The afternoon sun scorched Bowery Street, glaring off the mottled brick walls and pockmarked asphalt. Shane's shadow shifted with each step, sometimes shrinking at his feet, other times stretching toward a trash can at the street corner.
He tightened his grip on the coarse cloth bag in his hand, stopping for the third time in front of a small shop with a faded sign: "Specializing in Bird Taxidermy."
In the dusty display window, a faded blue jay specimen tilted its head, its glass eyes glinting with a chilling gleam.
As Shane turned, his heel struck a loose paving stone, and a faint chalk mark on the corner of the wall caught his attention—an anchor pattern, hastily drawn and partially washed away by rain. It matched the symbol on Old Anthony's note perfectly.
Shane crouched, pretending to tie his shoelace, fingers brushing over the chalk mark. The shop was inconspicuous, with tightly shut windows and a door that left little impression on passersby. In a quiet corner, several stacks of empty wooden crates gave off a musty, slightly sour aroma mixed with lingering whiskey scent.
Finally, Shane pushed open the door and stepped inside. Following the directions on Anthony's note, he discovered a hidden panel. Standing in front of the mottled doorway of The Blue Bird, he raised his hand and tapped a secret rhythm on the door: three quick knocks, followed by two long ones.
A moment later, a peephole slid open, revealing a pair of wary eyes. Shane lowered his voice: "The Blue Bird is singing."
The eyes studied him for a few seconds, then the door slowly opened. A burly man with a neck tattoo and a faint scent of gunpowder and mint stepped aside, expressionless. Shane slipped inside, the dim corridor ahead carrying muffled music and quiet chatter.
At the end of the hall, another heavy door led to the main room. Shane pushed open the leather-clad oak door.
Sunlight filtered through a single stained-glass window, scattering colored patches on the floor of The Blue Bird Bar. Despite the afternoon hour, two tables were occupied: an old man in a felt hat staring at his whiskey, and two young men in suits whispering in the shadows.
Blue tobacco smoke swirled lazily in the air, mingling with the scent of alcohol. Two waitresses in sequined skirts leaned against the oak counter, their soft laughter occasionally punctuating low conversation. In the corner, a record player spun "St. Louis Blues," its worn edges producing a faint scratching in the melody.
Behind the bar, a bartender shook a cocktail mixer, ice clinking crisply in his hands. Shane's eyes scanned the room, noticing two burly men near the back door, hands resting near their concealed pistols.
Shane approached the bar, setting his cloth bag down. "I was introduced by Anthony. I have some goods and wish to speak with Mr. Moran."
The bartender nodded toward the back. Shane picked up the bag and followed, passing through a narrow corridor flanked by two heavyset men, their concealed holsters just visible beneath suit jackets. At the bartender's signal, Shane knocked on the left door. A hoarse voice called, "Come in."
The room was dim, lit by faint sunlight filtering through curtained windows. Two old oil paintings hung on the walls, and a heavy oak desk sat in the corner. Behind it was a middle-aged man in a dark vest, cigar smoke curling around him, obscuring his expression.
"Introduced by Anthony?" the man said, his voice coarse like sandpaper. "I hear you have quality merchandise."
Shane placed two bottles from his bag on the desk. The labels, though blurred in the dim light, indicated European origin.
Moran picked up a bottle, examining it against the light. A onyx ring on his finger gleamed coldly. "Good liquor. How many bottles?"
"Five of Jameson whiskey, six of brandy, two Martell," Shane replied steadily. "All top-grade, sourced reliably."
Moran set down his cigar, leaning forward with a probing tone. "Price?"
Prepared, Shane stated clearly, "$36 per whiskey bottle, $60 per brandy. If you buy all, I can offer a discount."
Moran chuckled. "Too high. The market isn't short on liquor, just quality. Yours is good, but not worth that much."
Shane's tone remained steady. "I understand. But this batch is rare. With St. Anthony's Day coming next week, it will sell quickly."
Moran paused, considering. He re-lit his cigar, exhaled slowly, and said, "$27 per whiskey, $45 per brandy. Bottom line. Take it or leave it."
Shane quickly calculated in his mind. Though lower than hoped, it was still significant. More importantly, a deal with The Blue Bird Bar could open future opportunities. Pretending to ponder, he extended his hand. "Deal, Mr. Moran."
Moran's handshake was firm, dry but measured. Only after feeling Shane's equal grip did he smile genuinely.
"Shane," Moran called to the bartender, "future transactions go through Matteo. He'll handle the payments."
When Shane left The Blue Bird, the sky was darkening. He paused at the street corner, glancing back at the disguised shop door. The blue jay in the lintel swayed lightly in the evening breeze.
He knew this was just the beginning. The road ahead was long—but he had taken his first crucial step.