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“Is it moral, you’re asking? Well, yes, it is in its own certain way. When this final holiday drinking spree is all said and done, a lot of people will have died from drinking liquor distilled from wood alcohol.” Wally raised his glass of homemade gin and smiled at his companion. “People will keep on drinking during Prohibition, so I’d rather they drink my product and stay safe. And if I do well by doing good, then so be it.” Jim was silent again for a long time, while both men stared into the fire. “Wouldja need help with the gin? I mean, I’m takin’ care of the cows and all, but—” “I’m glad you asked, Jim,” Wally interjected as he leaned over to reach for the bottle between them. “It just so happens that I’m gonna be expanding operations soon, building a new cowshed on the Peabody farm—” “Shame to hear about him—” “Yeah, well, he’s in a better place this Christmas.” Wally poured a fresh drink for both himself and his listener. “I’m buying his farm from his daughter with the profits from my last shipment. I could use your help over the winter with my next batch, eight hundred gallons. I’ll have to rent a milk truck to carry it to the city. Once we get that delivered, I’ll have enough to build a cowshed on Peabody’s farm, and then we’ll really be cookin’—” “But what about the cows?” Jim asked with a perplexed brow. “No need to worry about the cows, ‘cause we won’t need very many cows. Just enough for a nice cover, in case the Prohibition agents come knocking.” “What’s the pay?” Jim asked after looking up from the fire. “Twenty dollars a week, for work evenings and Sundays. You in?” Jim looked back in the fire and finished his slow nod just before Elliott Bayer began an intense wail that radiated throughout the farmhouse. |