Prohibition

Chapter 1: Raymond

November 1925: New York City

The clock was ticking too loudly. Raymond sighed and pushed his chair off the ground, balancing on the back legs. Propping his legs up on Walter's desk, he regarded the cuffs of his pant legs. They were fraying, but not too noticeably; he could wait to buy a new pair for a while longer. A fly was crawling across the ceiling, his movements painfully slow. Raymond watched it for a minute, but quickly lost interest. Watching the fly was almost as boring as sitting in his chair doing nothing. Where was Walter anyway? He had called Raymond into his office, saying he needed to show him something, then had disappeared.

Standing, he paced restlessly around the room. Antsy as he was, everything grated on his nerves: the hum of the dusty old ceiling fan, the creak of the floorboards beneath his feet, the buzzing of the fly as he flew through the air. Raymond swatted at it and missed. Cursing to himself, he dropped back into his chair and chewed his fingernails. An astringent taste spread across his tongue: gunpowder residue from his recently-fired gun. Once again, he had forgotten to wash his hands before biting his nails; now, his tongue curled at the caustic taste. Cursing again, he grabbed a glass of water that was sitting on Walter's desk and gulped it down. The water did little more than wash the taste to the back of his throat; what he needed to really cleanse his palette was alcohol. Walter kept a bottle of cheap whiskey somewhere in his office. Maybe Raymond could find it, and—

The door opened, and Walter entered the room. Behind him followed Agent Brant, Raymond's partner and the biggest stick-in-the-mud Raymond had ever met. Working with him was a boring as attending church. He was carrying a large wooden crate filled with glass alcohol bottles. "Set it there," Walter instructed, gesturing to his desk. Nodding Agent Brant set the crate down, then left the room.

"Raymond." Walter nodded to him. "Sit down."

Repressing a huff, Raymond sank back down into his chair. "What do you want...sir?"

"Our harbor patrols just picked this up," Walter replied, apparently choosing to ignore Raymond's irritable tone. Pulling the bottles out of the crate, he arranged them on his desk. "Caribbean rum. Champagne. Canadian wine, instead of the usual California wine. Sherry. Scotch whiskey. Napoleon brandy. Gin. Even some high-quality beer." Looking over at Raymond, he asked, "What do you think this means?"

Raymond grimaced. He hated how Walter constantly asked him questions like this. It felt like being back in school, taking a test he hadn't studied for. As if he knew what the contents of the crate meant. "It's expensive alcohol," he offered. "Not like what we usually see."

"So, what do you think it means?"

Raymond's grimace grew more pronounced. Hell, if I know, he wanted to say, but restrained himself. Instead, he thought for a moment then said, "Either the rumrunner was surprisingly rich or he wasn't working alone."

"Exactly." Walter nodded approvingly. "I think he was working for a syndicate—a syndicate we've missed somehow, and a wealthy one, at that."

"Hmm." Reaching for one of the brandy bottles, Raymond unscrewed the cap and poured a generous amount into the empty water glass "This is really good stuff," he remarked as he took a swig. "Mind if I take a few bottles home?"

"I suppose not," Walter sighed. "Just subtract a few bottles from the confiscation records." Taking the bottle from Raymond, he poured himself a glass as well. "This is good stuff," he agreed after taking a sip. "Maybe I'll take some home too."

Raymond grinned, knowing that what he didn't take home would be in Walter's pantry by the end of the day. Walter had a taste for fine liquor—a taste that was not often satisfied. Usually, they both had to settle for cheap, mediocre alcohol. But not today.

"So, what do you think?" Raymond asked, pouring himself another glass of brandy. "This syndicate something we should be worried about?"

"I don't know." Walter lit a cigarette and puffed it pensively. "We don't even know that there is a syndicate. "That's what I want you and Agent Brant to find out—if a syndicate does, in fact, exist, or if we're simply looking at one very rich rumrunner."

"And after we find that out?"

"I'll give the case to a more experienced agent. You're far too young and green to handle a big syndicate case," he continued. "Your job is merely to reconnoiter."

Raymond flushed scarlet. "I am not too young and green. My work here so far has been excellent."

"Your work has been good," Walter corrected. "And that's because you were dealing with small assignments. You don't have the experience or ability to handle a case this big—and you're lazy."

Raymond scoffed. "I'm not lazy." 

"You only give your assignments half effort because you think they're boring. You turned your paperwork in late again, even though I reminded you--again-- to turn it in on time. You leave work earlier and show up later than all of my other agents. You're lazy."

"Okay." Raymond cocked his head to one side, a smirk passing across his face. "Then why do you keep me around?"

"Because I'm understaffed," Walter said bluntly. "And you're another warm body that I get funding for. That's why." 

"So, if I find out that a syndicate does exist, give me the case. You don't have anyone else to give it too anyway." 

Walter sighed. "You're not ready for this case, Raymond. And you won't ever be if you talk back to me again." His steely eyes bored deep into Raymond. Don't bite the hand that feeds you, they seemed to be saying. "Give me the information I asked for--nothing else." 

Fuming silently, Raymond gave Walter the barest of nods. "Fine. I'll get you your information." Then, he promised himself silently, I'll get you to give me the case too. 

***

A few days later, Raymond sat in front of Walter once more. This time, however, he had a grin on his face and a file full of information clutched in his hands.

"Yes, Raymond?" Walter stared expectantly at him from across his desk.

Raymond's grin widened. "There is a syndicate, sir. I have found several other rumrunners also smuggling in the same types of alcohol we previously confiscated During interrogation, each admitted to working for a syndicate, although they refused to spill anything more than that. All seemed very sure that they would be absolved of all charges against them, leading me to believe that the ringleader either has friends in the police or the justice system or both--especially as well-known and influential lawyers showed up to counsel the men before we could finish our interrogation each time. All the information is in this file." Laying the file on Walter's desk, Raymond leaned forward. "I want the case now, sir."

For a long moment, Walter was silent, considering Raymond through narrowed eyes. Finally, he sighed and leaned back in his chair. "All my preferred agents are busy working other big cases right now," he said slowly. "That leaves only green, young agents like you. I suppose you and Agent Brant will do just as well as any of them would, and since you found this information, I suppose it's only fair to give the case to you. But," he added as Raymond opened his mouth to thank him, "Agent Brant is the lead on this investigation. You will do whatever he tells you. And you only have this case as long as my preferred agents are occupied. The moment one of them becomes available, you're done."