“We’re going to Steve Walker’s on Fifth Street, a little north of here.” After a pause, he continued, “I enjoy hunting also. Spent most of my youth on horseback scouring the wooded countryside for small game to shoot. My mother lectured me severely for leaving the dead carcasses on the ground instead of bringing them home for the cook to produce an evening meal. Never cared much for wild game. But I loved the hunt. Ah, Steve Walker’s. I told you it wouldn’t take long.”
Baker looked around trying to remember if he had ever been in this tavern before. A well-dressed bartender attended the intricately carved sideboard. Fresh-faced tipplers affected a stance to display their attire to the best advantage. Baker decided such a place would have never interested him. The old warrior had no patience for men who avoided soiling their hands from hard work.
After depositing his guest at a table, Bruton went to the bar to place his order. When he returned, he had two small trays holding four shot glasses filled with whiskey and placed one in front of Baker while reserving the second for himself.
“I’m so proud. I didn’t spill a drop. If I had not become a lawyer, I would have made a good waiter. Extending his hand, he tapped the rim of each glass. “Four of the finest whiskies in Philadelphia. I am anxious for you to taste them and tell me which one you like best.”
Baker grabbed Bruton’s right hand, tugged off the soft leather glove and turned it over to examine the palm. Even in the dim light he could discern the remnants of callouses. The young man pulled his hand back, blinked several times before forcing out a light-hearted snigger.
“Excuse my blunt behavior,” Baker explained in a slur, returning the glove to the owner. “It’s just you can learn a lot about a man’s character by the condition of his hands. Though rather pampered now, I can detect a trace of callouses from years past.”
With a natural flair, Bruton fitted the glove back on his hand. “Years of gripping the reins as I galloped through the countryside, my friend.” He sat with aplomb and picked up one of the shots. “Try this one first. The dark amber. It has a nutty aftertaste I think you will like.”
Baker lifted his glass and paused, hesitant because of his experience with English ale. Finally he sipped, then gulped. “Not bad.”
“I’m so pleased.” He leaned back in his chair, his head now completely cloaked in darkness. “So you are considering another appearance before Congress.” Bruton paused as Baker downed his second round of whiskey. “Did you like that blend? I have to admit it’s not one of my favorites but is not without its merits.”
Shrugging, Baker said, “Whiskey is whiskey.” He squinted a couple of times, trying to focus. “They do have a kick, for sure.”
“What you need is a good lawyer to protect your interests in front of Congress. As I said, I’m a lawyer. I would be very proud to represent you. No charge. For patriotism, shall I say?”
“So did you serve in the Army?” Baker glanced at the third whiskey. Only one or two more drinks, and his brain would land in a blissful world of benign acceptance of mere existence.
“To my disgrace, I did not,” Bruton replied with controlled contrition. “My father insisted upon hiring a substitute. Dirty business it was.”
“Dirty business,” he grunted. “You don’t know dirty business like I know it.” He drank his third, and added, “The master of dirty business is former Secretary of War Edwin Stanton. God, I hate that man.”
“You are not the only person who feels that way, I’m sure.”
“Is there a piss pot around here someplace? I gotta go real bad.”
“The cleanest facilities in the drinking district are at the finest establishment, Louis Lesieur’s. On Seventh Street, only two blocks away. And after you relieve yourself, you must have Louis’s cognac, the best liquor in the city. But first you must try your fourth whiskey. I promise it will be the best.”
Baker leaned forward, his mouth agape. He tried to focus on Bruton’s four glasses. “But—but you haven’t finished your first drink.”
“Your mind is playing tricks on you. I’ve finished all of them. Now be a good fellow, drink, drink, drink.”
He gagged as he guzzled the last shot. A definite distress rippled through his gut. “I don’t feel so good. I need to get home.”
“I will be insulted if you do not join me at Louis’s. After all, I am offering my vast legal experience to you at no charge.”