over. Now maybe we can get on with what’s left of our pathetic lives.”
That was harsh. It came straight from the bottle.
“Not until I find out who’s responsible.”
“What’s the mystery, Jack? Wasn’t it the same sons of bitches you work for?”
“Used to work for. I don’t know. Something tells me it’s more complicated than that.”
“It’s never more complicated than that.”
Clara got up, fetched her pack of cigarettes off the windowsill, and got one going with the little Ronson striker she had in her pocket. She took a puff before replying.
“Okay, I’ll talk to Henry. I’ll do it for your father. I always thought he deserved better than you two.”
He let that one drift too. He figured he should probably start getting used to it.
“Tell him to meet me at the British-American in half an hour.”
“You have to promise me one thing.”
He stood up and set his glass down on the coffee table. “What’s that?”
“If you don’t get anywhere with Henry, don’t come running back to me. I never want to see you again.”
“We’ll talk tomorrow.”
“Don’t bet on it,” she said and she pulled her robe tight across her chest. “I’ll take care of the funeral arrangements.”
Jack reached in his pocket and pulled out a roll of bills. He peeled off a couple layers and tossed them onto the table next to his glass.
“This place still got a back door?”
“You know where it is.”
Clara followed McCloskey down the hall past the bedrooms.
“Put the latch on and don’t open the door for anybody,” he said. “I wasn’t here.”
— Chapter 11 —
THE BOILING POINT OF ALCOHOL
Young Bertie Monaghan and his father Jacob were sharing a pitcher of lemonade under the silver maple in their backyard. Mrs. Monaghan was visiting her mother.
‘In the old days we’d hide it in the bush where it wouldn’t draw attention or cause any damage, but in our case,’ Jacob gestured with his thumb, ‘I think the garden shed will do just fine.’
Bertie nodded and tipped his glass to his mouth for another sip. The ice sloshed back and some lemonade dribbled down his chin. He wiped it with the back of his hand. While other boys were getting driving lessons from their dads, Bertie was learning how to make moonshine. It was an old family tradition.
‘We’ll need an oversized kettle for fermenting. It sits on a rack a couple feet off the ground, and the gas burner goes underneath. Gas is the best. Oh — and we’ll need a good thermometer.’
Monaghan took another look over his shoulder to make sure none of his neighbours were about.
‘Now, from a hole at the side of the kettle, right near the bottom, we run a rigid, narrow tube and close it off with a valve. The still is smaller than the kettle and positioned an arm’s length from the rack. Its neck should taper to an opening just large enough to accommodate an end of narrow, flexible pipe. Running out the side of the neck, just above where it connects to the still, is another rigid tube like the one coming out the side of the kettle. Connect the end of this tube to the valve. Together, these tubes should form a straight line parallel to the ground. The pressure of the gases in the kettle will push the liquid along this connection, letting it drip smooth and regular into the still.’
It was difficult to tell who was more excited, Monaghan, who was describing it like it was a magical invention he saw in a dream, or his son, who was taking it all in, agog.
‘Back to the flexible pipe: first, keep in mind that its length will affect the distillation process — the longer the pipe, the weaker the product. Bend the pipe so it points down at a 45-degree angle. Connect a short length of much wider, rigid pipe to the end. This is your condenser. Connect a much smaller tube to the open end of it and run it to whatever vessel you’re using to collect the alcohol, say a good size jug. And we can’t make this tube too short: if the jug is too close to the burner the alcohol will evaporate or explode.’
‘But what do we make the spirits with, dad?’
‘Basically, corn. We pour it into the kettle and then top it with just enough lukewarm water to cover it. Let it breathe for two weeks. After a few days the ferment will start to bubble and stink like shit in a frying pan, so we’ll have to keep the shed well-ventilated.
‘The thermometer is so we can keep the heat at a steady 180 degrees — just above the boiling point of alcohol and below the boiling point of water. When the pressure starts building in the kettle, open the valve until you have a slow drip into the still. Make sure the amount of ferment getting forced into the still is equal to the amount of steam going up the pipe — you don’t want the still to either fill up or boil dry. The steam will condense and then run down the tube into the jug. What we’ve got now is 198-proof ethyl alcohol. It’s filtered through charcoal, and then diluted three parts alcohol to five parts distilled water. If we mess it up, we just keep trying. Every still has its own personality, and you just have to take the time to get to know her.’
That was about ten days ago. Right now Bertie was lying awake in bed like he was waiting for Christmas. He could smell the ferment from his window. He wondered if any of his neighbours on this hot summer night could as well. His dad said that anyone who did could get bought off with a jar.
Mrs. Ferguson had noticed the odour a few days ago when she sat down to her tea. It came wafting in through the dining room window and seemed to be coming from across the alley. She asked her son to confirm her suspicions for her and he did just that.
‘I guess you just never noticed it before, ma.’
‘I know what that smell is. Why hasn’t anyone done anything about it?’
‘Because this family makes good whisky. Now mind your own business, okay?’
Mrs. Ferguson was beside herself. It was a nightmare come true. Could a person really distill whisky in their own backyard without fear of consequence?
‘What is the world coming to, Stannie?’
‘About a buck a quart,’ he cracked.
He was twice her size but that never stopped her from slapping him around a bit for his ‘insolence and sinful behaviour.’ She fetched her rolling pin and started chasing Stannie around the dining room table with it.
‘All right, all right, ma. I won’t be buying any of his stuff. Just please do us both a favour and don’t go to the police.’
That wouldn’t be a problem. Mrs. Ferguson had made her rather poor opinion of the chief constable and his force known to several officers, and they were no longer returning any of her calls. No,
