They shook hands and Barebones stepped sideways to let them pass, a gesture which only barely lightened the blockage of the doorway and the kitchen corridor. The three men sidled inside and followed their host beyond the meat-stained countertops and past the surly kitchen woman who gave them a scowl, and Hainey fought the urge to return it.

Barebones led them into a wood-paneled hallway with a cheap rug that ran its length, and back into the hotel’s depths where an unmarked doorway led to a cellar crammed with barrels, boxes, and the steamy, metallic stink of a still. He chattered the whole time, in a transparent and failing attempt to appear comfortable.

“It’s been awhile, hasn’t it? Good Lord Almighty, our paths haven’t crossed since…well, almost a whole year now, anyway. Not since Reno, and that was, yes. Last Thanksgiving. We’ll be coming up on the holiday again, won’t we? Before very long, I mean. Another few weeks. I swear and be damned, I thought Jake Ganny was going to blow the bunch of us up to high heaven. If ever there was a man with a weaker grasp on science, or fire, or why you don’t shoot live ammunition anyplace near good grain alcohol and a set of steel hydrogen tanks, I never heard of ’im.”

“It was a hell of a pickle,” Hainey agreed politely, and a little impatiently as he watched the fat man walk in his shuffling, side-to-side hustle.

“Hell of a pickle indeed. But you and me, we’ve been in worse, ain’t we? Worse by a mile or more, it’s true. It’s true,” he repeated himself and only partially stifled a wheeze. “And it’s a right pleasure to see you here, even if I must confess, I don’t remember everybody’s name but yours, Crog.” He pointed a finger around his side and said, “You’re Simon, isn’t that right? And Lamar?”

“You got Lamar right,” Hainey answered for the lot of them. “The other’s Simeon. Looks like your operation’s grown a bit since last I was here to see it.”

Barebones said, “Oh! Oh yes, it’s been longer than a year since you last came through Kansas City. Closer to half a dozen, I guess.”

“At least.”

“Yes, things have been going well. Business is booming like business always is, in wartime and sorrow. The grain liquor is moving like lightning, no pun intended, and we can hardly keep the tobacco in the storehouses long enough to age a smidge. Between Virginia and Kentucky going back and forth, the fields are getting tight and the crops are being squeezed. We have to import from farther down south, these days—as far south as they’ll grow it. And the sweets,” he said. “Tell me how the business goes for the sweets you bring me from back up north, in the western corners.”

Hainey shrugged and said, “The gas is moving fine,” because that’s what Barebones was really asking after—a heavy, poisonous gas found in the walled port town of Seattle. The gas was deadly on its own, but when converted into a paste or powder, it became a heady and heavily addictive drug. “It’s easy to collect, but it’s hard to process. That’s the big problem with it. There aren’t enough chemists to cook it down to sap fast enough.”

“That might change, soon enough.”

“How you figure?” Hainey asked.

Barebones said, “I’ve heard things. Folks have been asking after it, wanting to know where we get it, and how it’s made. The more customers want it, the more it costs and the more of it we have to find; so I’ve heard tale of chemists moving west, thinking of hitting up that blighted little city and taking up the gas-distilling for themselves.”

The captain smiled a real smile and said, “They’re welcome to try it. But I think they might be surprised by what they find.”

“What’s that mean?” Barebones asked.

And Hainey said, “Not a thing, except I wouldn’t recommend it.”

“But I heard the city is abandoned. Surely some of these folks can find a way in to harvest what they need?”

“You heard wrong,” the captain assured him. “It isn’t abandoned, and the people who live there don’t much care for visitors. So if you, personally, have sent somebody west to look into it—and if you give half a damn for this person’s continued health—I recommend you send him a telegram urging him to reconsider.”

The hotelman cringed nervously but neither confirmed or denied anything. “Well then, I thank you for the good advice. I suppose you’d know, wouldn’t you? You spend a lot of time out that way.”

“I spent plenty of time out that way, sure enough. And I’m not telling you this because I’m worried about you or your men stepping on my toes. I’m no chemist, and I don’t have one of any preference who I’m interested in protecting. I’m only telling you, in a friendly exchange of information, that there’s a damn good reason there’s only a handful of folks who ever get their hands on that gas. That’s all I’m saying.”

Halliway flapped his hands in a casual shushing gesture and said, “I hear you, I hear you. And I’ll absolutely take it under advisement, and pass it around. I trust you, more or less.”

“I appreciate it, more or less.”

And there they found themselves stopped at a pair of double doors. “Right through here, gentlemen,” Barebones said. He opened one of the doors and held it, revealing a gameroom beyond that was half filled with card-playing men sitting at round, felt-covered tables. Bottles of alcohol were granted to each group, and stacks of red, white, and blue chips were gathered together in puddles and mounds, or clasped between fingers, behind cards.

Most of the men glanced up and held their gaze, surprised and sometimes unhappy to see the newcomers. Three men towards the back folded their hands, placing whatever cards they’d been dealt on the table and gathering their things.

“Fellas,” Halliway said. “Fellas, come on with me, right through here. There’s a spot in the back where we can talk.”

The captain, Simeon, and Lamar threaded their way around the tables and past them like cogs in a watch, keeping circular paths to dodge the chairs and the quietly gossiping players. One man said, too loudly as they went by, “I didn’t know this was that kind of joint, Barebones. You letting just about anybody in, these days?”

To which Halliway Coxey Barebones said back, “Keep it to yourself, Reese. They’re colleagues of mine.” And once they were well out of reach, he said, “And if you have a problem with it, you can get your lightning elsewhere.” But it was a feeble defense, spoken hastily and over his shoulder. “Back here, fellas.”

Simeon whispered to Lamar, “Back where nobody can see us, you want to bet it?”

Lamar said, “No, I won’t take that bet.”

If Halliway heard them, he didn’t react except to usher them into an office space crammed from floor to ceiling with cabinets, crates, and leftover glass bits that belonged in a still. The room smelled like sawdust and hard-filtered grain, but it was spacious and featured enough chairs for everyone—and a desk for Barebones to lean his backside against while he spoke and listened.

When the door was shut, a small panel beneath the nearest cabinet revealed a liquor set and a stack of glasses. “Could I offer any of you boys a sip?”

Simeon and Lamar accepted with great cheer, but Hainey said, “No, and you can stick to calling us ‘fellas’ if you like. You don’t have ten years on me, old man, and I’m no boy of yours.”

For a moment, the hotelman looked confused, and then something clicked, and then he said, “You’re right. Of course, you’re right. I didn’t mean it that way, not like…I didn’t mean anything by it. I only meant to offer you a drink.”

The captain believed him, though he didn’t let it show. He only nodded. “That’s good of you, but I still don’t need a drop quite yet.”

“You need something else.”

“We need a ship. It’s like I told you, the bird that brought us here went to ground. We crashed her bad,” he flipped a thumb at Lamar, “But my man here put her back together good enough to get us here, and now we’ve got farther to go—and no wings to carry us.”

Barebones poured himself three fingers of cherry-colored liquor from an unmarked bottle. He took a swallow, leaned with half a cheek sitting on the desk, the other half leaning on it, and said, “That’s a tall order you’re placing. We’ve got docks here, back another half mile at the southeast edge of town, but I don’t know of anyone looking to sell a ship. You got money, I’m guessing?”

“Like always,” Hainey said without resorting to specifics. “We can pay, and pay big if we’ve got to.”

Behind the square glass lenses, the hotelman’s eyes went shrewd. “You’re stopping just short of saying that money’s no object.”

“I’m stopping well short of it,” the captain corrected him. “And this isn’t a money run, or a gun run, or any other kind of run. This is a personal venture, and I’m willing to spend what’s necessary to see it through—but I’m not willing to let anyone take advantage of us, just because we’ve got needs and means.”

“Oh no, obviously not. Of course not. You misunderstand me,” Barebones said, but Hainey didn’t think he did.

“I don’t misunderstand a thing, and I want to make sure you don’t, either. We need a ship, and that’s all. We need a ship and we’ll be out of your hair first thing come dawn.”

Halliway said, “But I don’t have a ship to give you. Hell, right now I don’t even have one to sell you—and that’s saying something. You’ve caught me between runs of guns down to Mexico and smokes up to Canada, and it’s not that I don’t want to help, but not a one of my ships is home safe for me to spare it. If you don’t believe me, check the docks—you know where they are, and you know where I keep my birds cooped. If I had wings to loan you, I’d hand you the deed on the spot. But now I simply must ask: What on earth happened to your Crow?”