Underground

“Albert Wallace Frye,” he answered, sighing a little with resignation.

“Any relation to Frye of the Frye Museum and Frye Meat Packing?”

“None. Had I call upon the fortunes of Charlie or Frank Frye, I’d hardly have been serving bootleg whiskey to whitter-brained flappers in a speak south of the skid.” His tone stung with resentment, and I found I didn’t need to push him to speak now that he was started. He wanted to spit out the lost story of his life.

I might have more trouble keeping him to the point.

“Is that how you made your living—bootlegging?” I asked. I’d let him run a while, get comfortable, before I asked about zombies and monsters.

“I made what you call a living in the pharmacy trade. I made money by distributing booze—which I’d started out making myself when the bluenosed fools of Washington state voted in their goddamned dry law. A better day for a dollar never was had until the Volstead Act made the booze business a crime.

Don’t believe them when people tell you crime does not pay—it paid better than propriety. I only kept to the druggists counter to give myself a front from which to dole out the bottles.”

Mara looked shocked at this venomous recitation. I guess even Irish witches have foolish romantic notions about American bootleggers as some kind of alcohol-ru

“So you couldn’t keep up with demand,” I prompted. “Then you went into distribution on your own?”

“Hell, no. I partnered up with Olmstead.”

“Roy Olmstead?”

“The same.”

“I see. You did the distribution for Roy’s boys. That explains why you walked me into a speakeasy on the bluff that time. Did you work that one, too?”

“No. I dropped goods. I only worked the One-oh-Seven.”

“That’s the place under Occidental, right?”

He peered at me. “Where?”

I racked my brain a moment. “Second Avenue.”

“Correct. I had to recoup my losses on the shop—I bought an interest in a drugstore upstairs, but it wasn’t going so well, what with Bartell and all, and my partner and I talked about opening a saloon instead.” I knew Bartell Drugs was a major chain, but I hadn’t realized it had started in Seattle.

Albert talked over my ruminations. “When the dry law came in, we busted. We tried a refreshment parlor, but everyone tried that—you can only sell so many phosphates and flips. I was stuck with half a bad bargain. So we brewed up some goods and sold them downstairs, where it was harder for the dry squad to raid us. That’s how I met Roy—he was in on a raid and he told me I was a chump for going it alone. He said the way to make money was to run the liquor like a business—which is what he did.”

“He also got caught.”

Albert shrugged. “Small beer. He was back right after. Business as usual.”

“I meant the Thanksgiving raid.”

“What Thanksgiving raid?”

An incredulous chuckle escaped me that he didn’t know and I did. “Roy Olmstead was arrested in 1924 and did four years at McNeil Island—it was the largest successful raid in the history of Prohibition. He appealed on a cause of unconstitutional process because the Federals tapped his phone. It’s a very famous case—Olmstead vs. United States. I’d think even a ghost would have heard of it.” With my interest in mystery and crime novels, I had gobbled up the details of the case in a college law course.

Albert stared at me. “They jugged Roy?”

I gave him a bemused look to cover a sudden wash of tiredness and an urge to shiver. This interrogation was more draining than I’d hoped.

“When did you die, Albert Wallace Frye? When did you die that you didn’t know the Feds nabbed Roy Olmstead?”

“I don’t know.”

“How can you not know when you died?” I demanded, giving a mental push against the black needles and feeling them prick me, too.

Mara leaned close. “I’m not surprised—dyin’s traumatic. Who’d want to be remembering that?”

I nodded and backed off. I’d try a different tack. “All right. What is the last date you remember?”

“I can’t recall a date.” He seemed to think, his eyes behind the tiny wirerimmed spectacles shifting as he considered. “It must have been May. The weather was nice, but not summer-hot in the attic—I lived in the attic then. Nineteen twenty-two. The bar had been raided again and the supply was short. I didn’t want to wait for the next run and my partner and I didn’t want to close the speakeasy, so I was ‘stretching’ the booze.”

“What does that mean?”

“I was cutting it with carbinol—legal stuff from the pharmacy stock. It smells sweet and no one would notice—they certainly wouldn’t complain,” he added with a laugh, “and I wasn’t using a lot, just enough to eke a couple of extra bottles out of the lot we had to make it through till Sunday—that’s when I’d have the next shipment. I’d done it before when we ran the speak on our own, but you have to be careful with carbinol—it’s got nasty effects if you sauce it up too much.”

Mara was choking on outrage. “Carbinol? That’s methanol—wood alcohol. It’s toxic!”

“I know what it is, Mara. Sit tight.” I turned my attention back to Albert. “So you cut the whiskey with carbinol. What then? You sold it to someone who died?”

Albert radiated confusion. “No… I don’t think I did. I can’t recall what happened… A couple of Roy’s boys dropped in to see me. Things get a little fuzzy here… I remember T.J. saying something about the whiskey in the sink, the carbinol… and then… and then… I can’t remember.”

“They drowned him in it,” Mara said, her voice icy and her accent thickening under suppressed rage. “I cleared that memory from the place when we moved in. I didn’t want a murder lingering in my house.”

“But you let the victim stay.”

“I thought that’s what he was,” she replied, her face and voice gone hard. “A victim.”

“Apparently a worthy one.”

“The lieutenant was a businessman and this was just business. He wouldn’t have had me killed,” Albert objected. “He didn’t. I’m sure of it.”

“No, you’re not,” I corrected. “You don’t even remember.”

“Roy didn’t let his men go armed! He said he’d rather lose the liquor than a life!”

“That may have been Olmstead’s rule, but his underlings seemed to have decided it was too big a risk to let you poison people on his booze. It wasn’t good business to let that happen. They held you under and drowned you in your own sink.”

Albert looked shaken and I could feel his distress in waves through the Grey.

“No! Those skunks! Those rat bastards! I’ll kill them!”

“They’ve all been dead for years, Albert.”

“I’ll find their descendants. I’ll make them pay for killing me. I knew I’d been murdered. I knew it wasn’t an accident!” If he could have, he’d have stomped his foot and thrown a fit. “When I get a body of my own again, I’ll hunt them down and pay them back for what their fathers and grandfathers did.”

“Ah. That’s the thing I want to talk to you about.”

“What?”

“The body. Is that why you’re still here? Looking for a body to take over?”

“Of course! I was murdered, you dingy broad! I deserve to get my life back one way or another.”

“So you caught a ride on a zombie.” “They don’t last long enough to keep. I thought I could set a few things in motion, but the damned redskin fought me and then that hairy thing meddled and brought you in and that was the end of that idea.”

I felt tired and stiff with cold but went on. Now we were getting to what I needed. “You’ve tried to get into one of those before?”

“Couple, few times, yes. They turn up in the tu