Walter dealt in bootlegged whiskey which was strange considering that none of the people who worked with him had ever seen a drop of liquor pass his lips.  Nevertheless, in 1920s New York, in the throes of Prohibition, bootlegging whiskey was a sure fire way for the determined underdog to make a name for himself, and a good deal of money to boot.

He and his gang worked out of a large basement, with sophisticated home brew bubbling constantly in stills throughout the dimly lit chambers.  They ran their moonshine all over the city, serving some of the largest and most elaborate speakeasies in New York, many of which were run by the most powerful kingpins of organised crime.

Time and again, Walter was invited by wealthy clients to join them in their syndicates, but Walter remained aloof.  He never broke any other laws than those related to illegal alcohol, and he never drank a drop of his own liquor.  Perhaps it was his mysterious character, or his permanent calm and quiet demeanour, but the crime bosses of New York seemed willing to leave him alone as long as their supply wasn’t interrupted.

And so things ran smoothly until one summer in the late 1920s.  Police had made a serious bust, arresting several minor players in one of the crime gangs, closing down three speakeasies and raiding bootlegging operations all over the city.  Beat cops were exercising extra vigilance on every street corner and Walter’s men were nervous.

“What we gonna do, Walt?” demanded Big Joe, cigar ash dropping onto his faded waistcoat.  “You know we got that major deal with Kinnear’s lot.  We’re in big trouble if the cops catch us, but we’ll be in even bigger trouble if we don’t deliver.”

Walter merely leaned back in his chair and pulled thoughtfully on his cigar.  The major deal with Kinnear’s lot was a family wedding – the daughter of the boss was getting hitched to another player in town.  At that moment, Walter was surrounded by bottles and bottles of moonshine intended for the grand wedding party in two days, but with police sniffing round everywhere, there was no way anyone could think of transporting it all to the venue, just a few blocks away.

“We’re liable to end up dead!”  With that last word, Joe’s half-smoked cigar dropped clean out of his mouth.  He stamped on the lighted end and ground it into the basement’s dirty floor.