It was late afternoon, and the speakeasy was almost deserted. Be-
hind the bar Charlie, the barman, peeled oranges and lemons for the
old-fashioneds, whisky sours, and Tom Collinses that, with Manhat-
tans, martinis, sidecars, and Bronxes, made up fifty per cent of the
orders. The rest of the customers preferred highballs-either Scotch
or Canadian, depending on what was most recently off the boats. It
was a point of pride with Charlie always to serve the real stuff; no
doctored alcohol or needled beer had ever crossed his bar, and the
house was able to charge accordingly. Nick, the owner, maintained
that people would pay almost anything provided they got what they
were paying for, and the loyalty between him and his customers was
unshakable.
The speakeasy occupied the ground floor of an old high-stoop
brownstone house, on the east side of midtown Manhattan. The
door, with its peephole, was behind an iron grille alongside the front
steps. It had once been the delivery entrance, and now, for all practi-
cal purposes, was the only means of ingress to the establishment. A
back door, beyond the kitchen, was for emergency only, and was al-
ways kept locked. The entire place consisted of three rooms: the en-
trance hall, with two coat racks and an old-fashioned umbrella stand;
the bar, which ran the length of one wall and served not only the
stand-up customers but also those who chose to sit at the red-check-
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