When Wally came to once more, it was to another slap on the face, this one a softer and gentler one that caused him to raise his head and peer in a dazed sort of way at a face hovering directly in front of him, above a chair turned backward.
The face, an oval of fat above a crooked tie, became animated with Italian-accented speech. “Francesco Yale.”
Wally screwed his eyes into focus. “Walter Bayer.”
“Yale” flashed a smile out of his scowl, then held up a half-empty bottle of Wally’s gin. “Quite a product you have, Mister Bayer.”
“Thanks.”
Yale cocked his head back towards the door, where Jules stood as a silent guard with hands held before him. “Jules told me everything. I’m impressed that someone would send you to one of my bartenders for help with distribution.”
Wally only nodded silently.
“I tell you what, Mister Bayer, I’m interested in helping you distribute this gin of yours. At the very least, many people would be interested in stocking up before it all runs out. Have you talked to anyone else about this?”
Wally shook his head.
“Good. I’ll need more samples. Could you have a hundred gallons of this stuff to me before June?”
“I wouldn’t call a hundred gallons—”
“Do you want to do business with me or not, Mister Bayer?”
|
