Clyde’s palms were sweaty as he wrung the steering wheel. This was all taking too long, he was going to get noticed.
The bootlegger had taken his money, told him to drive around the block and wait at the corner for some one to bring him his package.
Clyde had a sinking feeling in his stomach. Something was going to go wrong, he knew it. He’d get arrested and he’d have to deal with his shrew of a wife lecturing him on the dangers of booze then denounce him as an alcoholic to her horrible family.
All of a sudden there was a sharp knock on his driver’s side window. Clyde nearly pissed himself when he looked up and saw a uniformed beat cop frowning down at him.
He rolled down the window, trying to remain calm.
“Can’t park here.” The cop growled at him. “You’re in the cross-walk.”
“I hadn’t even noticed!” Clyde stammered back, in a panic. “I’ll move it right away!”
“One thing.” The cop tossed a brown paper bundle into the car. It landed in Clyde’s lap and he recognized the familiar weight of a bottle.
“Next time park somewhere legal, you moron.”
In Memphis, as the police pressure on bootleggers continued to build throughout Prohibition, the criminals had to get more cautious about how they distributed their contraband. No longer could you set up shop in the back of a business or restaurant, it would be too easy to raid. Instead, they sectioned off, taking money at one point, then directing customers to a pick up spot a short distance away. The seller was never in direct contact with the product, and thus protected from arrest. A practice still in use by modern drug dealers.