The late afternoon sun was beginning its descent.
Sam stood quietly outside for a moment, listening with the sharpened hearing of a blind man.
Once he was sure the luxury sedans were not in perceptible distance, his cane began tapping rhythmically against the stone as he walked back inside and over to a stone fireplace.
He reached into the cabinet, uncorked an unlabelled bottle of twenty-year-old Pappy Van Winkle bourbon, and poured two generous fingers into heavy cut-crystal beakers.
Walking back, he handed one glass to me by touch, his unseeing eyes turning to the window.
"That was masterful," He said softly, taking a slow sip of the amber liquor. "You let them build the plan with you. That's how you turn employees into fanatics."
I swirled the glass, taking a slow drink. The rich, smoky caramel coated my tongue, warming my chest.
"'A king who thinks he has to have every answer ends up surrounded by yes-men and blind spots.' is what they say." I replied.
