"I work out of wholesale liquor, boss. Man, for three days it's just like prohibition all over again. Hell, I was a punk kid then, but I remember. You know? Honest, boss, I didn't—"
"Get to the point, Fanetti," Heck said curtly.
"We had this deal. The National Liquor Warehouse is in this city, you know?"
"That was Fanetti's first mistake," Laara cut in. "I told them. I tried to drum it into their stupid heads. It would be better to work other cities. With teleportation at their fingertips, what's the difference how far they went? They could have crossed oceans in split-seconds. But Fanetti couldn't get that through his thick skull."
Heck stood up impatiently, lighting a cigarette. Fanetti misunderstood the gesture, and raised a hand in front of his face to ward off an expected blow.
"Go ahead, for crying out loud," Heck said.
"Well, anyhow," Fanetti continued, "I been heisting Scotch and bourbon at the National Warehouse and doing great on my ten percent, boss. When, all of a sudden, along comes Scarface Willy."
"Scarface Willy?" repeated Heck. He smiled: it sounded too much like a TV crime melodrama for him to do otherwise. Then he remembered what Laara had said about the police. He stopped smiling. "Who is Scarface Willy?" he asked Fanetti.
"Just the kingpin bootlegger in Metropolitan City during prohibition, that's all!" Fanetti cried in a hoarse voice.