Chapter 60: Tasting
"Come on, have a seat," Jimmy said, his voice easy and conversational in the heavy silence of the shed. He gestured to the three empty wooden chairs opposite him.
Peter didn’t hesitate. He pulled the center chair out and sat, keeping his posture straight. Mickey and Billy flanked him, lowering themselves onto the hard wood as if the chairs were wired with explosives. The fourteen Syndicate men lining the brick walls didn’t move a muscle. They just watched, a solid wall of black wool and flat caps.
Jimmy reached into his inner pocket, pulled out the folded document Ricky had drafted the night before, and laid it flat on the table. He smoothed the creases, then looked up at Peter.
"Did you bring the representation letter?" Jimmy asked. "The one authorizing you as the official voice for the Hudson Dusters?"
Peter reached into his frayed coat, pulled out the thick paper bearing Barney Knox’s angry, scrawled signature, and slid it across the table.
Jimmy picked it up, reading the messy ink in the amber lantern light. A soft, satisfied sigh escaped his lips. He folded the letter neatly and tucked it into his own vest pocket. He then slid Ricky’s drafted agreement, a small glass inkwell, and a steel-nibbed pen across the wood toward Peter.
"Read it over," Jimmy offered, leaning back in his chair. "It’s short."
Peter picked up the paper. It was brief, exactly as Jimmy had promised, but his eyes locked onto the central, heaviest clause written in clean, meticulous copperplate:
Any member acting without the direct authority of the undersigned representative shall be deemed an independent entity acting upon his own account, and the Company shall not be held responsible for the consequences or measures taken resulting from such unauthorized interference.
Peter swallowed the dryness in his throat. It was exactly what he’d feared the night before. If one of Barney’s desperate, starving kids tried to jump a black wagon, this paper gave the commission boys full authorization to shoot them dead in the street.
Without a word, Peter dipped the pen into the inkwell, signed his name cleanly above the line marked Representative, and pushed the paper and inkwell back across the table.
Jimmy smiled, a genuine, gap-toothed grin. He reached into his coat and pulled out a thick wad of bills.
"Now that the paperwork’s done," Jimmy said, counting the cash with quick, practiced flicks of his thumb, "we’d like to express our goodwill to your boss. Sixty dollars. Paid in advance for two weeks of uninterrupted routes."
Peter’s eyes widened a fraction. He took the stack of bills, his thumb brushing over the crisp paper. Forty dollars would go directly into Barney’s pocket to satisfy the new weekly rate. The remaining twenty dollars—thanks to Peter’s calculated markup—belonged entirely to him and his men. It was a fortune.
"Much obliged," Peter muttered, sliding the cash securely into his coat.
Jimmy then pulled another folded piece of heavy linen paper from his breast pocket, sliding it across the table.
"I want you to give this directly to your boss," Jimmy said, his tone shifting into smooth, corporate professionalism. "It’s a business proposition. We’ll discuss the finer details later if he’s interested."
Peter took the letter, carefully tucking it away without opening it. Breaking a seal meant for a lieutenant was a quick way to get a broken jaw. "May I know what kind of business proposition you’re offering him?"
"A commercial agreement," Jimmy said smoothly. "We are willing to offer him exclusive distribution rights on three of our new whiskey brands. A cheap workingman’s pour, a middle-class reserve, and a premium luxury label."
Jimmy raised his hand, snapping his fingers. "Simon."
Simon stepped out from the shadows of the warehouse racks carrying three distinct glass bottles. Marek had dropped a crate with six bottles of whiskey, five minutes before the Dusters arrived, leaving strict instructions from Ricky: Half are for the guests to taste, half are to be sent back as a gift.
Simon set the three bottles down on the table with a heavy, musical clink, alongside four small shot glasses.
Peter, Mickey, and Billy stared at the bottles, their eyes widening with immediate, raw interest.
Jimmy reached for the first bottle. It was a sturdy, thick-glassed fifth with a sleek black label. Printed in clean white text across the front was the brand name: Black Cap. Above the letters sat a simple, sharp symbol of a black flat cap.
Jimmy popped the cork. The sharp, smoky scent of rye hit the air. He poured a finger of the amber liquid into his glass, then filled the other three for Peter and his men.
Jimmy held his glass up to the lantern light, inhaled the aroma, and threw it back. The whiskey burned clean and hot down his throat, lacking the foul, chemical sting of the cheap liquor usually served in the lounge. He let out a highly satisfied exhale, setting the glass down.
Peter and the other two quickly followed suit, tossing their shots back.
Along the brick walls, the silent night-shift crew—Arthur, Frank, Sean, and the others—shifted their weight. Jimmy could practically feel the intense, envious stares boring into the back of his neck. They had been hauling heavy freight all night, and watching Jimmy drink the newly arrived liquor was pure torture.
Knowing exactly what he was doing, Jimmy smiled, casually wiping his mouth. "Phenomenal," Jimmy said loudly, specifically to tease the men in the shadows. "Much better than the swill we usually drink. Not that the standard stock isn’t good, but... you can taste the difference, can’t you?"
Peter coughed lightly, his eyes watering a bit from the heat, but he nodded in genuine surprise. "It’s different, alright. I’ve tried the whiskey you supply to the saloons. The gap is huge. And this is your cheap brand?"
"The workingman’s pour," Jimmy confirmed proudly. He reached for the second bottle.
This one had a slightly more refined, squared glass shape. The label read Three Piece, featuring an elegant, stamped symbol of a man in a tailored three-piece suit checking a pocket watch.
Jimmy popped the cork, pouring a fresh round. They all raised their glasses and drank.
The Three Piece was incredibly smooth, carrying a rich, oaky warmth that coated the tongue without a single harsh edge. Jimmy closed his eyes, nodding slowly. "Best whiskey I’ve ever tasted," he murmured.
Peter licked his lips, looking down at his empty glass in sheer reverence. "I’d pay a dollar for a single shot of this."
"I know, right?" Jimmy chuckled.
Just to twist the knife, Jimmy casually picked up the Three Piece bottle again, pouring a second round for himself and the Dusters. "We’ll just have to taste it again, gents. Just to be sure."
Behind him, Arthur Murphy let out a low, muffled grunt of pure irritation. Even Mickey and Billy, sitting nervously in their chairs, could feel the heavy, maddening aura of the fourteen thirsty men standing in the dark.
Finally, Jimmy set the second bottle aside and reached for the third.
This bottle was entirely different. The glass itself was thick and ornately cut, catching the amber lantern light and refracting it like a prism. The label was a royal gold foil, the brand name Royal Spades stamped in deep black outline. Above the text sat an intricate, elegant symbol of an Ace overlapping a Queen of Spades.
Even Jimmy hesitated before touching the cork. "This bottle looks like it belongs in a museum," he muttered.
He pulled the stopper. Instantly, a deep, incredibly rich aroma of aged oak, caramel, and dark vanilla filled the space around the table. It smelled expensive. It smelled like Wall Street money.
Jimmy poured the final round. He lifted the shot glass, holding it in the air for a brief, respectful second, before throwing it back.
He closed his eyes, leaning his head back against his wooden chair, letting out a long, shuddering sigh of absolute, unadulterated satisfaction.
Peter, Mickey, and Billy drank theirs in total silence. They didn’t speak. They didn’t cough. They just sat there, completely amazed by the taste of a liquor that simply did not belong in a damp river shed on the West Side.
Jimmy gently pushed the cork back into the ornate bottle. "A man would kill to have a crate of this," he said quietly.
"I thought so too," Peter whispered, his voice slightly hoarse.
Jimmy waved his hand. Simon immediately stepped up to the table, carrying a wooden crate containing three fresh, unopened bottles—one of each brand. He set it down near Peter’s boots.
"Make sure you give those to your boss along with the proposal letter," Jimmy said, his tone wrapping up the meeting.
Peter stood up, the rich taste of the Royal Spades still lingering heavily on his tongue. He gave Jimmy a firm, respectful nod. Mickey and Billy quickly followed suit, picking up the wooden crate.
"We’ll pass it along," Peter said. He turned and led his men out of the storage shed, their boots clicking quickly against the wood as they stepped out into the morning mist.
The heavy oak double doors groaned shut behind them, the iron latch dropping into place with a loud clack.
The moment the doors were sealed, the professional silence in the room vanished. The wall of black suits broke as the night-shift crew swarmed the table like a pack of starved wolves.
"Guys, guys, guys, let’s calm down," Jimmy laughed, holding his hands up as Frank and Sean rushed him. "There’s enough for everybody! That was just for the tasting!"
Arthur Murphy shoved Jimmy out of his chair with a heavy shoulder, snatching the bottle of Royal Spades off the table.
"You’ve done more than enough tasting, you bastard," Arthur growled playfully, pulling a tin cup from his coat and pouring himself a heavy, amber shot.
"He poured himself a second shot of the mid-tier just to piss us off!" Frank yelled, grabbing the Three Piece bottle. "Yeah, it’s ours now."
"Fair enough, fair enough!" Jimmy chuckled, straightening his vest as the crew crowded around the table, the sharp, rich scent of the Syndicate’s new empire filling the cold river shed.