For conviction, he spat out his chaw, pulled the flask from his vest, and knocked back a sip. The whiskey expanded in his mouth and burned away the residual tobacco juice. He swallowed and issued an airy whistle of appreciation. “Taste of money,” he muttered tentatively. “I hope our man agrees.”

The path climbed through the woods to the macadamized surface of Conduit Road. Across it was a rambling low-slung house with a dirt driveway and a signpost that read “Old Angler’s Inn.” The driveway led to a deserted flagstone patio and the entrance door.

The lobby of the inn was softly lit, with a low ceiling and paneled walls anchored by a stone fireplace. When Kevin was greeted by the attendant, he removed his hat and introduced himself, asking that his name be passed along to a Mr. Carruthers. Kevin was puzzling over the menu board when Carruthers arrived, entering from a swinging door at the opposite end of the room, a white chef’s apron girding his ample waist. Wisps of receding dark hair were plastered back across his scalp and his face was beefy and florid, his recessed eyes a leaden color that reminded Kevin of musket balls. The eyes measured Kevin with a glance that betrayed no recognition. Jerking his head for Kevin to follow, Carruthers marched back through the swinging door and into a hallway before turning abruptly into a small office. Bookcases topped with mementos, a desk covered with open ledgers, and two upholstered chairs were its principal contents. When Kevin entered, Carruthers closed the door behind them.

“Why are you here, Mr. Emory?” He stared blankly at Kevin with breathing that was audible and wet, like that of a bulldog.

Kevin nodded in deference before answering. “My brother and I are distillers. We were referred to you by an important customer of ours, Mr. Finn Geary.”

Carruthers’ demeanor softened and the musket-ball eyes reflected a few rays of light. Kevin ran a hand through his matted hair. “We deliver along the canal, and late last year Mr. Geary told us to arrange his future deliveries through you.” He paused to let Carruthers digest the message. “He also said that doing business would depend on your recommendations.”

Carruthers turned and sat down in one of the chairs beside the desk. The swell of his belly pushed his thighs apart, bestowing an aura of tribal authority. He gestured for Kevin to take the other chair, so Kevin sat down with his hat on his lap.

“You on your way to Georgetown now?”

Kevin nodded. “We’re tied up a stone’s throw from here on the canal, on our third day down from Harpers Ferry. We can offer Mr. Geary two barrels of Washington County whiskey. Fifty-three gallons each.” He watched the corners of Carruthers’ mouth turn upward, lending a mischievous aspect to the bulldog face. The wet breaths rose and fell as he studied Kevin.

“Well,” Carruthers said, “I’m no prophet. Did you bring a sample?”

Kevin smiled warmly. “Of course.” He removed the flask from his vest pocket and handed it to Carruthers, who hoisted himself up and retrieved a shot-glass from one of his bookcases. He dusted its interior with his apron, poured a shot, and sat down again, swirling the glass and examining its contents. Holding the glass beneath his nose, he sniffed twice, and Kevin wondered whether the mouth-breathing was to spare his nose the prosaic task of respiration. Maybe he needed to save it for evaluating things that could be consumed. Then Carruthers flicked his wrist with reptilian quickness and knocked back the shot. He rubbed his nose and blinked and Kevin saw a watery film linger in his eyes. Carruthers took a long breath to re-establish his wet and shallow rhythm.

“It’s OK,” he said hoarsely. “I’ve had worse.” Clearing his throat, he poured himself another half-ounce. He closed his eyes and drank it in a single sip, holding the whiskey in his mouth before swallowing. “No aging,” he said.

“Oh, we aged it,” Kevin said with a chuckle. “Maybe two, three weeks!”

“Geary don’t really need that for his customers,” Carruthers said, ignoring the joke. “Working stiffs. Little guys. Drunks. Now the clients we see here wouldn’t touch your stuff.”

“I’m sure that’s true,” Kevin said softly.

Carruthers twisted the top back on and handed the flask to Kevin. He fished a pocket watch out of his pants pocket and examined it. “You know Fletcher’s boathouse?”

“On the four-mile level of Georgetown? About a mile below Chain Bridge?”

Carruthers nodded and stood up. The film had receded from his eyes and his bulldog aspect returned. Kevin stood up as well. “Look for a message on the board at Fletcher’s later today,” Carruthers said. “By four o’clock. The message will tell you when and where you can make the delivery.”

Kevin’s eyes narrowed. “What about the terms?”

“The message will specify the terms as well.” The bulldog turned mischievous for an instant. “What Mr. Geary is willing to pay.” Carruthers walked to the swinging door in the hallway and held it open. The door swung closed on Kevin’s heels.

He left the inn and walked back across Conduit Road and down to the canal. The scow was still snubbed against the berm and Tom appeared to be napping on the edge of the towpath, hat pulled down over his eyes with his back against a tree. Kevin surveyed the sky over the river; streaks of low clouds but enough blue sky that it didn’t look like rain. He dug his pouch out of his vest pocket, pinched a wad, and inserted it against his cheek. Four o’clock at Fletcher’s boathouse, he thought, prodding the tobacco into shape with his tongue. That was somewhere around mile 3. So they had seven hours to go nine miles and drop through nine locks. Pretty damn leisurely, and there was nothing wrong with that.

He was less sure about his visit with Carruthers. The tasting must have been decent, or why send them to Fletcher’s? Why not just kick him out of the office? Hell, it was the same whiskey he and Tom had sold to Geary last year, so the man should know what he was getting by now. It was definitely good enough. But what price were they going to get? This system didn’t seem to leave much room for negotiation. Last year Geary had paid seven-fifty a gallon, and he probably cut it and sold it for one-fifty a pint. But last year was only forty gallons – just a test buy. For a hundred and six gallons, he might want a better deal.

Kevin yelled and watched Tom lift his hat to check on the scow. Tom rocked onto his feet, brushed his hands on his pants, and shuffled toward the waiting mules.

***

Three more miles took them down to the Seven Locks area, where locks 14 through 8 were strung almost heel-to-toe over a long mile. Two of the locktenders were working multiple locks so the scow made reasonable time getting down onto the Cabin John level. One of them was Jim Bender, a customer from last year, and he bought seven gallons at ten dollars each. Half down and the balance due on their next downstream trip in early May. Kevin trusted Jim more than he trusted Cy Elgin back at Swains. In return for the credit, Jim threw in some home-canned vegetables and four loaves of the bread he sold to boatmen during the season.

Just before noon, Tom signaled from the tiller for Kevin to stop the mules. The towline slackened and Tom swung the boat toward the berm where Minnehaha Creek tumbled down from a narrow ravine that bordered the Glen Echo amusement park on the hilltop above. Carrying a bucket, he scrambled up the berm to catch the falling creek water. He brought two buckets back to the scow to refill the water cask in the cabin, then filled a third for the mules.

They boated a few hundred feet down to Lock 7, where they tied up along the towpath to feed and water the mules. Tom threw Jim Bender’s carrots, potatoes, and onions and into a stew pot. He and Kevin tore into the bread while the vegetables cooked.

“Fletcher’s boathouse,” Kevin said. “Don’t they pull fish out of the river down there?”