Ness had nodded. The staining was characteristic of an illicit distillery. Steam and fumes seeped through the walls and discolored the ice.

"Bob, we've had this place under surveillance for months," Ness said, shaking his head, digging his hands in his topcoat pockets. "We've never seen any molasses or sugar go in, and nothing ever seems to come out."

Hedges lifted a thick finger and lectured his chief. "But they got a guard on the front door. A regular gorilla. Something's the fuck up."

Ness sighed. He didn't much like Hedges and his rough manner, but he did respect the hard little man's instincts. Hedges was a good, honest cop. Ness didn't ask for anything else from his men.

And there indeed was a guard posted at the big brick building, except for occasional lunch and supper breaks like the one the guard was on now, giving Ness and Hedges the opportunity to case the joint.

Also, the location was perfect for a mob distillery. It was roughly halfway between the Woodland Avenue neighborhood, home of many Italian-Americans, some honest and some not so, and Newburgh Heights, where just beyond the city limits wide-open gambling joints like "Shimmy" Patton's Harvard Club and "Gameboy" Miller's Thomas Club flourished. As a cost-cutting measure, the Mayfield Road mob had been supplying their clubs with tax-free bootleg hooch, often filling and refilling bottles that had once contained legal liquor and retained the proper labels.

Ness found a broken window to peer in. He could see nothing, except what appeared to be a cinder floor.

"Looks empty in there," Ness said.

"It's a still, I tell you," Hedges said. "The mother of all stills."

Ness nodded noncommittally. "Let's get out of here before the gorilla gets back."

Hedges shook his head in frustration, but he brightened in the car, when Ness told him, "I think you're right about that place. And I think I know what's going on back there…"