Jazz had been busy at work. While still a goomba, he ran errands for his uppers, flew around country buying cook at the lower and selling it at its highest prices. And when he wasn't robbing postal offices, he tended to his work at his bar, the Sherell Savignon. Despite it's rough outward appearance and brick-and-mortar facade, the bar, which was famous for its whiskey, boasted an interior that had a somehow simultaneously homey and industrial look about it, with a wisp of something more rustic that seemed to underline every piece of furniture. The selection of alcohols and drinks were by far some of the best to be found in Pasadena, and though there was never an over-abundance of drinks, the wide ranging selection of gins, rums, beers, wines, and practically every alcohol that existed in the US lined the ebony shelves that lined the wall behind the counter of the bar. On the top shelf were exotics, imports from foreign nations; there were 2 bottle of sake, one from Kyoto and one from a small part of Osaka.

Word on the street was that Jazz was no real criminal, and it was quite evident what other life he would lead by the immense pride he took in his collection of alcohols. There was only an occasional helper in the bar, a tall quiet man who called himself Ripper that really only existed to clean up part of the bar that Jazz was either too lazy to clean or didn't really care to clean. He also accepted part-timers occasionally, but pretty much ran and maintained the bar himself.

One day after a few too many quiet days had passed, Ripper stormed through the front doors, the glass shuddering as they swung open to allow his wide frame through the door. He sidled between tables and crossed the bar in two quick strides to Jazz, who had been observing him since before he had entered. As he approached the bar, Jazz slipped one hand under the counter.

"Boss." Ripper slammed a wadded newspaper onto the counter, and Jazz winced. He never once winced at gunfire.

Jazz looked down. "Thank you for the morning paper."

Ripper shook his head, huffing in obvious annoyance. "Read it, boss. Read the damn thing and tell me what you see."

The owner of the bar sighed and looked down at the paper, which had been crinkled and wadded into a brick of paper. Ripper was quite strong, but apparently just as nervous. After carefully unfolding the paper, Jazz skimmed the headlines, reading up and down the frontispiece before frowning. He looked back up at Ripper.

"What's this mean?"

Ripper groaned, throwing his head back as he rubbed his face with his long hands.

"Ruined, boss, we're ruined! one hundred and fifty G's wasted on fake booze, and now our clientele are demanding up to $2.5 million in compensation." Ripper stepped back and doffed his cap before wiping with it his sunburnt face.

Jazz's frown deepened. He currently had only about $1 million saved up, but he was expecting to pay another $200 thousand for a storage room overhaul. Looks like that would have to wait.

"Come on, Ripper." Jazz grabbed his hat and coat before turning out the lights and moving towards the door, his suede shoes clicking against the hardwood floor and echoing in the high portions of the ceiling where several incandescent bulbs hung, hot but dim. Ripper yelled out to Jazz as he followed behind him, sliding between tables and chairs again, "What the hell are we going to do?"

Jazz stopped. He smiled to himself and turned around after composing himself.

"One must never run on whiskey alone. It's time to move big stuff, big time."