“Gin. Homemade,” Wally replied with a hint of pride irrepressible even in a room of torture.
Jules opened the bottle in his hands and timidly sniffed its contents. Then he took the smallest sip from its mouth. “This is good,” he observed with surprise in his voice. “Real good.”
“Made from scratch. Malt wine made from the finest barley, then distilled with juniper oil.” Wally rolled his head back to stare at the ceiling as he spoke.
Jules turned back to his subject, the bottle still in his right hand. “And what in the hell are you doing with this stuff in a brothel?”
“Like I said, I came here looking for Al Capone. I was told he knew some people who could help me distribute this stuff when Prohibition kicks in.” Wally spoke at the ceiling still, with a voice full of resignation and free of fear.
Jules recorked the bottle and placed it back in the bag that he closed and pulled off the bed. “And you heard about Al from a restaurant owner?”
Wally looked forward at his interrogator. “I was told not to tell.”
Jules headed for the door that was opened by an accomplice, the bag traveling at his side. “I’ll be back in a little while. You stay put.”
“I ain’t goin’ anywhere,” Wally replied to an empty room and a slammed door.
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