Chapter 58: A Thousand Dollars a Day
Even though Davey was applying for a completely new identity, his original one could still be traced easily. After all, almost anything could be forged—but not photographs.
Officials could always look the other way, of course—provided they were paid enough.
That was Davey’s advantage. If it had been Dutch trying to pull this off, it wouldn’t have even been worth considering. It would’ve been impossible.
In the United States, especially when it came to organized crime, the greatest responsibility always fell on the gang leader.
After hearing Sheriff Malloy’s explanation, Davey quickly understood the situation and smiled.
“Then I’ll trouble you, Sheriff Malloy. I’ll have Donal send the money over soon. I just hope the new identity can be processed as quickly as possible.”
Sheriff Malloy returned the smile. “Of course. Following the proper channels, Mr. Callander’s legal documents should be ready within five days at most.”
“This time, we’ll process it through immigration. Mr. Callander will be registered as a descendant of European nobility—but that means you’ll have to take a new surname.”
In the United States, sharing first names was common—names like Davey were everywhere. But surnames were another matter entirely. It was rare to find two people with the same one.
“Let’s go with Land. Davey Land.”
Davey said casually.
Sheriff Malloy chuckled helplessly. “Well, Mr. Callander, you certainly don’t fuss over details.”
Even though Davey Callander and Davey Land differed by only one word, no one could ever prove they were the same man.
Even if it went to court, no judge would back such a claim.
The United States was, after all, a country built on evidence.
Securing a legitimate identity was a huge step forward for Davey. Only with it could he legally own more businesses and properties.
And Sheriff Malloy, who had served as Valentine’s sheriff for many years, clearly had the right connections to make it happen.
The paperwork for Davey’s new identity was submitted quickly.
When the clerk looked at Davey’s photo, the corners of his mouth twitched. This was... a little too on the nose.
But what did that matter? A resemblance couldn’t be considered evidence of guilt. You couldn’t arrest someone just because they looked like a wanted man—the United States was a place that demanded proof.
Of course, none of them would ever admit that it was the thick wad of bills that made them overlook the similarities.
...
While Davey waited for his legal papers to come through, Donal took a few men to Strawberry Town to start up their moonshine operation.
Following their usual playbook, Donal first sent a batch of moonshine to the Strawberry Town Police Department.
That alone was enough to win over the entire station.
Compared to the relatively prosperous Valentine, Strawberry Town’s economy was much weaker. Once famous during the gold rush, it had since become nothing more than a logging town.
And with Prohibition in effect, the town had lost a huge source of tax revenue.
In this era, tobacco and alcohol were two of the biggest contributors to government income.
Mayor Timmins of Strawberry Town had long dreamed of turning the area into a tourist destination to revive the local economy.
Davey’s moonshine business fit right in—and flourished immediately.
Strawberry was tiny, with fewer than two thousand residents. Tourism was still in its early stages and hadn’t shown much success yet.
There were no rival gangs in town either, so after bribing Sheriff Hanley, Donal’s crew faced almost no resistance.
Still, because the town was so small, daily sales weren’t particularly high.
Within three days of arriving, Donal had already captured the entire moonshine market in Strawberry through bulk discounts and word of mouth.
At $1.80 per bottle, the moonshine rivaled the quality of fine whiskey—a godsend for local drinkers.
Currently, Strawberry was moving about two hundred bottles a day, sometimes even fewer—that was the town’s limit.
But even so, that meant roughly $200 in daily profit for Davey.
Combined with Valentine’s numbers, Davey’s total daily income now exceeded $1,000.
It was an astounding figure—one that would make even wealthy industrialists in the United States take notice.
And the best part? Davey didn’t have to pay a single cent in alcohol taxes.
Prohibition was a strange law. Selling or transporting alcohol was illegal—but buying and drinking it were not.
So, each night, Donal’s men would roam the streets, openly selling moonshine.
The townsfolk bought it eagerly, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
It was barely different from selling it in broad daylight.
Even the patrolling officers pretended not to see.
Perhaps the only one unhappy about the situation was the owner of Strawberry’s general store.
He brewed his own moonshine on the side, but his product couldn’t hold a candle to Davey’s—it wasn’t even close.
“Damn it! Why’d these outsiders have to come in and steal all my business?” he cursed.
Author's Note
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