And so it was on Hogmanay 1946 that wee Snooker Tam and his brother Boabbie knocked on the door in Wilton Street and were overjoyed when Missus Jessie MacDonald opened it and invited them in for some lemonade; she told them that her husband, whom they now simply thought of as AKA for he had so many real and assumed or bestowed titles that it was, in truth, too much of a mouthful for them to cope with, was at his Ladies' Outfitters and Fashion Emporium, taking measure of some ladies of his acquaintance – the double entendre was lost on the boys and she didn't bother to explain; she told them about the fireworks which had followed his release from Police custody after the intervention of the duty solicitor, Bernie Cohen, and his arrival back at the house; he had ranted and raved, accused her and everyone she knew of being part of some kind of conspiracy to incarcerate hi, and take over his business: "I don't give a flying fuck for the post-war zeitgeist," he had roared, banging his fist on the table so hard that the imprint was still there - she showed it them, almost in awe of the immense strength and fury which had caused it, and pointed out the imprint of his ring, and the tiny swastika impression struck a cord with the boys: "did he hae thon yin oan wen the Rozzers rannim in?" – asked Tam, almost fearful,."naw," said Mrs MacDonald, "he took it oot o a poaket in his blue jaiket, the wan youse described tae the Peelers, it wis hidden at the back o the wardrobe, ah'd nevva seen it afore," she continued, "he said he'd fund it oan the grund at a boamb site, sed it wis a lucky chairm, sed it wis supercalifragilisticexpialidocious an if ah hud oany proablems aboot it, ah cood jist pack ma bags an say 'toodle-oo,' fer aw he caerd, there wis ten better than me oan oany coarner in Blytheswood Square, the fat bastard, he kens av nae dish o ma ain, he fund ma wee stash and waved it in ma face then went doon the Clansman tae celebrate his 'exoneration,' wis whit he ca'd it an treated very drunken lush tae jaur efter jaur, he didnae cum hame till gone 10 next moarnin, reekin o booze n Goodnight Vienna," the boys gawped: "whit's thon?" asked Tam, and she replied tartly, "it's the perfume aw the Hoors in Blytheswood Square wear, ah tell ye boays, iffen ah thocht ah cood get awa wi it, ah'd ladle arsenic in his purritch and then batter his nasty heid in wi ma rollin pin," and Boabbie protested: "they'd hang ye, Missus, ye better no dae that!" and she laughed, and poured more lemonade for them: "dinnae fret, ma wee pets, am no sae daft, am urny sayin am no goanie dae him in, but ah've a better plan than that yin – that wis ma gut talking, no whit's in ma heid annit's fer better an safer fer me, espeshly, if ye twa dae sumpin tae help me!"