Between Dad and me, we had made enough dough to live comfortably while Igor promised bigger returns from his schooling than we had been pulling in. There was no way Ig could produce like we did once Prohibition was enacted and business shot through the stratosphere. It wasn’t as though we were handling money hand over fist—especially with the enormous cut Vlad took, confirming there was no discount in familiarity—but we did well. I had saved a few clams, but facing the uncertainty of a free-drinking future, I wished I had stashed away more. I was glad to have something but concerned about what I didn’t have — marketable skills.

Unlike my father, I had the benefit of being literate and well-read; however, I doubted white-collar establishments were looking for a man with a name like Viktor Mikhailov who lacked work experience that could be touted on a resume.  More troublesome still was the fact that America’s unemployment rate was nearing twenty-five percent with no projection of abatement. Even if I found a job to apply for, which was unlikely, I would be in competition with more qualified candidates. Unfortunately, the best chance I had at getting a job would be to search for factory work where I would use my hands more than my mind or back-breaking physical labor, similar to what my father had done when he first moved us to the godforsaken country of smuggled and snatched success.

I spent the weeks immediately following the repeal getting so fried I barely recalled my name let alone my predicament. Occasionally, I would drag my downtrodden ass to The Studio, where I avidly avoided Abraham, worried that if I saw him, he would tell me our arrangement was over. Instead, I listened to Cal concoct crazed schemes of how we could parlay his minute moonshine racket into a viable business for both of us. Though I attempted to dash his hopes in the most sensitive way, exorbitant amounts of said moonshine made kind phrasing an unrealistic goal. Luckily, Cal had been patient, caring for me and overlooking my crabby mood in a way nobody had done before. He was convinced I’d come around once I dried out and could see straight, but I was hell-bent on being unable to open my eyes.

With vision blurred by ten pointing fingers of Canadian Club, I climbed on the L, making my way to The Gallery on State for its annual New Year’s Eve party. I was coherent enough to know one more drink would have me incoherent, so I did what any mess of man would do, I entered the crowded speakeasy and walked directly to the bar.