Hampshire drove into the driveway of a large house with a tree-shaded lawn, and Fleishman assumed they were going to visit one of Hampshire’s friends. He followed Hampshire to the door, and when he knocked a man’s voice said, “Come in.”
They stepped through the door into a scene that Fleishman would always remember as one of the strangest he had ever witnessed. Stacked to the ceiling in what should have been the living room were cases of whiskey and sacks of ale. On an overturned beer keg sat a man cleaning a pistol. Six other men, using an overturned crate for a table, were playing blackjack. A young woman stood watching the gamblers while sipping from a bottle of ale.
No one showed any surprise at the appearance of the two uniformed officers. They only glanced at Fleishman and nodded when Hampshire introduced him as a new man on the job.
“Have a drink?” their host said.
“I’ll take a bottle of ale,” Hampshire said.
Fleishman nodded. “I’ll take the same.”
The hoodlum took a knife from his pocket and flipped open a blade. He ripped one of the sacks and took out two bottles. When he opened them, the warm ale spewed out on the floor. They sat and chatted for several minutes and then Hampshire signalled it was time to go. They bid everyone goodnight and returned to their car. As they drove from the house, Hampshire said, “It isn’t everybody that would give a new guy a break like this.”
“What do you mean, a break?” Fleishman asked.
“I mean introducing you to the guys back there,” Hampshire said. “You never can tell when you might be working with a special agent. But I figure you’re all right.”
“Thanks,” Fleishman said dryly. “I appreciate it more than you know.”