Excerpt from Rackhouse: A Novel
"I don't want the stuff," said Norris.
He was standing against the background of his spacious quarters at the Royal, a straight figure broad at the shoulders, slim at the hips. These two points in his physical make-up were especially emphasized by the fact that he was in full evening dress. Facing him were two disreputable individuals who would have looked absolutely incongruous in such surroundings prior to the passage of the Eighteenth Amendment. On the floor midway between them and Norris were four large cartons, sealed along the edges and bound with stout cord.
"Don't want it?" said one of the bootleggers in the tone of one who would like to snarl and dares not. "What d'yuh mean, don't want it? Is it the real stuff or ain't it the real stuff?"
Norris understood the implication perfectly. The rules of illicit traffic in liquor are no less rigid for being unwritten; they are as stark as the stripped skeleton of equity.
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