BILL HAMMONS: WRITING AND RUNNING IN BOULDER, COLORADO
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“A hundred gallons of gin by June First. For how much?”

“If I get some customers at my end, for a lot. How’s a dollar a gallon sound to you?”

“I’m barely breaking even at that.”

“Two dollars a gallon. Ask for anything higher, and they’ll be sending you back upstate in a coffin.”

Wally swallowed hard. “Deal.”

Yale smiled and took another sip of Wally’s gin before rising from his chair. “Pleasure to be doing business with you, Mister Bayer. Jules’ll arrange the first shipment with you.” Yale donned a fedora and headed for a door opened by Jules.

“There’s one problem.”

Yale slammed the door shut on himself, and looked back at a Wally still bound to a chair. “What is it?”

“I need capital. I’ll need to buy stills, supplies—”

“Jules’ll arrange that, too. Money for anything you need, at twenty percent a month. You’ll pay it off with your gin.”

Wally forced himself to smile. “Thank you.”

“You’re very welcome, and have a wonderful day, Mister Bayer.” Yale removed his hat in a brief gesture of farewell, then stepped out the door that had been reopened for him.

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