Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 124, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 757 & 758, September/October 2004

“Nah. It’ll burn but that’s all. They only made the raw material here. The explosives were added to it somewhere else. I found the electric power lines against the back wall. I shut them down, but they’ll have to be disconnected.”

“Good. What else?”

“That water reservoir tank on the roof? It holds a couple thousand gallons, and it’s nearly full. Must weigh seven, eight tons.”

“Dangerous?”

“Nah. Tank’s in good shape and the building could support one twice that size. Still, it’s a lot of weight, and we should drain it, only the pipes were cut off years ago. We’ll need a permit to pump it into the storm drains.”

“I’ll get one and—”

“Dan Shea?”

I glanced up. Three men, one in a suit, two in work clothes like my guys. All big.

“I’m Jack Romanik,” the guy in the suit said. “Carpenters and Laborers Union, Local 486. You called my office a few days ago looking for some men.” He eased his bulk into the booth without asking. Puck slid over to give him room. Romanik needed it. Lard ass, roll of flab around the middle, pasty face, double chins. Razor-cut hair worn collar-length. Manicured nails buffed to a soft shine. Not exactly a working stiff. He didn’t offer to shake hands. Neither did I.

“Actually, I called last week, Mr. Romanik, but who’s counting? I need two journeymen and a finish carpenter. Hard workers. Can you help me out?”

“Three men? You’re sure there’s nothing else I can do for you, Shea? Give you a back rub, maybe?”

“I don’t follow you.”

“Then I’ll spell it out.” He leaned across the table, his face inches from mine. “You come into my town with your raggedy-ass backwoods crew, steal a big job away from my people, then you want us to help you out?”

“Hey, I didn’t steal this job, Mr. Romanik, I bid for it like everybody else. We won it fair and square, and all my guys are in the union, so what’s your problem?”

“I don’t have a problem, Shea, you do. You stole a job that’s too big for you. You need at least six more men.”

“Three will do fine.”

“And three’s what you’ll get. But you’ll carry six on your payroll.”

“Ah. I get three workers, but pay for six? And the three no-shows, they’d be you and your two pals here, right?”

“Who they are is none of your business, Shea. Consider it a tax for poaching.”

“Poaching?” Puck echoed. “Sonny, I was in the union when you were still—”

“Put a cork in it, Pops, nobody’s talking to you.” Romanik didn’t even look at Puck. Too busy trying to stare me down. Big mistake.

Puck glanced the question at me. I gave him a “Why not?” shrug. And Puck popped him. Clipped Romanik with his elbow, just above the ear. The blow only traveled about five inches. And fifty-odd years. But it hit Romanik so hard his eyes rolled back. He was out cold before his face bounced off the table.

“Damn it, Puck!” I griped, sliding out of the booth. “Look what you did! The guy’s gonna bleed all over my hash browns.” By now I was up, facing Romanik’s thugs, who were still staring in stunned surprise. “Just chill out, fellas,” I whispered. “Don’t buy into this.”

The goons looked past me. Mafe Rochon and my crew were already up and grinning, eyes alight at the prospect of kicking some ass for dessert.

The biggest thug shook his head. Smarter than he looked. A pity.

“Good man,” I nodded. “Now get your boss out of here before anybody else has an... accident. Okay?”

“You won’t get away with this,” the goon muttered as he and his pal helped Romanik up, heading toward the door. “We’ll file a complaint with the union. We’ll get you all canned.”

“I wouldn’t do that,” I said. “If we’re unemployed, we’ll have plenty of spare time to hunt you up. We’ll make messing with you a full-time job. Tell your boss that. When he wakes up. And tell him anybody he sends nosing around my job site had best have his major medical paid up. Clear? Now take a hike.”

They hiked. We finished our lunch. But our problems were just starting. Later that day, Mafe found the booze.

“I’m workin’ in the basement,” he explained, grinning like a kid in a candy store as we toured the miniature brewery. “I’m tracin’ down power lines when all of a sudden I smell it. Whiskey. Swear to God.”

“I believe you.” I sighed. The four stills were in a concealed room in the back of the basement. Invisible to the eye. But not to an educated nose.

There were even a few bottles on a shelf. “Belknap’s Best,” Mafe read, blowing the dust off one of them. “Best what, I wonder?”

“Put it back,” I said. “We’ll have to turn it over to the law.”

“Are you nuts? This stuff’s gotta be fifty years old! Lemme have one taste, anyway.” He took a deep draught, came up sputtering. “Whoa! Tastes like turpentine. But, man, what a helluva kick.” He started to raise the bottle again. I snatched it out of his hands.

“One more jolt and you’re fired, Mafe.”

“You gotta be kiddin’, Danny.”

“Do I sound like I’m kiddin’? You know the rules.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Mafe said, wiping his mouth with the back of a greasy hand. “You’re no fun anymore, Shea.”