Chapter 71: Canvassing
The commotion near the lounge booth broke apart as quickly as it had started. A senior floor manager in a sharp tuxedo stepped between the three socialite women, his voice low and firm as he ushered them back toward their seats, apologizing quietly for the disruption.
Around the lounge, the wealthy patrons settled back into their private conversations. A few young men sitting near the window shot envious, irritated glares in Marek’s direction. Marek just stood there by the booth, rubbing the back of his neck with a bright red face, looking like a man who had barely survived an avalanche.
He hurried over to the bar, slumping onto the leather stool beside Ricky.
"Jesus Christ, Ricky," Marek muttered, dusting off his lapel with trembling hands. "It’s only our second day in Midtown and I’m already causing scene."
Ricky chuckled, taking a slow sip from his crystal glass. "You didn’t cause a scene, Marek. You just attracted a crowd. That’s good for business."
"Felt like being hunted by wolves," Marek grumbled, pulling his collar open a fraction.
Ricky turned his head slightly, his eyes scanning the crowd near the parlor windows, looking for the young blonde woman in the emerald dress. Before he could spot her, a loud, booming voice echoed near the grand entrance.
"Sabrina!" an older man called out, stepping through the glass doors.
The blonde girl at the neighboring table stood up, smoothing her silk skirt. She turned her head toward the bar, catching Ricky’s eye one last time, and offered a soft, genuine wave of her gloved hand before gliding toward her father.
Ricky raised his glass an inch in return, watching her vanish into the lobby crowd.
Sabrina, he thought, the name settling quietly in his mind.
Marek leaned over, eyeing Ricky curiously. "Who was that?"
"I have no idea," Ricky said, looking down at his empty glass. "Didn’t get a chance to ask."
Before they could order another splash, a hotel bellhop in a crisp red uniform stepped up to the marble bar, bowing his head respectfully. "Mr. Stevenson? The head bartender, is waiting for you in the sampling office."
"Thanks," Ricky said, setting a silver quarter on the counter.
He and Marek picked up their wooden sample cases and followed the bellhop down a quiet, carpeted corridor. They were guided into a small, oak-paneled office where the head bartender was sitting behind a heavy mahogany desk, looking over a stack of leather order sheets.
He looked up as they walked in, a genuinely apologetic expression on his face. He gestured for them to sit, but remained standing himself.
"I spoke with the general manager, Mr. Stevenson," he began, his tone regretful. "He tasted the samples I brought up. He admitted the Three Piece and the Royal Spades are exceptional... but he’s standing firm."
Ricky kept his posture relaxed, his gray eyes steady. "What’s his hesitation?"
He let out a soft sigh. "He says the Plaza’s clientele expects established, pure American-made rye or recognized European imports. He isn’t willing to feature an unknown brand, regardless of how good it tastes. He doesn’t want the risk."
Marek’s shoulders slumped slightly, but Ricky simply stood up, smoothing his vest without a trace of disappointment on his face.
"We can’t force a man to buy gold if he prefers copper," Ricky said smoothly, offering a firm, polite handshake to the bartender. "Thanks for your time."
"I’m truly sorry, gents," Solon said, shaking Ricky’s hand. "If it were my call, I’d have taken a hundred crates of the Three Piece today."
Ten minutes later, Ricky and Marek walked down the grand marble steps of the Plaza Hotel into the bright noon sun of Fifth Avenue.
As the valet brought Bartek and the spring-wagon around, Marek looked over at Ricky. "That’s a shame about the Plaza. That manager’s blind."
"He’s cautious," Ricky corrected, climbing up onto the wagon bench and taking the leather reins. "Rich people are stubborn about brand names. They want the label to prove they have money. That’s why we build the brand from the bottom up." He paused, looking back toward the hotel’s glass doors for a brief second. "The only thing I’m actually annoyed about is not getting that girl’s last name."
Marek let out a sudden, dry laugh. "Sabrina? You’re really hung up on her, aren’t you?"
"Come on," Ricky said, snapping the reins lightly. "It’s only noon. We’ve got work to do."
Ricky pulled his leather notebook from his coat, reviewing the list of Midtown establishments he had mapped out during his pre-dawn run.
They spent the next three hours hitting high-end Italian, French, and Chinese dining rooms along 42nd and 48th Streets.
The reception was a mixed bag. At a bustling, upscale Italian restaurant near Lexington Avenue, the owner—a sharp, portly man named Lucchese—tasted the Three Piece and was instantly hooked by the smooth, oaky finish. He placed an advance order for twenty cases on the spot. But when Ricky pitched the gold-foiled Royal Spades, Lucchese shook his head.
"It’s too rich for my blood, kid," Lucchese said, wiping his mustache with a napkin. "My patrons want good wine and a solid whiskey after their pasta. They aren’t paying twenty-six dollars a case for a bottle they’ve never heard of. I’ll take the twenty cases of Three Piece, but I need to see how it sells before I sign up for a weekly drop."
"Fair enough," Ricky agreed, writing down the single bulk order.
At a quiet French bistro and a busy Chinese dining hall near the theater district, the response was similar. Both managers loved the taste of the Three Piece, but they were hesitant to commit to heavy volume for an unbranded, foreign-labeled liquor. They each bought a modest three cases per week, strictly to test their patrons’ reactions.
By the time dusk settled over Midtown, casting long, dark shadows across the paved avenues, Ricky and Marek had secured a handful of orders, but the volume was nowhere near what they had pulled at the Waldorf-Astoria.
They stopped the wagon near 34th Street, watching the electric streetlamps flicker to life.
Marek leaned back against the wooden seat, adjusting his flat cap. "Not as easy as Bleecker Street, is it?"
"Uptown operates differently," Ricky said, looking down at his notebook. "On Bleecker, shopkeepers buy because they need reliable stock and cheap prices. Uptown, brand recognition is everything. If the patrons don’t recognize the label on the bottle, the managers think it’s cheap moonshine."
"So how do we fix it?" Marek asked.
"We make the city talk," Ricky said, his eyes sharp and calculating in the amber lamplight. "Tomorrow morning, we hit the Midtown saloons, taverns, and high-traffic bars. That’s where the word of mouth starts. Once the working men and the hotel chauffeurs start demanding Three Piece by name, the managers will come begging us for stock."
Ricky closed his notebook with a clean, solid snap.
"And starting tomorrow," Ricky added, a sharp, corporate smirk touching his lips, "we don’t just pitch liquor to the restaurants. We pitch seasonings, lard, and high-grade beef. A kitchen can survive without fine rye, but no restaurant in New York can run without butter, salt, and meat. We’ll bring samples tomorrow morning."
"Sounds like a plan," Marek smiled, settling into his coat as Bartek’s hooves clopped steadily down the dark avenue. "We’re not going back to Washington Street empty-handed."