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“I must say, this is mighty good stuff you’ve delivered here, Mister Bayer.” Frankie Yale leaned back in his chair to take another whiff and another sip of Wally’s gin. “Very good. What’s your recipe, if you don’t mind the asking?” Wally smiled nervously from across the small table in a backroom of Yale’s Harvard Inn. “House secret.” Yale laughed, finished off the shot glass in his hand, and slammed it down in the middle of the table. “Fine, Mister Bayer. I’m sure I won’t have any problems finding buyers. What do I owe you?” Wally interlaced his fingers tightly beneath the tabletop. “One hundred gallons, two hundred dollars.” Yale looked back at a youthful Al Capone standing guard at the door closed shut against a sunny June Monday afternoon. “Alphonse, how much did I loan Mister Bayer here?” “One hundred dollars back in March, at twenty percent a month, Mister Yale.” Yale had pulled a thick wad of bills out of a pants pocket and now held it in one fist over the table and the empty shot glass. “And what does Mister Bayer’s total debt come out to then?” Wally watched Capone’s cold, hard eyes as they looked off into a distance beyond a wall. “One hundred seventy-two dollars and eighty cents, Mister Yale.” The fingers of Wally’s right hand gripped the straw of his hat resting on one knee. “Is that prorated for the month of March? I calculated—” “Mister Bayer.” “Yes?” |