NOVEMBER 30, 1934
HALLOWED GROUNDS. THE big mook was standing behind the bar, and wouldn’t you know it, he was rubbing a big white hole in the wood with his bar cloth.
I hated to do it. Hated with every fiber of my being to spill a drop of that precious ambrosia. I did it, though. I smashed the neck of my bottle of Crow, leaving a nice jagged hole.
You might think I screwed up, that I should’ve taken off the bottom flat part to use it as a weapon. You’d be wrong.
I set the bottle down on the bar, neck up, of course. “Hell of a thing, life.”
“I wouldn’t know,” the mook growled.
I nodded. “Me neither. Thanks to you.”
He had one of those looks of surprise on his face, like when you walk in on your old lady screwing the milkman behind your back. It didn’t matter because by the time that
