The cellar under Arthur Brennan's house on Montauk Road smelled of copper and regret.
Artie, as everyone called him, counted bottles the way other men counted prayers. One hundred and forty-seven cases of Canadian whiskey, sixty of French brandy, and a small collection of rum that came from Nassau in crates marked as agricultural equipment. He ran his hand along the top shelf and felt the smooth glass beneath his palm and thought, briefly, about what it meant to build something...
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