Chapter 69: Midtown Foothold
When Marek rolled over and opened his eyes at six o’clock, the heavy velvet curtains of the suite were pulled back slightly, letting a pale shaft of morning sun cut across the plush carpet.
Ricky was already sitting near the window in a silk-trimmed armchair, dressed in a crisp white shirt, dark wool trousers, and polished oxfords. A leather-bound book rested on his knee, but his eyes were looking out over the city skyline.
Marek sat up, rubbing the sleep from his face. "Ricky? What time did you get up?"
"Three," Ricky said, looking over with a calm, relaxed smile.
He didn’t mention his daily discipline quest or the five miles he’d run in the dark before the streetlamps were even extinguished. After finishing his push-ups and squats in the quiet parlor of the suite, Ricky had spent two hours jogging through the cold morning air of Midtown, mapping out the commercial landscape on foot.
He had run all the way up 5th Avenue to Central Park, taking mental notes on potential accounts. He had passed high-end French dining rooms, large grocery markets, custom tailoring houses, dressmakers, and several busy Italian and Chinese establishments near the theater district. On the southern edge of Central Park, he had stopped to admire the towering, majestic white facade of The Plaza Hotel. Farther east, he had run past the massive, roaring construction pit where the old terminal was being torn down to build the new Grand Central Terminal.
Midtown was a goldmine waiting to be tapped.
"Three in the morning?" Marek blinked, shaking his head. "You don’t sleep at all, do you?"
"I sleep enough," Ricky said, setting his book on the side table and standing up. "Wash your face, Marek. Let’s go down to the lower cafe for some coffee and rolls before we meet the maître d’."
Ten minutes later, Marek had freshened up, and the two young men walked down the carpeted grand staircase into the lower lobby cafe.
The morning air inside the hotel smelled of rich roasted coffee beans, freshly baked brioche, and sweet butter. Well-dressed businessmen and wealthy travelers sat at small marble tables, reading the morning papers over silver coffee pots.
Ricky and Marek sat near a window, enjoying a light breakfast of hot coffee and fresh rolls while watching the city wake up outside.
Shortly after eight, a uniformed hotel bellhop approached their table, bowing his head respectfully. "Mr. Stevenson? Mr. Tschirky is available in the mezzanine sampling room, sir."
"Thank you," Ricky said, tossing a silver quarter onto the table.
They stood up, adjusted their coats, and followed the bellhop back up the mezzanine corridor toward the Art Deco sampling room.
Inside, the warm morning light filtered through frosted-glass sconces, illuminating the dark mahogany paneling and white marble counters. Standing near the central counter was a stocky, well-built man in his mid-forties. He wore an immaculate black tailcoat and a white vest, his dark mustache neatly groomed. He had just set down a crystal glass containing the last drops of the Three Piece whiskey.
Hearing their footsteps, the man turned around. His face broke into a professional, warm smile.
"Good morning, gentlemen," he said, stepping forward with an authoritative, confident stride. "Mr. Stevenson?"
"That’s right," Ricky said, offering a firm handshake. "Richard Stevenson. This is my associate, Marek Kowalski."
"Oscar Tschirky," the man introduced, shaking Marek’s hand as well. "Maître d’ of the Waldorf-Astoria."
Oscar gestured toward the two bottles resting on the marble counter—the square Three Piece and the gold-foiled Royal Spades.
"I must admit, Mr. Stevenson," Oscar began, his tone carrying genuine professional admiration, "Johnny O’Connor handed me these samples late last night. I’ve spent twenty years managing dining rooms in this city, and I have never tasted a rye with this level of refinement."
"High compliments coming from you, Mr. Tschirky," Ricky said smoothly, keeping his posture relaxed and grounded.
"It’s simply the truth," Oscar said, tapping his finger against the counter. "The Three Piece is an exceptional top-shelf pour. It will easily outperform our current imported reserves in the main dining rooms. But the Royal Spades..."
Oscar paused, shaking his head gently. "That bottle is in a class of its own. It’s divine. It’s a spirit meant for private suites, world leaders, and prominent figures who demand absolute luxury. If you’re willing to supply us, the Waldorf-Astoria wants to establish an exclusive commercial arrangement with your firm."
Ricky took a seat at the sleek marble counter, gesturing for Marek to sit beside him. "We’re open to doing trade, Mr. Tschirky. How much stock are you looking to acquire?"
Oscar leaned against the counter, pulling a small gold pen from his vest. "Let’s start with the Royal Spades. How many crates of the gold label do you currently hold in your warehouse?"
"At the moment," Ricky lied seamlessly, "I have about eighty cases held in reserve."
"And what is your monthly capacity for the Royal Spades?" Oscar asked, his eyes sharp.
Ricky paused for two seconds, pretending to calculate in his head. "I’d have to check with our Atlantic shipping managers, but on average... our craft distillers only release seventy to ninety cases a month for the entire East Coast."
"And the Three Piece?"
"Five hundred to seven hundred cases a month," Ricky replied casually.
Oscar nodded slowly, running the numbers. "Very well. For the Three Piece, the Waldorf would like to place an initial order of forty cases per week at fifteen dollars per case. If our guests respond as well as I expect, we’ll double that volume by next month."
Forty cases a week at fifteen dollars came to six hundred dollars a week—nearly twenty-four hundred dollars a month from a single hotel account.
"As for the Royal Spades," Oscar continued, leaning forward, "I want to reserve ten cases per month for our private parlor suites."
Ricky didn’t hesitate. He shook his head gently.
"I can only spare five cases a month for the Waldorf, Mr. Tschirky," Ricky said flatly.
Oscar’s dark eyebrows raised in surprise. "Only five? Mr. Stevenson, we’re willing to pay your full asking price of twenty-six dollars a case."
"It’s not about the money, Mr. Tschirky," Ricky explained smoothly, utilizing his modern market scarcity strategy. "The Royal Spades is a rare craft. If I flood Midtown with it, the exclusivity vanishes, and the prestige drops. Exclusivity is what makes a luxury label valuable to your high-end guests."
Marek sat quietly beside Ricky, watching the negotiation with quiet awe. He realized Ricky was doing it again—artificially limiting the supply to make the wealthy elite beg for every single bottle.
Oscar stared at Ricky for three long seconds, taking in the young importer’s unshakeable composure. A slow, respectful smile touched the maître d’s lips.
"A man who understands the psychology of luxury," Oscar remarked, nodding in resignation. "Very well, Mr. Stevenson. Five cases of Royal Spades per month. We accept your terms."
"If my suppliers manage to increase their production rate down the line," Ricky added, offering a warm smile, "you’ll be the first call I make."
"I hold you to that promise," Oscar said, holding out his hand. "Your liquor will be a massive hit among our influential stay-in guests. It’s a pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Stevenson."
"For many years to come," Ricky said, shaking Oscar’s hand cleanly to seal the deal.
Ten minutes later, Ricky and Marek stepped out of the sampling room into the wide marble corridor.
The moment they were out of earshot, Marek let out a long, excited breath, a massive grin breaking across his face. "Forty cases a week! Ricky... Jesus Christ! That’s six hundred dollars a week from just one hotel!"
"It’s a solid baseline," Ricky smiled, adjusting his cuffs as they walked toward the elevators. "Now we build on it."
"Where are we heading next?" Marek asked eagerly, pulling his small notebook from his pocket.
"The Plaza Hotel," Ricky said. "Up on Central Park. It’s larger, newer, and the crowd up there has even deeper pockets. But before we return to our wagon, let’s grab a proper breakfast in the main dining room."
They walked into the Waldorf’s grand dining room, where dozens of wealthy patrons sat at white linen tables under soaring crystal chandeliers. The room was bustling with waiters carrying silver trays of eggs, cured hams, and hot pastries.
As the maître d’ guided Ricky and Marek toward a quiet table near the center of the room, Ricky’s eyes casually scanned the guests.
Suddenly, his gaze froze on a man sitting alone at a small corner table.
The man was in his fifties, thin, with sharp, prominent features, a neatly trimmed dark mustache, and immaculate, slicked-back dark hair. He wore a slightly worn dark suit. Spread across his table were dozen sheets of paper and cloth napkins covered in intricate, hand-drawn geometric diagrams, mathematical formulas, and sketches of copper coils.
What caught Ricky’s attention wasn’t the papers—it was the man’s hands.
The man was staring intently into the empty air above his coffee cup, his long, slender fingers making subtle, rhythmic, floating gestures, as if he were physically tracing invisible electrical currents or manipulating invisible gears in midair.
Ricky stopped in his tracks, staring at the man’s face.
"Ricky?" Marek asked, pausing beside him and looking over in confusion. "What’s wrong? You see someone you know?"
Ricky blinked, pulling his gaze away from the thin man in the corner. He shook his head, a dry, faint smile touching his lips as he realized how strange history truly was.
"No," Ricky murmured softly, taking his seat at the table. "Just... thought I recognized a face. Come on, let’s eat."