The Crimson Sly and The Rum Runner's Gambit

The year was 1924. Four years after the Volstead Act outlawed alcohol across the United States, crime had spread like wildfire. Gangs, corrupt lawmen, and smugglers waged silent wars beneath the surface of daily life. One of these wars erupted in the quiet streets of York, Pennsylvania, under the shadow of night.

A single truck rumbled down the street after midnight, its cargo hidden under heavy tarp. Two police cruisers flanked the intersection ahead, forming a makeshift blockade. A lone officer stepped forward, raising his hand to bring the truck to a halt.

The driver rolled down his window. “Is there a problem, sir?” he asked, feigning confusion.

“What are you hauling?” the officer asked, eyeing the truck suspiciously.

“Just some steel beams,” the driver replied calmly.

The officer squinted, studying the man's face for any hint of deceit. Then he nodded toward the back of the truck. “Mind stepping out and showing me?”

Without hesitation, the driver climbed out and strode to the rear. He unlatched the door and swung it open.

RATATATATATATAT!

Gunfire exploded from inside. A smuggler unleashed a hail of bullets, dropping the officer on the spot. The driver leapt into the back while his partner slid into the driver’s seat and stomped on the gas.

Siren lights flared. The police cars roared to life, chasing the speeding truck as it tore through the streets. From the back, three men leaned out, letting loose a storm of gunfire with tommy guns. One bullet shattered a police cruiser’s windshield, sending it crashing into a hydrant.

Ahead, a barricade of police cars loomed across the road. The truck didn't slow down.

WHAM!

It blasted through the blockade, splinters of wood and shards of metal flying in every direction. One cruiser stayed close behind, weaving through debris in hot pursuit.

The truck veered sharply into an alleyway and barreled into an abandoned warehouse. The cop car followed. But just as it entered, the garage door slammed shut behind it.

Inside the warehouse, silence fell. The officer climbed out of his cruiser, confused. A beat later—

BOOM!

An explosion shook the earth as the building went up in flames. The truck was already gone, slipping out a hidden back exit, vanishing into the night.

Down a nearby alley, the smugglers moved with practiced precision. They unloaded barrels from the truck and passed them hand-to-hand into a sewer entrance, disappearing beneath the city.

Beneath the streets, by the flicker of lanterns, a line of men continued the relay. Barrels were handed down dark, damp corridors until they emerged in the belly of an abandoned meatpacking plant. There, stacks of contraband grew high and wide.

A man entered the room—Thomas Permansky, fifty-eight, clad in a black suit and porkpie hat. His face, carved in stone, studied the operation. He stopped before one of his men, then smiled, clapping the man on the cheeks before pulling him into an embrace. The room erupted into cheers.

A barrel was cracked open, a mug dipped in. Permansky drank, letting the brew trickle from his chin.

“So this is the stuff,” he said, savoring the taste.

“Just as you ordered, sir,” his henchman replied.

“It shouldn’t be underestimated,” Permansky said, voice smooth, “the importance of being first. Sometimes that comes at the expense of someone else. That’s the nature of what we do.”

“Should we prepare for the next operation?”

“It’s already been taken care of,” Permansky answered, grinning.

In a basement beneath Johnny Waller’s antique shop, a secret speakeasy simmered with tension. Men gathered around a beer tap, mug poised beneath it, waiting for a single drop.

A rough voice broke the silence. “Beer!”

Johnny, the grizzled bartender, slammed a hand on the bar. “Hey now! I told you once—I won’t tell you again. You’ll get what you paid for. Just give it some time.”

A worried man stepped to Johnny’s side. “Why don’t you head out?” he whispered. “I’ll hold them off.”

“A tender never abandons his bar,” Johnny replied.

The man wasn’t convinced. “These people—if they don’t get what they came for, they’ll take it out of your hide.”

“I’ll refund their money,” Johnny said, but the man laughed.

“They’re not worried about money.”

With a flash, he jammed a pocketknife into the bar top. “Got it?”

Johnny, startled, nodded.

The saloon roared again. Johnny raised his voice above the noise.

“Now that’s enough!”

Silence returned.

“Look at yourselves. Look what dependence on alcohol has done to you. You’ve become raving lunatics.”

He reached for a lever marked ESCAPE in bold red.

“You don’t need alcohol—you need a life,” Johnny continued. “Jack, you missed your anniversary. Rodney, you missed your daughter’s birth. And George…” He sighed. “Keep trying.”

Heads hung low. The tension was thick.

And then—

WHOOSH.

A rotating brick wall revealed a man silhouetted by lantern light. He turned slowly—African American, late twenties, dressed in black oxford bags and a crisp dress shirt with suspenders crossing his chest. His fedora cast a shadow across his face.

Jay Jones. The Crimson Sly.

A collective breath was held. Johnny reached down and pulled the tap.

Beer poured freely.

The crowd erupted in joy.

Jay took a seat at the counter, and Johnny poured him a drink.

“You had me worried,” Johnny said. “Didn’t think you’d make it.”

Jay took a slow sip. “Ran into some roughnecks outside. Your men?”

Johnny nodded toward the man from earlier.

Jay glanced at the door. “Hardly.”

Outside, those same men writhed on the sidewalk, moaning in pain.

Inside, Johnny leaned across the bar. “You hear? Rick’s leaving the business. Found a girl. Getting out. Henson too. Married last month.”

Jay stayed quiet.

“All my guys are moving on,” Johnny said. “What about you?”

“If you have something to say,” Jay said sharply, “say it.”

“I feel like you're the son I never had,” Johnny confessed.

“You have a son. Billy.”

Johnny chuckled, but his tone stayed serious. “I want what’s best for you, Jay. You deserve happiness.”

Jay didn't respond. Johnny tossed a newspaper on the bar.

WANTED: THE CRIMSON SLY, the headline read.

“They don’t even appreciate your work,” Johnny said.

Jay smirked. “Makes me sound like a villain.”

“You are,” Johnny replied cheerfully.

Jay narrowed his eyes.

“With respect,” Johnny added.