In the cupboard, Cheung had an old rum bottle he’d filled with gin. He’d mixed the gin with a few drops of Angostura bitters to give it a pale golden colour. This was the ammunition he’d prepared against Noma’s next syllabub order, but he could use it on Horace if he needed to. Horace looked like a man who would be able to tell the difference, but Cheung had already thought of an excuse for the foul taste. He’d blame the Bacardi supplier, who was already imprisoned at Stanley. They were unlikely to fetch him and kill him for the sake of a bad bottle of rum. If they do, well, too bad for him and bully for me. I’ll live to mix another crummy drink.

“Nah, I’m good,” Horace said. “But if you need more, I’ve got a supply I’d be happy to part with for a fair price.”

“You have a supply? Of rum?”

“I do indeed. That’s my gig!” said Horace, laughing. “I’d sure be happy to have a little business in these lean times.”

If he wasn’t bluffing, this was a godsend. “I’d be very happy to buy from you,” said Cheung.

“It ain’t Bacardi, mind,” said Horace. “But I think it’s better!”

From his bag under the counter, Horace pulled out a full bottle of glossy liquid the colour of sunshine. There was a red and orange label on it that read Screech Owl.

Cheung hoped his eyes didn’t betray his desperation. “I’ve never heard of that brand.”

“It’s a Newfoundland and Jamaica company. We were just getting a footing in the industry when the war broke out. You wanna try?”

Cheung nodded. “I do.” He put a shot glass up on the counter.

Horace cracked the cap and filled the glass.

“Enough, enough!” said Cheung. “Just a taste.”

Horace kept filling until the luscious golden liquid spilled over the lip of the glass and onto the counter.

“Don’t waste it!” said Cheung. He lifted it and examined the warm light that poured through the precious water. He took a small sip. Closed his eyes. Ambrosial salvation.

“I’ll put you on the Japanese team,” he told Horace.

Tanaka, quiet until now, looked up at Cheung. He was afraid of Noma too.

“Brother Tanaka, I won’t forget you either,” Cheung said.

Horace pulled an envelope out of his pocket then. “Have you ever seen writing like this?” He took a letter out of the envelope, but it was written in a strange code consisting of Ps, Us, Qs, and Vs in a variety of orientations to the page.

Cheung shook his head.

“Ever heard of a guy called ‘Ga-chan’? Or something close?”

“I’m sorry,” said Cheung.

“Please tell me if you ever do,” said Horace. “The kid who brought me these said ‘Ga-Chan,’ or something like that. It was hard to make out.”