Jeffery Smith took out his pocket knife, slit open the burlock and fished one of the six bottles out from their protective straw. He opened it, and tilted the clear dark contents into a shot glass. Holding the glass up to the single bulb that hung from the warehouse ceiling he frowned at its color.

Outside a winter storm howled against the flimsy siding of the building. Eagar for warmth and to finish his business for the night, Jeffery tossed the contents of his glass back despite his reservations.

But he didn't let the liquid go down his throat. He spat it out immediately, his face contorted. 

"Jimmy, this is the worst rotgut you've shown me yet. I can't buy this for my client." Jimmy wiped his lips with the back of his sleeve. "What did you cut this with? Prune juice?"

"Yeah, prune juice," nodded Jimmy, smiling a toothless smile as if to congratulate himself. "And a wee bit of turpentine."

"I can't buy your hooch," said Jeffery, putting a hand on Jimmy's grimy jacket and nodding at the inventory around them. "Sorry, mate."

Jimmy seemed undeterred by the rejection. Perhaps he knew the demand for alcohol now that the Volstead Act was in place, he would have no trouble unloading his watered down booze. 

"So you got a fancy client then," said Jimmy rocking back and forth on his heels. "They want the real McCoy do they?"

"The real what?" asked Jeffery, confused.

"The pure stuff, the good stuff, the stuff Bill McCoy sells offshore." Jimmy paused to see if Jeffery registered having heard of Bill McCoy. Seeing none, he continued. 

"He ships it up from the Caribbean every month." Jimmy seemed almost as pleased to be enlightening Jeffery than as if Jeffrey had bought a case of his hooch. "He's a purist that McCoy. But you'll pay a hefty price for his alcohol."

"Cost isn't an issue for my client." In fact cost seemed to never be an issue when procuring suitable drinks for and of the occupants of Park Avenue and their wealthy midtown neighbors. 

"I can take you to him," said Jimmy, smiling generously. "His boat, the Arethusa, is anchored three miles off the coast, conveniently in international waters. I have a small fast boat that can take us there tonight."

"For a small fee of course," asked Jeffery.

"Naturally," replied Jimmy.

Jeffery sighed. Being prone to motion sickness, he avoided boats and waves, particularly in the dead of night, and certainly during a storm. But he doubted Bill McCoy liked to entertain bootleggers during bankers hours on the safety of land.

"Ok then," said Jeffery, resigned. "Take me to the Real McCoy."

"Meet me at pier 42 at 10pm," said Jimmy. "You won't be disappointed."