Chapter 70: Three in One
The dapple-gray horse Bartek pulled the hired, enclosed spring-wagon to a smooth halt along the grand entrance of Fifth Avenue and 59th Street.
Outside, the autumn air was crisp and smelled cleanly of Central Park’s falling leaves, damp pine, and freshly scrubbed limestone—a stark, luxurious contrast to the thick bituminous coal smoke and wet manure of the lower West Side docks. Towering above them sat the Plaza Hotel, a magnificent, eighteen-story French Renaissance castle of white marble, green slate roofs, and gleaming gold-leaf balconies.
A uniformed hotel valet wearing a sharp navy-blue coat with polished brass buttons stepped down to the curb, taking Bartek’s leather reins. He glanced twice at the wagon’s plain black side-boards, then looked up at the tailored, high-end cut of Ricky’s and Marek’s suits. The expensive wool overrode any hesitation, and the valet quickly tipped his cap.
"I’ll have the rig parked in the commercial livery on 58th, gentlemen," the valet said, bowing slightly. "Shall I have a bellhop assist with your cases?"
"We’ve got ’em," Ricky said smoothly, handing the valet a silver half-dollar. "Keep the horse watered."
"Yes, sir. Right away, sir."
Ricky adjusted his silk tie and gold cuff links as he and Marek walked up the grand marble steps, pushing through the heavy glass-and-brass revolving doors.
Inside, the lobby unfolded in a sleek, Grecian motif. Deep mahogany paneling framed custom-veined marble floors and fluted white stone columns, illuminated by the warm, amber glow of frosted-glass sconces. It felt slightly more intimate than the soaring, cavernous grand hall of the Waldorf-Astoria, but the modern, early 20th-century luxury was unmistakable.
Instead of wandering around trying to find an executive desk, Ricky led Marek straight toward the private sampling lounge on the lower mezzanine.
The sampling room was an intimate, Art Deco parlor lined with plush emerald-green velvet banquettes and backlit glass cabinets displaying rare decanters and crystal bottles. Behind a sleek marble counter stood a sharp, dark-vested bartender polishing a crystal glass.
Ricky stepped up to the marble bar, setting down two wooden sample cases containing their high-end stock—the square, gold-stamped Three Piece and the ornate, gold-foiled Royal Spades.
"Good afternoon," Ricky said casually. "Pour two glasses, if you would."
The bartender popped the cork on the Royal Spades. The moment the deep, velvety bouquet of aged oak, dark caramel, and ripe vanilla filled the immediate air, three nearby gentlemen in tuxedos paused their conversation, turning their heads toward the counter.
The bartender poured a small splash, lifted the glass, and took a cautious, reverent sip. His eyes widened in absolute, silent shock. He looked at the ornate bottle, then up at Ricky.
"My word..." the bartender whispered softly. "I’ll... I’ll send a bellhop for the hotel manager immediately, sir. Please, take a seat in the parlor."
"We’ll wait," Ricky said offering a clean nod.
As the bartender hurried out through a side door, the rich aroma of the Royal Spades continued to drift through the parlor. It didn’t take long before several wealthy guests mingling nearby approached the counter, drawn by the scent and curiosity.
Ricky handled a group of three older businessmen with effortless, relaxed charm, fielding their questions about imported distribution while revealing nothing about their shadow warehouse on Washington Street.
Marek, however, was suddenly thrown straight into deep water.
Three young, wealthy women in sweeping silk evening gowns and pearl necklaces drifted over from a leather banquette, surrounding the quiet Polish boy.
"You’re awfully young to be handling international shipping, aren’t you?" a pretty brunette with a feather fan asked, stepping close enough that her sweet French perfume washed over Marek. She offered him a bright, teasing smile. "What did you say your name was?"
Marek froze, his collar suddenly feeling five sizes too tight. His hands twitched near his lapels, his face flushing a bright, furious red under his light skin. He had spent his whole life shoveling coal and hauling flour sacks; he had never in his life had three high-society women leaning in, giggling at every word he uttered.
"I... well, my name is Marek, ma’am," he stammered out, his voice cracking slightly before he caught himself. "My associate and I... we represent the Atlantic & Pacific Trading House."
"Atlantic and Pacific! How romantic," a second girl in a blue silk dress laughed, playfully taking Marek by his sleeve. "Come sit at the bar with us while you wait for the manager. You can tell us all about your steamships."
"Oh, yes, please do!" the third girl chimed in.
Marek shot a desperate, wide-eyed look over his shoulder toward Ricky, his eyes practically begging for a rescue.
Ricky caught Marek’s panicked gaze from across the bar. Instead of stepping in, Ricky just smirked, raised his glass in a silent, mocking toast, and gestured good luck with a subtle nod. Dealing with wealthy clients required social experience, and letting Marek get thrown into the deep end with a trio of Midtown debutantes was the fastest way to build confidence.
As the girls giggled and dragged a thoroughly distressed Marek toward a lounge booth, the group of businessmen Ricky had been chatting with politely excused themselves to attend a scheduled luncheon, leaving Ricky standing alone at the counter.
Ricky turned his head toward the main parlor window.
And then he saw her.
Sitting at a small marble table near the window was a young woman in her early twenties. She had striking, brilliant blonde hair styled in soft, elegant waves, wearing a simple yet extraordinarily high-class emerald-green evening dress. She was laughing softly, listening to an older man in his sixties—likely her father or a prominent family elder—who was reading a folded newspaper over a silver coffee pot.
Ricky stopped. Something inside his chest gave a sudden, unexpected thud.
In a modern 2026 world of social media, filters, and casual dating apps, Ricky had never paid much attention to romance. He was an eighteen-year-old running a shadow logistics empire in 1910, completely hyper-focused on survival, money, and muscle.
But as the young woman looked up from her coffee cup, her bright blue eyes accidentally locked directly onto Ricky’s gray gaze across the parlor.
Ricky didn’t look away. He kept his posture relaxed, stepping back against the marble bar, and raised his glass toward her with a smooth, silent gesture of greeting.
The young woman didn’t scowl or turn up her nose. A genuine, slightly amused smile touched her lips, and she gave him a subtle, elegant wave with her gloved hand before looking back toward her father’s newspaper.
Ricky looked down at his glass, a sudden, rare flush of sheepish heat touching his neck. He felt almost like a high school kid again. He turned away before her father could notice the unspoken exchange, not wanting to ignite a scene with a Midtown aristocrat.
He took a slow sip of his whiskey, looking over at Marek. The Polish boy was sitting awkwardly in a plush velvet armchair, surrounded by the three young ladies who were pouring him tea and laughing at his hesitant answers. Ricky chuckled to himself. At the very least, Marek was getting a crash course in high-society manners.
The bartender returned to the bar, wiping the polished counter with a clean cloth. "The manager will be down in just a few minutes, Mr. Stevenson. Would you care for another pour while you wait?"
"Might as well," Ricky said smoothly, pushing his glass forward. "Fill it up."
The bartender poured a fresh finger of the Royal Spades.
Before Ricky could pick it up, a soft rustle of silk sounded beside him, and the young blonde woman in the emerald dress sat down on the high-backed leather stool right next to his.
Ricky turned his head in quiet surprise.
She offered a bright, confident smile, leaning her elbow against the marble wood. "You were staring at me earlier," she said, her voice light, clear, and dripping with high-class refinement.
Ricky didn’t flinch. He picked up the shot glass, sliding it gracefully across the counter toward her. "You were mistaken, ma’am," Ricky said, a dry, confident smirk touching his lips. "I was staring at the gentleman behind you."
The young woman let out a soft, delighted laugh, picking up the crystal glass. "You’re terrible at lying, aren’t you."
She lifted the shot to her lips, taking a small, cautious sip of the high-proof rye. She froze for a fraction of a second as the rich, velvety warmth of oak, caramel, and vanilla coated her tongue, finishing with absolute, serene smoothness without a single harsh burn.
Her eyebrows raised in genuine, disbelieving amazement. "Oh... wow. I usually only drink French champagne or sherry at my mother’s dinners... but this is divine. It doesn’t taste like a man’s heavy liquor at all."
"I’m glad it meets your standards," Ricky said, leaning against the counter beside her. "I’m Richard Stevenson."
"I’m—"
Before she could finish her sentence, a sudden, loud, chaotic chorus of shouting, high-pitched squeals, and crashing glassware erupted from the lounge booth behind them.
"Wait! Please, ladies! Stop!" a desperate voice cried out.
The ambient string music in the main parlor cut out as several guests gasped. Down the carpeted corridor, three young socialite women were loudly arguing over who got to sit next to a thoroughly overwhelmed, red-faced Marek, knocking over a tray of tea cups in the process.
The young blonde woman frowned, looking toward the lounge booth in surprise. "Goodness... what is going on over there?"
Ricky stood up straight, his gray eyes instantly catching the sight of Marek practically sinking into the velvet cushions as the three women swarmed him. Ricky’s hand automatically dropped toward his vest, his posture shifting into a tight, amused yet alert stance as he stepped toward the booth to see how his partner was going to survive the onslaught.