door wider, ushering Mrs. Chalmers inside the treatment room. “Please have a seat on the examination table. Now, what’s the trouble?”
“I’ve cut my leg,” she said, carefully removing her boot. “I tried to bandage it myself, but…”
“Let’s take a look.” Adele peeled back the soiled bandage on herpatient’s calf to reveal a deep gash about three inches long. Fortunately, it had stopped bleeding. “That is quite a cut,” she noted, setting aside the bloody dressing. “You were smart to bandage it, but you’ll need stitches. How did you get this?”
The woman gave her a smirk. “I slipped.”
Adele raised an eyebrow. Mrs. Chalmers had no bruises on her, and her hands were free of scratches. She suspected she knew the real cause. “And what made the cut? Should I look for anything sharp in the wound, like glass, perhaps?”
The woman sighed. “Okay, I didn’t slip. I was carrying pints in my rubber boots. I bumped one too hard, I guess.”
Adele reached for her needle and sterile catgut thread, unsurprised. “Well, I’ll make sure the wound is clear of any glass then stitch you up. Shouldn’t take too long.”
Since she’d started working for Dr. Knowles, she’d seen the full gamut of bootlegging injuries, from minor cuts like this to serious bullet wounds. She’d treated one slender but clumsy man who had wrapped rubber tubes filled with booze around himself then hidden the evidence beneath his spacious coat. Unfortunately for him, he’d tripped on his own invention and broken an arm on the curb. Looking sick with regret, he’d admitted to Adele that the impact had split one of the tubes, and liquor had sprayed like a fountain into the street.
People would do just about anything for a drink these days, it seemed. Adele had been impressed with all the creative methods they’d come up with to smuggle booze: women tucked bottles into brassieres, bloomers, and corsets, even into their baby’s blankets and carriages. Adele had even heard—though she wasn’t convinced it was true—that one man had emptied two dozen eggs of their natural liquid and used a syringe to refill them with whisky. Then he’d carried the carton across the frozen river to Detroit. Mrs. Chalmers’s cut wasn’t the first of its kind, and it wouldn’t be the last.
Adele finished her careful sewing then applied a fresh dressing.“There you are. That should heal nicely, but you may have a small scar.” She smiled. “Try to be more careful?”
Mrs. Chalmers laughed as she rolled her stocking back up. “With all the money I’m making, I can afford a few stitches.”
