"That's a lot of liquor," Malone said.
"A hell of a lot," Fernack said. "Some of the bars have gone broke, not being insured against the losses."
The thought of thousands of bottles of liquor—millions of bottles—went through Malone's mind like an ice pick. He could almost see them, handle them, taste them. "Hair of the dog," he muttered. "What hair. What a dog."
"What did you say, Malone?"
"Nothing," Malone said hastily. "Nothing at all." After a second another query occurred to him. "You mean to tell me that only bars were robbed? Nothing else?"
"Oh, no," Fernack said. "Bars are only part of it. Malone, why are you asking me to tell you this?"
"Because I want to know," Malone said patiently.
"I still think—" Fernack began, and then said, "Never mind.. But it hasn't been only bars. Supermarkets. Homes. Cleaning and tailoring shops. Jewelers. Hell, Malone, you name it and it's been hit."
Malone tried valiantly to resist temptation, but he was not at his best, and he lost. "All right," he said. "I will name it. Here's a list of places that haven't even been touched by the rising crime wave. Banks, for one."
"Malone!"