Chapter 66: Taste Of The Empire
The heavy brass-and-crystal doors of the Waldorf-Astoria lobby revolved behind them, cutting off the sharp autumn wind from 34th Street.
Ricky adjusted his cuffs, leaning in slightly toward Marek as they walked across the thick, velvet-pile Turkish runner. "Let me do the talking first," Ricky murmured, keeping his eyes straight ahead. "If anyone asks, we’re commission agents. Same cover as usual, but we represent the Atlantic & Pacific Trading Company. In an environment like this, people like to talk social first before they ever touch business. They want to see what kind of man they’re dealing with."
Marek nodded, though his posture remained stiff inside his tailored suit. His eyes darting toward a group of men in black tuxedos laughing near a mahogany pillar. "Got it," he whispered, swallowing the dryness in his throat.
Ricky noticed the nervous tension still locked in the Polish boy’s shoulders. Remembering how he used to loosen up his own friends back in Georgia before pitching a hustle, Ricky smiled.
"You know what?" Ricky said, turning toward the lounge bar nestled off the main parlor. "I’ve got an idea to raise your confidence. Works for me every time. Follow me."
"Is this a good idea?" Marek asked, trailing a half-step behind as they approached the polished mahogany bar.
"You’ll be fine," Ricky said smoothly, pulling out a high-backed leather stool. "Half a shot just to take the edge off. Besides, we’re here to sell premium liquor. We have to know how the uptown stuff tastes, otherwise how do we pitch our own product? This is where connections get made, Marek. You specialize in reading people—we just need to find out who’s who."
Marek hesitated, but he lowered his sample cases to the carpet and took the seat beside Ricky. "I don’t know, Ricky. It feels like I don’t belong here."
The bartender—a man in a crisp white shirt, black vest, and perfectly oiled mustache—approached them with a polite, practiced bow of his head. "Good evening, gentlemen. What can I fetch for you?"
"Two shots of your house whiskey," Ricky said casually.
The bartender gave a crisp nod, though his eyes lingered on Marek for a fraction of a second. Marek looked young, but the expensive cut of their tailored suits and Ricky’s calm, unbothered demeanor kept the man from questioning them. He reached for a heavy glass decanter.
"You sure about this?" Marek whispered, leaning over.
Ricky chuckled. "It’s fine. Though maybe we should’ve brought John. He’d probably try to buy the bar."
The bartender returned, sliding two small crystal glasses across the polished wood and pouring a finger of dark amber liquid into each.
Ricky didn’t hesitate. He picked up his glass, tipped it back, and swallowed the whiskey in one clean gulp. He set the glass down without making a face, his gray eyes steady.
Marek picked up his own glass, looking at it dubiously before throwing it back. He winced slightly as the heat hit his throat, then blinked in surprise. He smacked his lips, frowning at the empty crystal.
"This is... a bit bland," Marek said, looking at Ricky. "Compared to what we usually drink in the lounge."
Ricky let out a soft laugh. "Hey, it’s not fair to compare hotel stock to ours, Marek."
"Fair enough," Marek muttered, dusting his lapel. "Ever since you brought out those branded bottles, our tongues have changed. If Arthur were here, he’d be crying into his sleeve. That guy’s overly dramatic about his drink."
Ricky watched as the alcohol quickly took the nervous edge off Marek’s frame. His shoulders relaxed, his posture uncoiling. The trick had worked—Marek was already talking naturally.
Ricky turned back to the bartender, who was wiping down the counter a few feet away. "Say," Ricky called out politely. "Do you have something higher end? Top of the shelf?"
The bartender smiled, stepping over. "Of course, sir." He reached into the locked mirrored cabinet behind him and pulled out an ornate, heavy-glass bottle bearing a dark foil label. "Old Forester. The finest rye we pour."
"Pour us two," Ricky said.
The bartender filled two fresh glasses. Ricky picked his up, swirled the amber liquid against the crystal, and drank it slowly, analyzing the finish as he bobbed his head in thought.
The bartender raised an eyebrow, watching Ricky’s reaction expectantly.
"Eh..." Ricky murmured, setting the glass down with a faint, unimpressed sigh. "It’s good. But... it could be more."
The bartender kept his mouth shut, though his jaw tightened slightly as he picked up a rag to polish a shot glass.
A man sitting two stools down—a sharp-looking guy in his early thirties wearing a tailored wool suit and a bowler hat resting on the counter—turned his head. He had been listening quietly, a half-empty glass in his hand.
"Really?" the man asked, a dry, amused smile touching his face as he shifted closer. "You think Old Forester is just ’eh’? That’s considered the best whiskey in Midtown, pal."
Ricky looked over, his demeanor entirely relaxed. "No offense meant, mister. But I beg to differ."
Marek picked up Ricky’s empty glass, catching the lingering aroma, and offered a casual shrug. "Well, if I had to score it... I’d say it’s equal to our Three Piece. Maybe a little below."
The man in the bowler hat let out a soft, intrigued laugh. "Well now. I’d like to hear your opinion then. What do you two consider the best whiskey in Manhattan?"
Ricky held up a hand, offering a smooth, polite smile. "Don’t take our word too seriously, Mr...?"
"Thompson," the man introduced, stepping over and offering a firm, confident handshake. "Christian Thompson. Most folks call me Chris."
Ricky shook his hand cleanly. "Chris. I’m not a professional liquor taster, but I am quite choosy when it comes to imported stock. It might just be my personal taste."
Chris Thompson’s eyes narrowed slightly, taking in the flawless cut of Ricky’s silk-blend suit and Marek’s quiet composure. "You businessmen?"
"I earn a comfortable living for myself," Ricky said smoothly, leaning his elbow against the mahogany bar. "We import luxury liquors."
Chris’s posture shifted. "Do you have a sample on you right now?" He held up a hand defensively. "Apologies for asking so directly, but I work as a head chauffeur and buyer for Don Martinez. The Don is always asking me to source the finest premium brands for his private parlor. You caught my interest when you mentioned something better than the hotel’s top shelf."
A cold, sharp surge of satisfaction flashed through Ricky’s mind. Hooked.
Beside him, Marek kept his face completely deadpan, but his heart gave a quick, excited thud. Ricky had managed to turn a casual bar chat into a direct pipeline to a high-society Don in less than ten minutes. Even the bartender had stopped wiping his glasses, listening intently to the conversation.
"Well," Ricky said, acting slightly hesitant as he patted his inner jacket pocket. "It’s fine, Chris. I have to admit... I always carry a bottle or two with me for personal consumption."
Marek knew that was a blatant lie—the sample cases on the wagon were packed specifically for pitches—but he marvelled at how naturally Ricky spun the narrative. It wasn’t an aggressive sales pitch; it was an exclusive privilege being offered to a fellow connoisseur.
Chris’s eyes lit up with genuine eagerness. "Can I try a pour? I’ll compensate you for the trouble, of course."
"No, no, no," Ricky waved a hand, smiling. "I wouldn’t charge a man for a simple taste." He turned to the bartender. "Is it alright if we pop a private cork at your counter?"
The bartender looked at the high-end crowd in the parlor, then at the mysterious young importer. Curiosity got the better of his professional discipline. "I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t interested myself, sir. Go ahead."
"Alright," Ricky said, standing up from his stool. "Give me a minute."
He walked calmly toward the entrance nook where their sample boxes rested under the guard of a lobby attendant. A moment later, Ricky returned carrying two distinct glass bottles.
He set them down on the dark mahogany counter with a heavy, musical clink.
The bartender’s eyes immediately locked onto the first bottle—the square, refined glass of Three Piece, featuring a man in a three piece suit with stamped gold pocket-watch logo. But what made both Chris Thompson and the bartender freeze was the second bottle.
It was the Royal Spades.
The glass itself was thick, heavy, and ornate, catching the electric chandelier light like a cut diamond. The royal gold-foil label shimmered in the amber glow of the bar, the black spade emblem standing out with absolute, undeniable royalty.
"May I?" the bartender asked softly, his fingers hovering over the cork of the Three Piece.
"Pour away," Ricky permitted cleanly.
The bartender popped the stopper and filled four small crystal glasses—pouring a light splash for Chris, Marek, Ricky, and a tiny taste for himself.
Ricky raised his glass first, throwing it back with easy familiarity. Marek followed suit, smacking his lips with a satisfied nod. "Yep. That’s Three Piece alright."
"This is our middle-class standard," Ricky explained casually to Chris. "Though it has a rather unique profile."
Chris Thompson lifted his glass, inhaled the rich, oaky aroma, and threw it back.
He froze. He didn’t swallow right away, letting the liquid roll over his tongue. His eyes widened in absolute, disbelieving shock.
"Woah..." Chris gasped softly, setting the empty glass down with a trembling hand. "Wow. That is... that’s incredible. It’s got a profile I can’t even describe. It’s smooth, sweet, heavy... and it lingers right on the tongue without a single harsh burn."
The bartender took his own small sip, his jaw slackening. He looked at the Old Forester bottle on his shelf, then back at the square Three Piece. "I’m inclined to agree with Mr. Thompson. This is exceptional. It easily beats our top-shelf pour."
Ricky leaned his arm back against the bar, a confident, knowing smirk touching his lips as he reached for the ornate, gold-foiled bottle of Royal Spades.
"Well, gents," Ricky murmured, running his thumb over the gold spade emblem. "If you think that one’s good... you’re going to be completely surprised by this last one."