Chapter 68: Old Connections
The private dining room on the mezzanine floor of the Waldorf-Astoria smelled of roasted venison, aged wine, and fine Cuban tobacco. A polished mahogany table sat in the center of the plush Persian rug, illuminated by a low-hanging brass chandelier.
Don Martinez sat at the head of the table, his white wool suit immaculate against the dark wood. Across from him sat Ricky and Marek, both dressed in their tailored suits. Chris stood discreetly near the door, his hands clasped behind his back, keeping a quiet watch.
Plates of prime beef, buttered asparagus, and roasted potatoes were set before them by a silent waiter who poured heavy red wine into crystal glasses before retreating.
Don Martinez picked up his fork, though his dark, calculating eyes remained locked on Ricky.
"I built my business from the ground up, young man," Martinez said, his raspy voice cutting cleanly through the soft hum of the hotel string quartet outside. "Over forty years in Miami and along the coast. I’ve survived betrayals by my own blood, survived wars with rival outfits, and suffered losses that would have broken weaker men."
Martinez sliced a small piece of venison, chewing slowly before continuing. "When you reach my age, you realize something. Money is just paper and silver. It comes and goes. What matters is leaving a legacy. Putting your name in the history books so people remember who you were... no matter if they judged you good or evil."
Ricky took a quiet sip of his wine, letting the Don speak. He didn’t interrupt. He knew old-world bosses liked to lay down their philosophy before touching a single line of business.
"Do you ever deal in the liquor trade yourself, Don Martinez?" Ricky asked casually, shifting the conversational rhythm with practiced ease.
Martinez let out a dry, raspy chuckle. "I used to. It was one of my very first investments thirty years ago. But I learned the hard way that the commercial market is a swamp. Too much competition, too many crooked inspectors, too many low-class distillers selling chemical bathwater."
Martinez set his fork down, his posture rigid. "Not that I couldn’t have bought out the competition. But I appreciate genuine art. I admire a man who has the talent to design and cook up something magnificent. Liquor is the only thing a working man or a Don can use to pour out his bottled-up resentment. It’s a distiller’s duty to create something that washes those resentments away."
Martinez looked directly at the square bottle of Three Piece and the ornate Royal Spades sitting on a side tray. "When I drank your Royal Spades in the sampling room an hour ago... it was the first time in twenty years that the old ghosts haunting my mind went quiet. It took the edge off."
Ricky smiled faintly. He reached into his leather sample case resting beside his chair, pulled out a second, unopened bottle of Royal Spades with its shimmering gold foil label, and laid it flat on the mahogany table.
"Consider it a gift, Don Martinez," Ricky said smoothly.
Martinez looked at the gold label, then raised an eyebrow at Ricky. "A gift? No. I never accept gifts from businessmen I haven’t done trade with, Mr. Stevenson. A man who accepts gifts builds a debt, and I don’t owe any man. Besides... a spirit like that is too valuable to give away for free."
Ricky didn’t argue. He simply offered a polite, understanding nod. "Fair enough, sir."
"Now," Martinez said, leaning his elbows on the table, his demeanor turning sharp and commercial. "Let’s talk business. I want three hundred crates of your Three Piece whiskey. And I want every single bottle of the Royal Spades you currently have in your warehouse."
Beside Ricky, Marek kept his face completely deadpan, though his mind was racing. Watching the interaction unfold, Marek realized Ricky had been dead-on during their carriage ride to Midtown: rich elites didn’t want a hard, desperate sales pitch. They wanted a social connection first, and only when the respect was established did the real money move.
"Three hundred crates of the Three Piece is no problem, Don Martinez," Ricky said cleanly. "As for the Royal Spades... as I mentioned earlier, our craft stock is strictly limited. If I flood the market with it, the exclusivity vanishes and the value drops."
Ricky paused, letting his modern market logic sink in. "Demand is what gives a brand its power."
Martinez stared at Ricky for two long seconds, then let out a rich, deep laugh that made Chris glance over from the doorway in surprise.
"A kid who understands market scarcity," Martinez remarked, shaking his head with genuine amusement. "Very well. How many crates of the Royal Spades can you spare me today?"
"I can clear twenty crates for you immediately," Ricky said.
"Where do you want the shipment delivered, Don Martinez?" Ricky asked.
"You don’t need to haul it through Manhattan," Martinez said, waving a hand dismissively. "My men run drayage off the piers. You just deliver the stock to the Miami freight line at Pier 11 on the East River. My crew will load the steamship themselves, and I’ll cover the harbor freight fees."
Martinez pulled a fountain pen from his vest pocket, along with a thick, heavy business card made of cream-colored cardstock. "What’s the total?"
Ricky ran the math in his head instantly. "Three hundred crates of Three Piece at fifteen dollars a crate comes to four thousand five hundred dollars. Twenty crates of Royal Spades at twenty-six dollars a crate comes to five hundred and twenty dollars. The total is five thousand twenty dollars."
Martinez didn’t even blink at the five-thousand-dollar figure. He scrawled a signature across the back of the card, along with a address printed in gold leaf: White Rose Trading Company — Miami / New York. He slid the card across the table to Ricky.
"Deliver the crates to Pier 11 by Thursday morning," Martinez instructed, his tone firm and authoritative. "My manager at the pier will hand your driver the remaining balance upon inspection. If the quality matches what I drank tonight... I’ll be calling your firm for triple that amount next month."
Ricky picked up the card, tucking it securely into his inner vest pocket. "It’s a pleasure doing business with you, Don Martinez."
An hour later, Ricky and Marek returned to their suite on the top floor of the Waldorf-Astoria.
The suite was vast and ridiculously luxurious, featuring plush velvet sofas, polished oak writing desks, and floor-to-ceiling curtained windows overlooking the glowing streetlamps of Midtown.
Marek had barely taken off his polished leather shoes before collapsing onto the massive, feather-stuffed bed in the bedroom, snoring softly within minutes from the unaccustomed wine and the exhaustion of the high-society pitch.
Ricky stood by the tall window in the parlor, holding a small glass of Three Piece whiskey. He looked down at the dark avenues below, watching the tiny, distant shapes of hansom cabs and rare motorcars moving through the city.
He took a slow sip, feeling the warm, oaky finish coat his throat.
If this is how it feels at the top, Ricky thought to himself, looking out over the silent, glowing skyline of Manhattan, it’s a hell of a lot lonelier than drinking beer in the basement lounge with Arthur and the boys.
Back on Washington Street, he had his crew, his noise, his daily routine. Up here, surrounded by silk curtains and marble fireplaces, he was just a ghost from 2026 manipulating historical capital.
Later on, a soft discreet knock at the suite’s front door broke his train of thought.
Ricky set his glass on the mahogany side table, walked across the plush carpet, and opened the door.
Standing in the carpeted hallway was a hotel bellhop in a crisp red uniform, pushing a small brass room-service trolley. Resting on the white linen tablecloth of the trolley was a small, heavy leather satchel.
"Compliments of Don Ricardo Martinez, sir," the bellhop said respectfully, bowing his head slightly.
Ricky picked up the leather satchel. It was surprisingly heavy. He unbuckled the brass latch and peeked inside: stacked in neat, thick paper wrappers were crisp, uncirculated fifty-dollar and hundred-dollar banknotes—a fifteen-hundred-dollar advance payment for Thursday’s Pier 11 delivery.
"Thank you," Ricky said, handing the bellhop a silver dollar tip.
"Thank you, Mr. Stevenson! Have a wonderful evening, sir!" the bellhop beamed, bowing again before wheeling the empty trolley down the corridor.
Ricky closed the heavy oak door and slid the brass bolt shut.
He carried the satchel over to his writing desk, dumping the stacks of cash onto the dark wood. He ran his fingers over the paper bills.
Don Ricardo Martinez... White Rose Trading Company, Ricky thought, his mind analyzing the new connection.
He hadn’t expected the old man in the white suit to be the Don of a massive Florida-based syndicate. Martinez had treated him like a respectable import merchant tonight, but Ricky knew how the old-world mob operated. Martinez’s men would almost certainly run a background check on the Atlantic & Pacific Trading House.
Ricky wasn’t worried. Phill and James McClain had forged their corporate registries and shipping licenses so flawlessly that any surface check by a gang’s spotter would show a clean, registered firm operating out of Jersey and Manhattan.
Still, having a direct commercial link to the White Rose in Miami opened up massive strategic possibilities. While he wasn’t looking to form a full political alliance with an out-of-state mob just yet, securing an exclusive supply line with Martinez gave the Founder’s Syndicate a foot in the southern ports. In the future, once Ricky established total control over the lower Manhattan routes, he could negotiate a two-way trade agreement—accessing Miami’s ocean routes while supplying Martinez with luxury contraband.
More importantly, landing the Waldorf-Astoria account and Don Martinez’s bulk order guaranteed thousands of dollars in high-margin daily income.
Even if Barney and the Hudson Dusters tried to squeeze his Greenwich Village wagons next week, Ricky now held an untouchable financial fortress uptown.
Ricky took another slow drag from his cigarette, blowing a thin stream of smoke toward the chandelier. He didn’t want a violent war on the West Side, but if the Dusters pushed too far, he wouldn’t hesitate. He wouldn’t need a bloody, public shootout that attracted precinct coppers. He’d just surgically eliminate the leaders, leave a warning in the dark, and let the rest of the gang shatter from the inside.
Ricky smiled faintly, turning away from the window as he headed toward his bed, ready for whatever Thursday morning brought to the East River piers.