produced that particular year. It was a bad harvest, terrible rains practically ruined the season.” “Only 400 bottles and Martinelli’s has one?” Griff turned to the bartender. The bartender held up both hands as if halting traffic. “They brought it with them, buddy. I just opened it. My hands trembled the whole damn time. $5,000.” He shook his head. “What if I crumbled the cork in it?” “You did fine,” the man with the monogrammed cuffs said. “No restaurant would have this vintage” the shorter man said to Griff. “Most of the wine from that harvest was bought by a single collector in Manhattan, but he died without an heir.” “The bank got it all,” the taller man added. “Who knows what happened to it after that. I don’t think many bottles even exist today.” “But that’s one of them?” Griff asked, pointing at the wine. The taller man nodded. “It was Bill’s idea to buy it,” the shorter man said, gesturing to the empty stool with his chin. “For $5,000? I didn’t pay that much for my Chrysler,” Griff said. God, how Val would like a BMW like the one parked out front, even a used one with a lot of miles.
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