“I wish you wouldn’t hang around those places,” Daisy said.

Jim sighed. “It’s not dangerous like the Feds say. We just—”

Daisy held up a hand. “Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know about speakeasies.”

“Fine. I’ll be home later.”

The early March weather was cool but sunny, unusual for Boston, and he wished not for the first time that the federal dress code wasn’t so strict. Short sleeves would have been nicer than a hat and coat.

He arrived at the grocery store, waving at Earl behind the register. Jim made a show of examining the items on the shelves before ducking through a door in the back.

“Hey, Jimmy!” Al said, slapping his arm. “You ready for the tasting?”

“What’ve we got?” Jim asked.

Al grinned. “In honor of Barry’s new baby, we’re opening the 1918 scotch.”

Jim whistled. “90 years basking in its own glory.”

“And unlike women, it gets better with age.” Al winked and poured them each a shot of the amber liquid. “Cheers.”

The scotch burned through their veins, forbidden as the fire of Prometheus.

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