The Bootleggers

By

Uncial Press       Aloha, Oregon
2012

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and events described herein are products of the author's
imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locations,
organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

ISBN 13: 978-1-60174-149-3
ISBN 10: 1-60174-149-9

The Bootleggers
Copyright © 2012 by Kenneth L. Levinson

Cover design
Copyright © 2012 by Judith B. Glad

All rights reserved. Except for use in review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in
any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the
written permission of the publisher.

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Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the
FBI and is punishable by up to five (5) years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.

Published by Uncial Press,
an imprint of GCT, Inc.

Visit us at http://www.uncialpress.com

The explosion shook the crowded dance club. The plush booth where I was seated
rose and fell as though there had been an earthquake. As a pillar of thick black smoke erupted
from the basement stairway, people began rushing frantically toward the exits.

Sergeant Joe Stone of the Denver Police had been saying something to me—I never
did find out what—when the blast halted him in mid-sentence. He jumped to his feet and began
waving his leather badge case in the air. Over the din of the dozens of terrified patrons who,
moments before, had been boisterously celebrating New Year's Eve, he shouted, "I'm a police
officer. Everyone stay calm!"

Another undercover cop joined in, and they made a futile effort to calm the panicky
crowd. If I hadn't been so furious at Stone, I might have admired his presence of mind. But I was
too angry for that. Thanks to his pigheadedness, my months of planning had, quite literally, gone
up in smoke.

Across the table, my legal assistant, Maurice White, just sat there, shaking his head in
disgust.

"This is unbelievable," he called in his hoarse baritone over the chaos that was
swirling around us. "You've done it again!"

I just shrugged. We'd had this conversation before. Maurice claimed that I attracted
disaster like the Earth's gravity attracts falling objects.

Water was raining down on us from the overhead sprinklers. A quick glance at my
watch told me it was nine-sixteen. I gestured toward the front door, where dozens of people were
pushing and shoving, trying to escape from the pandemonium.

Over the shrilling of the fire alarm, I shouted, "The building seems intact, and I don't
see any more smoke coming from the basement. I think we're better off just staying where we
are. Even getting drenched."

He nodded. "No sense getting trampled, too."

He leaned back against the booth and reached for his drink. I did the same. I knew
this wasn't a terrorist attack, so there was no reason to expect a second explosion. This was a
targeted killing.

And we both knew who the victim was.

For the past nine weeks, Maurice and I had been spending most of our evenings at
The Bootleggers, one of Denver's new "theme" singles bars, located at Seventeenth and Blake in
the heart of LoDo, passing ourselves off as two older-than-average customers with nothing better
to do than go out partying every night. Our progress had been painstakingly slow, and it was
wreaking havoc on my relationship with Jana Deacon, my significant whatever-she-is, but we
were finally getting close to what we needed.

Until Stone screwed it up.

* * * *

At about seven-thirty, Maurice and I had been escorted by the hostess to our
customary booth in the rear of the main dance room. We'd specifically reserved our spot in
advance, since we knew the place would be filled to capacity. We also knew that something we
had been waiting for was finally going to happen that night.

We were nursing our second round of drinks, half-listening to the thumping beat of
some hip-hop song the DJ was playing. When I felt a rough hand on my shoulder, I turned to see
who it was. I found myself confronted by a big-boned man wearing blue jeans and a dark sweater
under a black sport jacket. He didn't look happy.

It took me a few seconds to realize it was Stone. I'd seen him out of uniform before—
usually in an ill-fitting suit and tie—but never in casual civilian clothing. He was the Achilles heel
of the Denver Police, the worst of the "shoot first and ask questions later" cops. All brawn and
not nearly enough brains.

And he happened to harbor a fervent distaste for Maurice and me.

Meaning mostly me.

Stone's prominent jaw jutted out aggressively as he said in a low, loathing tone,
"Adam Larsen! What the hell are you doing here?"

I deliberately took my time before responding. "This is a public place," I finally said,
"and I'm over twenty-one, Officer. So there's—".

"Shut up!" he hissed urgently. "I'm under cover."

I studied him for a while before I whispered in a serious tone, "So am I." I gestured
for him to join us. "Pretend you're a client, as revolting as that thought is to both of us."

He hesitated, his gaze flitting cautiously around the room. Then he jerked his head
toward Maurice. "Slide your hulk over, White."

Maurice, who had played linebacker for the Broncos in the early 2000s, glowered at
Stone and silently slid his two hundred and thirty-five pounds along the seat toward the wall.
After Stone had eased into the booth, he shifted his attention to me. "What are you two doing
here? It's New Year's Eve. Don't try to convince me you came here to party with all these
twenty-somethings."

"I wouldn't even try. We're here on business."

"I knew it!" He leaned forward aggressively, still speaking in a hushed tone. "Well,
so am I. And your business had better have nothing to do with my business!"

I shrugged. "Odds are, it does. I'm here on behalf of a client. He had a
twenty-year-old daughter who became romantically involved with a drug dealer, although she didn't know
that's what he was. When she found out, she tried to end the relationship. That proved fatal. She
was found dead in an alley in Capitol Hill, of a massive overdose of cocaine. You probably know
the gory details. Apparently, this bastard does things with a vengeance."

"The Collardine girl," Stone acknowledged grimly. "That's not one of my cases."

"Well, it's one of mine," I said. "And I've been hired to deal with her killer."

Stone's eyes narrowed. "Oh yeah? Deal with him how? If you think you can take the
law into your own—"

I raised a palm. "Calm down. I'm not planning anything like that. You know me
better than that."

"Like hell I do," he said. "So what are you planning?"

I took a sip of my drink. "I'm going to collect money damages on behalf of my
client."

His lips curled into a mocking smirk. "You're going to sue a drug dealer for
damages?"

"I didn't say anything about suing anyone."

"Then what are you planning—" He cut if off. "No, I don't even want to know. Get this
straight, Larsen. You two are going to gather up your coats and get your butts out of here, right
now."

When neither of us moved, he growled, "I mean it!"

"I know you do. But that would be a mistake." Calmly, I sipped scotch and water.
"Wouldn't you like to know what we've learned so far?"

He eyed me suspiciously, as though I was trying to lure him into a poker game with a
marked deck. His gaze shifted to Maurice and back to me.

Finally, he demanded warily, "All right, what have you got?"

With a satisfied smile, I casually surveyed the room, to make sure no one was
eavesdropping. The motif at The Bootleggers was that of a 1920s speakeasy. Hanging on the
wall near our table were "Wanted" posters, featuring Al Capone, Bugsy Siegel and Lucky
Luciano. Since it was the holiday season, garland was strung all around the room, and colored
Christmas lights glistened above the dance floor.

"This establishment," I explained, "is owned by three men who, at least to the general
public, appear to have nothing in common. For your information, they're all here tonight."

His eyes widened. "They are?"

I nodded. "I assume you know their names. If you were to turn left through the
doorway along that far wall and head into the so-called Back Room, you'd find Ernest Meeker at
the pool table, happily hustling the customers. In the past, he reportedly had a penchant for
breaking into other people's houses, although he's never been convicted of anything. Some
people refer to him as Second-Story Meeker."

"Go on," Stone urged. He was trying to sound casual, but I knew he was interested.
"I'm listening."

I continued, "In the far corner of this room, the wiry black gentleman sitting with his
back to us is Jackie Grant. He was the WBC middleweight boxing champion for about two years
in the late 1990s. He's known as Lightning Grant. They say you never see his overhand right
coming at you until you're already flat on your back."

Stone grunted. "I know all about him. What about the third one?"

"Upstairs, in the business office, is Parker Christianson. He was a shady lawyer in
California until they did the public a favor and disbarred him. Now he's a bailbondsman." I
indicated a thin-waisted blonde in skintight jeans and a low-cut blouse, which she abundantly
filled. "That waitress is Margot Franklin. She's been divorced three times. She's got the hots for
Maurice. The head bartender's name is Jimmy Washburn. He's—"

"What about the dead girl?" Stone interrupted irritably.

"It's a tragic story. She was from Pennsylvania. Solid middle class family. She went
through a rebel phase and somehow ended up in Colorado. We know she started hanging around
here, and we're pretty sure she got involved with one of the owners. The two of them were very
careful to keep it secret, but we can prove she was spending time at a condo on Sherman Street
owned by The Bootleggers Tavern, LLC. The obvious conclusion is that she was killed by one of
the three B's: Second-Story Meeker, Lightning Grant or Parker Christianson."

Stone looked puzzled. "Three bees?"

Maurice explained. "The burglar, the boxer and the bailbondsman. Three B's."

"I get it," Stone said. "So which one is it?"

I shrugged. "I have no idea."

His face colored with sudden anger. "You mean after all this buildup, you—"

The blonde waitress placed a congenial hand on Maurice's shoulder. Women were
always doing that to him. "Another round, Honey?"

He nodded and asked Stone, "What are you drinking?"

"Beer. Coors."

"You got it," Margot said. She leaned over to take our empty drink glasses—giving
Maurice an unavoidable glimpse of cleavage. "I'm expecting a big kiss at midnight."

He grinned at her. "I'll be waiting."

A clean-cut busboy with wire-rimmed glasses appeared out of nowhere. He reached
for the empty glasses. "I'll take those, Margot."

"Thanks." She gestured in the direction of the bar. "Jimmy's been looking for you. He
says he's just about served up the last of the bar scotch. He needs you to bring some up.
It's—"

"I know. Highland Mist. I'll go snag a couple of bottles."

She glided away, her hips swaying sensuously. The busboy began wiping our table
with a damp rag. Abruptly, he blurted in a furtive tone, "The deal's going down tonight, Sergeant.
He's got over two hundred grand stashed in—"

"Not now!" Stone snapped, jerking his heading meaningfully in my direction.

The color drained from the busboy's face. "You mean they're not—"

"Hell, no, they're not cops! Meet me in the john in fifteen minutes."

"But I thought—"

"I know what you thought. You could have blown the whole setup. Fifteen
minutes."

The busboy walked shakily away. He crossed the room and set the glasses on a bus
tray. I lost sight of him as he descended the stairs to the basement.

Stone had apparently been watching him, too. "What's down there?"

In an irritated tone, I said, "The restrooms and two storage rooms. One for liquor and
the other is refrigerated, for storing food. There's also an employees' lounge."

Stone didn't seem to notice my sudden hostility. "What's in the lounge?"

"Nothing much. A table, some chairs and maybe a dozen lockers."

"Lockers?"

"Yeah," I said. "Like they have in high schools. The workers store their coats and
purses in them."

"Do the owners—"

I could see where he was going with his questions. "No. Theirs are upstairs, in the
business office."