What the Vintners Buy

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“I had a little speech worked out. I was going to say, I seek the ultimate pleasure. But this can’t be the place.”

“But it is, Matt Williams.”

“How did you know my name?”

The other closed the door, gestured to the room’s one comfortable, albeit somewhat shabby chair.

“Are you truly surprised?”

Matt Williams took the seat. “No, I guess not, given the circumstances. However, you don’t look like the devil.”

The other brought up the straight back chair that had stood before the small writing desk. “The words of my last client. It is a balderdash term, Matt Williams. In my time, I have sometimes tried to explain. You will forgive me if I do not go into the etymology still once again?”

Matt Williams’ eyes went about the room in calculation, finally came back to his host.

“If you were what you claim you are, you’d be over in the Waldorf, not in this pad.”

“With a tower suite, a magnum of Champagne de Cru, Blanc de Blanc of Cramant, say, 1937, and with that so charming Italian of the cinema… what is her name? The one with the formidible mammary glands.” The voice was distantly mocking.

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