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The year was 1925. Five years of Prohibition had seemingly accomplished little other than to foster a widespread belief that the unpopular edict was just a thinly-disguised attempt to legislate morals, and Americans had begun to push back by drinking more than ever. A new dance sensation called the Charleston was sweeping the country. During the early morning hours of July 4, a crowd of Prohibition-defying revelers were kicking up their heels to that latest craze when they unknowingly triggered the deadliest building collapse in Boston's history. The dingy, smoke-filled speakeasy on the second floor of a rundown, five-story former hotel was still packed with holiday celebrants as the clock neared three that morning. The orchestra had time to play only two more numbers. The last one would be something mellow but, for the second last, the conductor chose a popular ragtime number. When the spirited music began, dozens of couples crowded onto the small, linoleum-covered dance floor to do the Charleston. For nearly five minutes they jumped, kicked, and stomped-blissfully unaware that the steady, rhythmic pounding was causing dangerous, resonant vibrations throughout the unstable building's entire support structure. Finally, the music stopped. Many of the exhausted couples were still on the floor, waiting for the night's last dance, when the lights grew strangely dim, flickered a few times, and then went out, plunging the room into darkness. A moment later the old building began to

The Pickwick Club Disaster: Boston's Deadliest Building Collapse, Paperback/John E. Keefe

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