The leaves were brown and crisp as they battered the windshield, rolling off the glass past Frank's raw, wrinkled fingers as they lolled out of the window. He exhaled a cloud of cigarette smoke that was sucked out of the window as he pressed the gas pedal and hissed down the Long Island Expressway.

The ride out from Manhattan to central Long Island had been lengthy, and with a terminable sense of relief Frank rolled his Ford off the exit down the ugly unpaved street leading by Deer Park's industrial area. Factories blew fire into the air, and smoke and dust rose from sun-blasted slag heaps; Frank passed them by, his eyes on the gentle forest road in front of him leading to Bay Shore and Islip.

Shade blotted the windshield as the trees replaced the shorn-down plains of scrap metal and junkyards, and the easy, smooth road weaved southwards toward the shore. A small country church appeared through the branches, and Frank settled his car into a parking spot in front of the building.

It was a small white church with a wide open door; inside, a man was lifting up a heavy crate and maneuvering it outside. Frank paused, and then threw open the car door, leaping out and jogging briskly to the door. Frank held the church door open, allowing the man to bring the boxes out.

"Thanks, friend," the man said, tightly gripping the wooden crate. He had a black shirt and black pants on, and his cheeks were lined with bushy sideburns, below which a white collar encircled his flabby neck—he was a priest—he was the priest.

"I take it you're our contact?" Frank asked, letting the church door swing shut.

"Yeah, that's me, all right," the priest said, stumbling over to the open door of a car while awkwardly trying to talk directly to Frank. "Better to get the booze from me than from a bootlegger, huh?"

"I don't know," said Frank nonchalantly. "Some cats in Gramercy were getting their stuff from this guinea doctor on the Lower East Side."

The priest said nothing, straightening out the bottles with meticulous precision as he leaned it against the frame. Frank felt a little anxious, and continued, "Apparently it's legal to sell the booze if the doc writes a prescription."

"Not worth it to kill each other over it," the priest said, loading the crate into the car, and turning to face Frank, his muscles tingling with relief. "Father Tom White, I'm in with the operation."

"Frank Sywetz. Is Rosie here yet?"

"Yeah. In the back."

Frank pivoted toward the church to see Little Rosie Rosencrantz walking out, a cluster of wine bottles in each hand, holding them by their long necks. He was a short, pale Polish Jew, born and raised in the Lower East Side. "Right here, Frank," Rosie said, skipping down the steps and hurtling toward the car, placing the wine bottles in the cushioned back seats.

"How was the trip out here?" Rosie said, turning excitedly to shake Frank's hand in his usual hyperactive way. "You're just in time, I was planning to leave. You're gonna ride shotgun, you know that?"

"Yeah, no problem," Frank said, nonplussed. "Gotta guard the booze."

Rosie paused, his eyes raging with his fierce intellect. He scanned Frank's face, and remarked, "You're not too confident, are you?"

"No—no—of course, I'm the king of confidence!" Frank sputtered, ribbing Rosie, who stood with his jaw slack.

"You're a bullshitter, is what you are," Rosie replied, opening up his jacket to reach for his wallet. The dark sheen of a Colt .45 flashed momentarily, but in an instant Rosie's hands were filled with twenty dollar greenbacks.

"Got the dough from my lady," Rosie chuckled. "She runs a gang of 'hoors right out of Midtown, near Rockerfeller. I got your honorarium right here, Father."

As Rosie handed the money to Father Tom, Frank anticipated the next question with phlegmatic accuracy:

"How's that new girl of yours?" spilled the words of Rosie's inquisitive tongue, eyes darting everywhere at once, checking the road for police. "This new girl I know, she runs the best 'hoors in the city. You ever meet her—? We ought to go see her after we drop off the booze, she's a real flapper cunt—short hair and small breasts, you know? A real modern dame."

"Excuse me," Father Tom said, rapping his fingers smartly on the car's metal frame. Rosie turned around, eyes wide and staring straight at Father Tom. The priest sheepishly smiled and said with the air of a student lecturing a professor, "I'd appreciate it if you didn't talk like that in front of my church."

"Excuse me?" Rosie asked softly. Frank tensed up inside; he wished the priest could have kept his mouth shut, or they might be on the road by now.

Father Tom continued in the same petulant tone, folding his hands in front of him, "It's just that we're in front of a church, and I'd think that though you're unbelievers, the Jewish faith would welcome—"

"Excuse the fuck outta me, Father," Rosie said dangerously, leaning on the car and pointing a finger in the priest's face. "While we're on the subject of manners, how about this—after I pay you a lot of money, you don't criticize me."

"Mr. Rosencrantz," Father Tom said in a low voice, backing up into the car. "It's just that—"

"Excuse me?" Rosie pressed, holding his gun through his jacket. "Do you know how many men I've killed?"

"I wouldn't presume to—"

"Three."

"That's all well and—"

"Father, ask yourself," said Rosie. "What's worth more, as an expert on justice—your idea of morality or human life?"

Father Tom was silent, his eyes drooped in melancholy.

"I thought so," Rosie said. "Human life is never worth your goddamn fool morality. They wanted to outlaw booze, and what happens? People fight and kill and die to get it anyway. Remember that, Father. We'll be seeing you again. Get in the car, Frank."

Rosie climbed into the driver's seat, while Frank walked around and jumped into the passenger's seat. Without a gesture to the downtrodden priest, Rosie drove away. The car sped down the Long Island roads, continuing north to the Sagacto Parkway and toward the city of New York.

"You had to argue with the priest?" Frank began calmly.

"You believe what I say, don't you?" asked Rosie in a quick tone. "About life?"

"Rosie, the fact that booze is against the law is making you money—both of us money," said Frank. "I'm not going to complain."

"Greedy prick," Rosie muttered. "I mean from a human perspective. You can't outlaw these kinds of crimes, like drinking. It's only made it worse, it's only caused violence and addiction, I don't know. It's like drug laws. Sure, the laws prevent hopped-up cocainized Negroes from stirring problems, but I don't know about it..."

"What are you saying?"

"I'm saying the same thing I told the priest," Rosie said. "It causes violence...people's lives are more important than foolish laws."

The ride down the LIE continued, making their way closer and closer toward the city. The skyscrapers of Manhattan rose up like sawteeth on the horizon, the Empire State Building a long tower to the clouds. Canyons of city streets crisscrossed the landscape ahead of them, and the high-rises encircled them like mountains.

"We're storing this all where again?" Frank asked.

"209th Street, in the Bronx," Rosie said, a little more subdued than his usual sanguine self. "I've got a cat up there with a bar. Go through Long Island City, and over the 59th Street Bridge, it's an easier route."

"Polack?"

"Yeah."

"Kike?"

"You got it, Frankie," Rosie muttered, navigating his car down Northern Boulevard. "Just like you and me."

"Why do you have to go hanging around with these Bronx Jews?" Frank complained.

"Why, do you have a problem with them?"

"Manhattan Jews run when they see the cops," Frank explained. "They get caught smuggling booze, and they run like demons, and fight another day. Bronx Jews get caught by a cop, and they pull out a gun and smoke the officer and go down fighting in a blaze of glory. Two different mindsets, you know?"

The car stopped at a red light near Ditmars Boulevard in Astoria. Rosie leaned back against the seat, checking the booze in the back, and looking out the window—he froze. Two policemen were walking toward the car, bedecked in blue NYPD uniforms, and looking serious.

"Oh, shit," Rosie choked. "Shit, Frank, stay cool. I got this, Frank, stay cool."

"I'm not the nervous one," Frank shot back. The policemen drew closer, motioning for Rosie to roll down the windows. Rosie hesitantly did so, smiling winningly at the officer.

"Is there a problem, officer?" Rosie asked in a faux-calm voice. Frank had seen him do this so many times before. His outward confidence betrayed his inner fear.

"Step out of the car, please," the policeman said with a degree of fierce choler in his words. He was a tall Italian man, and he drew his gun as he escorted Rosie from the Ford. The other cop circled around to the passenger door. Frank should have seen it coming.

As Rosie placed his hands over his head, the cop threw open Frank's door and pulled him out, gun drawn and crying, "Don't damage the car! We'll never get it past the cops if it's damaged!" The cop pulled Frankie out of the passenger's seat and onto the asphalt.

"What the—" Rosie began, turning around. The Italian cop grabbed Rosie's hair with one hand and forced the barrel of his Colt .45 into the fleshy side of Rosie's neck.

"Domenico Gangitano says hello, Rosie," the Italian whispered into Rosie's ear. He squeezed the trigger, shooting a small flash of sticky red matter onto the car window. Rosie fell to the ground, nearly rolling under the car. Frank looked over from his spot on the asphalt, held down by the cop, and saw Rosie's contorted face.

"Rosie—" Frank gasped, choking on the dust.

With that, the Italian leaned down and plugged Rosie Rosencrantz three times in the head. He grabbed a handful of sleeve and wiped the small droplets of blood off the side window, and jumped in the car. "Get in, Alphonse," he shouted.

"It's not worth it, it's not worth it!" Frank screamed, losing control of his bladder. "Not worth human life for morality!"

The cop planted his boot on Frank's head and fired twice into his ear, stamping on his face before climbing into the passenger's seat with his comrade. They took off their police caps and jackets, checking the booze, and speeding off down Northern Boulevard, leaving the two bodies in the street.

Frank's lifeblood spilled into the dust as the onlookers tried to remember the car's plates. Eyes closed, he thought of the beer, and if it would be safe, and of how the warm stain was gently spreading down his legs. His mother would recognize him in a morgue three hours later.