Ryan arrived at O'Leary's just in time to watch the club owner step out to intercept some tired-looking police officer, clearly on his way to catch some speakeasy right in the act, handing him a bottle of what looked like moonshine to keep him quiet. He sort of smiled at the sight; this had been the deal since January 17th. Before, Ryan was just a piano player at the club, taking requests or learning the sheets handed to him from singers, only good about seventy percent of the time because it's not like this was the absolute classiest place in town but it was just unknown enough not to get invaded by cops before midnight. In fact, they usually had 'til dawn before the morning shift arrived, carrying out those who'd drank their body weight and could no longer walk, arresting every bootlegger in sight and cuffing the owner (who always ended up back in two days, anyway, god knows whether someone bailed him out or whether the place was just too crowded after another night of catching those against the Prohibition). Anyway. Ryan stayed outside, dragging on his cigarette long enough to watch the cop accept the drink and go sit out in his patrol car, determinedly in park and keeping other more righteous officers out of the way.

He circled the block to his van and hit the side of it, watched Spencer take his cue to move along to the back of the club and load their shipment inside. He walked through a side door, observed the last of the bar supply running out on a few final orders before Spencer carried in a new keg and set it up beneath the bar. Ryan took pride in this 'new calling' - he didn't half his whiskey like others, didn't dumb it down completely with water or whatever new chemicals criminals were coming up with. Well, saying it like that implied he didn't realize there was no distinction between himself and 'criminals,' when really he knew he was in the same group. He just figured he wasn't scamming people, so he barely counted. He made a tidy profit off of corn sugar and yeast (definitely not his idea; a piano playing background barely gave way for that kind of wisdom), and when he did use the popular glycerin ingredient he'd water it down and promote the newfangled cocktail of mixing it with pop or some other fruit juice. Spencer was the one who introduced beer to their sales, picking up malt syrup in massive quantities and making a huge amount of cash back to cover it.

What set Ryan apart was that he had it in with most doctors around the city. He had a prescription for whiskey and spirits and wine, and because he obviously couldn't use that chip very often, he had his whole team make their rounds through the hospital with their own scripts. Since it was so rare - and he really didn't need the government asking questions about where their own supply was going - he upcharged it, and the hassle was plenty worth it. It's not like he was doing anything totally different from other sellers, in the end. He just had better prices, a better attitude, and didn't come from a huge crime family that put customers in danger. And, well, he was local. Others like him were on a whole other side of the country, and unless you were a real heavy drinker, you probably wouldn't sacrifice that much time just for some watery ass gin. Probably. At this point, Ryan had learned not to judge.

Ryan stubbed out his cigarette on the edge of the bar and watched as Spencer and a handful of other crewhands dragged the shipment in, just in time for the wave of people coming in - as they did nightly. Ryan, on the other hand, only stopped by twice a week to keep the place stocked up. He was a busy guy, and he was valued, evidenced in the way the owner definitely saw him put out his cigarette on the fine wood and had a problem with it, didn't say a word because it was Ryan Rowe doing it. Or maybe he just didn't wanna put a damper on his fancy themed speakeasy. Anyway. Even if Ryan wasn't really intending on sticking around long, he still had to play the game, so he pulled the mask resting atop his head back over his eyes as customers started walking through, their costumes all equally ridiculous and elegant. He was just here long enough to get the rest of his money - he only requested half on an initial payment, the rest was the night of delivery - and then maybe to see the crowd's reactions to his mixes. They weren't [i]all[/i] perfect, it'd only been about a year since the Act took effect and he was getting it down just right, so, ever ambitious, he needed occasional criticism. Not that anyone had any complaints so long as they were getting drunk, and anyway, it's not like they'd say a word to a racketeer that held so much over their head. 

[b]"Weekes,"[/b] Ryan said, cutting into the slightly louder bar, volume rising with the arrival of more people. [b]"You owe me."[/b] It cost him roundabouts fifty cents to make one gallon of liquor. Trust that he charged five dollars per, and at fourty gallons, Dallon owed him $100 for the other half of his payment. The owner looked around for a second, like he really didn't think he was gonna have to close the deal, and then produced a handful of bills from below the counter. Ryan settled down, letting him slip them over discreetly, counting through in a second flat. Great. Guy was suspicious, kind of odd, but he never cut Ryan short. Ryan tucked it away in his clip and when he looked back up Dallon had already wandered away. He leaned over the bar again on both elbow, chancing a glance around and realizing that a man down the counter, finely dressed and golden accented, had seen the whole transaction. Not a red flag, really, Ryan wasn't concerned, but past the mask he was clearly of interest and Ryan had definitely sort of showed off his wealth in a split second there. May as well jump on an opportunity.

He paused to study him, and the getup was really a tell. It was a double entendre to say that he probably didn't take his drinks straight. [b]"Whiskey with mint?"[/b] he asked, just loud enough to be heard, just low enough to keep his voice level, rough. [b]"Smith."[/b] But Spencer clearly already knew his intentions, keeping an eye on him while he found a shaker and poured both of them out glasses. Ryan sort of offered him a side-smile, glad his best friend and business partner knew him all too well, and took both, sliding one over to the stranger while he shifted to a closer seat. [b]"You look like you belong in West 58th."[/b] Much more upscale place. Only reason Ryan wasn't there because he didn't look the part. [b]"What brings you here?"[/b]