Chapter 67: A Foot In the High Society
The bartender popped the heavy cork on the ornate bottle of Royal Spades. Instantly, a deep, velvety aroma of aged oak, dark caramel, and ripe vanilla drifted over the polished mahogany bar, cutting through the ambient scent of cigar smoke and expensive perfume.
He poured four glasses with meticulous care. As the dark amber liquid settled, the rich, complex bouquet filled the immediate air.
"Even our imported reserves don’t carry a bouquet like this," the bartender murmured, lifting his glass to the light before taking a small, reverent sip. He closed his eyes for a second, letting the spirit coat his tongue. "I can’t even tell you what region this is from. It’s... extraordinary."
Ricky picked up his shot glass, threw it back with easy familiarity, and let the liquid burn warm and clean down his throat. "It calms the mind right down," he said softly, setting the crystal down without a sound.
Marek drank his, smacking his lips in quiet awe. Even though he had tasted it in the storage shed before, the quality hit him fresh every time. "It’s not too sweet, not too fruity," Marek remarked, adjusting his silk tie. "It’s strong, but it finishes smooth without that sharp, cheap bite. Nothing else tastes like it."
Chris threw his shot back in total silence. He didn’t speak right away. He just stared at his empty glass, his eyes wide in absolute, disbelieving amazement.
"The effect is almost serene," the bartender added, shaking his head gently as he wiped down his counter. "It relaxes you instantly. That’s rare for a high-proof rye."
"You sell this, don’t you?" Chris asked, leaning forward on his elbows, his posture suddenly very sharp.
"Of course," Ricky said smoothly, offering a polite, businesslike smile. "I’m an import merchant, Chris."
"How much stock do you have on hand?"
"For theThree Piece, we have steady, reliable volume," Ricky explained, keeping his voice low and exclusive. "For the Royal Spades... stock is strictly limited. It’s a rare craft. We don’t flood the market with it."
"Makes sense," the bartender chimed in, setting his rag down. "A spirit like this takes years in the barrel. You can’t rush quality."
Chris stood up from his stool, buttoning his tailored coat. "Are you going to be in the hotel for the evening?" He looked directly at Ricky. "I won’t promise anything, but I want to tell Don Martinez about this right away. If he’s interested, he’s going to want to see it for himself."
"We’re staying here tonight," Ricky confirmed cleanly. "Take your time."
"Great," Chris said, giving a firm nod to Ricky and Marek before hurrying out toward the main parlor.
The bartender watched Chris leave, then turned back to Ricky, a thoughtful expression on his face. "If you gents are looking to do real volume in Midtown... I can recommend you to our head. He handles our liquor purchasing for the main dining rooms."
Ricky smiled, adjusting his cuffs. "I don’t see why not."
Ten minutes later, the hotel’s head bartender led Ricky and Marek down a secluded, carpeted corridor on the mezzanine floor, stopping outside a pair of polished walnut double doors.
He pushed them open, stepping aside to let them pass.
The room inside was a private tasting lounge—a masterpiece of early Art Deco design. Geometric, polished brass accents lined dark mahogany wall panels, offsetting custom-veined white marble tabletops and imported stone flooring. Warm, dim light glowed from frosted-glass chandeliers and soft wall sconces, illuminating plush, emerald-green velvet armchairs and low-profile leather banquettes. Along the far wall, built-in glass cabinets showcased rare decanters and crystal bottles on backlit, tiered shelves.
Near a sleek marble tasting counter in the center of the room, several well-dressed businessmen in tuxedos and tailored suits sat sipping spirits and conversing quietly.
The head bartender for the private lounge—a sharp, gray-haired Irishman named Johnny O’Connor—looked up as they entered.
"Johnny," the lobby bartender said, gesturing toward Ricky and Marek. "These are the gentlemen, I told you about."
O’Connor gave a crisp nod, taking in the flawless cut of Ricky’s suit. But before he could speak, a side door opened, and Chris walked in, accompanying an older man.
Don Martinez was a man in his sixties, holding himself with a rigid, imposing posture. He wore an immaculate, tailored white wool suit with a matching white fedora, his dark, weathered face framed by a neatly trimmed gray mustache. His eyes were cold, sharp, and calculating—the eyes of an old-world boss who had survived decades at the top.
Chris leaned in, whispering softly in the Don’s ear as he pointed toward the two sample bottles resting in Ricky’s wooden case.
Don Martinez stepped over to the marble counter. He didn’t offer a warm smile. He simply looked Ricky up and down, his gaze heavy and unreadable.
"Christian tells me you carry something extraordinary, young man," Martinez said, his voice deep, raspy, and direct. "I don’t usually entertain street vendors in private lounges, but he insists I try it."
Ricky kept his posture entirely relaxed, meeting the Don’s heavy stare without a single trace of flinching. "I’m Richard Stevenson, sir. Representing the Atlantic & Pacific Trading House. We don’t peddle street stock. We handle exclusive imports."
"Words are cheap in Midtown," Martinez said flatly, gesturing toward the counter. "Let’s see if the glass backs ’em up."
Johnny O’Connor stepped behind the marble bar, pulling two clean crystal glasses. Ricky stepped forward, opening the square bottle of Three Piece first, allowing the head bartender to pour a finger into each glass.
Martinez picked up his glass, swirled the amber liquid against the crystal, and took a slow, deliberate sip. Johnny O’Connor followed suit.
O’Connor’s eyebrows shot up instantly. "Top shelf," the head bartender murmured in genuine surprise. "Exceptionally smooth. It’s got an oaky sweetness that coats the mouth clean."
Don Martinez swallowed slowly. He didn’t gasp, but a subtle, rare nod of approval touched his dark face. "Unique," Martinez admitted, setting his glass down. "It’s got character. I like it."
Ricky then reached for the next bottle, pulling out the ornate, gold-foiled bottle of Royal Spades.
The moment the thick-cut glass bottle hit the marble counter, catching the warm chandelier light, both Don Martinez and O’Connor froze. The sheer visual elegance of the bottle was staggering—it looked less like a liquor container and more like a piece of royal art.
O’Connor popped the stopper. The deep, rich aroma of caramel, aged oak, and vanilla instantly filled the space around the counter, drawing the subtle attention of two nearby businessmen.
O’Connor poured two fresh glasses. Martinez lifted his, inhaled the aroma deeply, and threw it back.
The silence that followed between the two men was absolute, heavy, and deafening.
For three full seconds, Don Martinez didn’t move a muscle. He closed his eyes, his chest rising and falling in a long, quiet breath as the complex, serene warmth of the Royal Spades washed over his senses.
Johnny O’Connor stared at his empty glass, his jaw slackened. "My God..." O’Connor whispered softly, looking up at Ricky in utter disbelief. "It’s... it’s like a potion. It doesn’t even burn. It just calms you right down."
Don Martinez opened his eyes. The cold, skeptical glare had completely vanished, replaced by a deep, fierce spark of absolute conviction.
"This..." Martinez said raspy, running a thumb over the marble counter. "This is exactly what I’ve been looking for."
Martinez looked up, his dark eyes locking onto Ricky with immense, newly minted respect. "Young man... I want to discuss a formal distribution arrangement with your firm. Join me for dinner in the main dining room at eight o’clock."
Ricky offered a calm, graceful nod, accepting the invitation as if he had expected it all along. "It would be my pleasure, Don Martinez."
"Eight sharp," Martinez said, giving Ricky a firm, heavy nod before turning to walk toward the private lounge’s exit, flanked by Chris Thompson.
Johnny O’Connor watched them leave, then looked back at Ricky, a broad, respectful smile touching his face. "I’m going to speak directly to the maître d’ about your stock, Mr. Stevenson. If you’re willing to part with the rest of these sample bottles... the hotel would be glad to purchase them for testing."
"There’s no need to purchase the samples," Ricky said smoothly, pushing the opened bottles of Three Piece and Royal Spades across the marble wood. "Consider them a gift to the house. We can discuss the commercial orders after dinner."
O’Connor’s eyes widened in genuine appreciation. "Much obliged, Mr. Stevenson."
Ricky gave a clean nod, turned, and walked out of the sampling room, with Marek trailing half-a-step behind him.
Once they reached the quiet marble corridor outside, Marek let out a long, shuddering breath, a massive, disbelieving smile breaking across his face. "Ricky... Jesus Christ. You just landed a Don and the Waldorf-Astoria in ten minutes."
"It’s just the introduction, Marek," Ricky said, his gray eyes bright with unshakeable, calculating certainty as they walked toward the front desk to book the hotel’s finest top-floor suite. "Now... we negotiate the price."