Prohibition

Chapter 7: Raymond

Raymond did not meet Evelyn the next day. Almost as soon as he entered his apartment that night, the telephone rang. It was Mr. Matthews, calling to tell Raymond that one of his delivery agents had fallen ill with pneumonia, and Raymond would have to help him deliver the liquor shipments until the agent recovered. "Bring a morning suit with you," Mr. Matthews instructed just before he hung up the phone. "Just put it in a bag or something. I know it sounds screwy, but you're going to need it."

Disappointed and slightly puzzled, Raymond agreed, then hung up the phone. He considered calling Evelyn and telling her he couldn't make it to Delmonico's the next day, but decided against it. Maybe the deliveries wouldn't take too long, and he would still have time to meet her.

The next morning, he arrived at the African Queen carrying a small briefcase. "Got the get-up in here," he told Mr. Matthews as he boarded the cutter and stowed the briefcase in a storage compartment.

"Great!" Mr. Matthews replied, starting the cutter's engine. "Let's get going."

***

The trip to Rum Row and back had been uneventful, as usual, and now Raymond and Mr. Matthews were preparing to deliver the alcohol. "Here's what we're going to do," Mr. Matthews explained as he and Raymond unloaded the crates from the African Queen. "My clients are all swells—the Ascotts, the Dewitts, and so on. I assume you know most of them."

"Yeah." Raymond nodded.

"Usually, my agent would masquerade as a milkman or delivery boy to deliver the hooch," Mr. Matthews continued, "but today we're doing it in style. Wait here," he instructed, setting the last crate of liquor down. Then he walked away, rounded the corner of a warehouse, and disappeared.

A few minutes later, Raymond heard the soft purr of a motor, and a sleek, black Cadillac pulled around the side of the warehouse and stopped in front of him. Behind the wheel sat Mr. Matthews, grinning broadly. "This, young Raymond," he announced as he climbed out of the car, "is your delivery truck for today. First," he reached back into the car and pulled out a small inkpad and circular metal stamp. "I need to stamp the crates. That way our clients know the liquor is really from our syndicate."

As Raymond watched, Mr. Matthews stamped the image of three jagged-edged leaves and three acorn-like nuts clustered on a single stem onto every crate in black ink. "There," he said with satisfaction, once he had finished. "Help me load them into the car."

"What does the stamp mean?" Raymond asked as Mr. Matthews opened the back door of the Cadillac.

"No idea," Mr. Matthews replied. "Bring the crates here."

Carrying the cases over to the open door, Raymond saw Mr. Matthews had lifted up the backseat cushions, revealing a hollow cavity beneath them. "Damn! That's nifty!" he exclaimed with a low whistle.

"It is pretty swell," Mr. Matthews agreed proudly. "Hide the cases in there, and nobody will ever find them." So saying, he lifted the cases and one by one placed them in the hollow space. Once they were all stowed away, he carefully replaced the seat cushions. "There," he said with satisfaction.

"That's perfect!" Raymond laughed. "I can't see a thing."

"Run into the boathouse and change into your suit," Mr. Matthews told him. "Then get in the car, and we'll deliver the bootleg."

***

"The first people we're delivering to are the Ascotts," Mr. Matthews told Raymond as they drove through the crowded city streets. "If anyone asks, we are close friends of the family, and we are visiting them for a casual luncheon. While we are inside—and they are paying me—their butler will bring the car around to the back of the building. We will then go down, unpack the crates, and deliver them to the butler. Then we will go back upstairs, the car will be brought around to the front, and we will leave quietly and unobtrusively. Understand?"