Ned is probably happier not knowing about the contract killing, and particularly not about the blackmail. Not when he knows how terrible it can be, when you have secrets to keep and other people in possession of them. Just distribution must come with its share of peril and violence, he recognizes, but that's not so much Meyer or Charlie's fault. It's Prohibition. It's the times. It's a way to make their living, in a country that was not then particularly kind to poor kids born in other countries just trying to make their way in the world.

"Probably better if you mix it with something," Ned theorizes, getting up and rifling around behind the bar, looking at his options. He's never worked as a bartender, but he's not exactly averse to trying his hand with a bit of experimentation. There's a single can of lemon-lime soda behind the counter, and a half-empty bottle of grenadine. He sets out two bigger glasses, splits the soda between the two, adds a splash of the grenadine and an amount of the cotton candy vodka. He swirls his around, sips, adds a bit more vodka, sips again.

"Better this way," he says, tipping a bit more vodka into Charlie's, mixing it, and sliding it over to him.

"So what're speakeasys like? Is it all secret back rooms and passwords and flappers, like in the movies?"