Tiny shook his head at the request for the Napa Valley. "Nah. Last bottle was sold to the Black Swan four days ago. Second-best at the moment is something made by those nutcases up in Pacifica, near the Okanagan valley. Give it a shot; probably tastes like turpentine, though. As for the money, well, the best is going to cost eight ounces of Silver. Least you don't try to pay with Collective scrip. That stuff isn't worth wiping my arse with."<br/><br/>Waving one of the pretty waitresses over to the bar, Tiny handed her a bottle of 1922 Glenlivet. "For the lady in blue, compliments from our resident German." He smiled, watching to make sure the bottle arrived unopened. The waitress, smart as well as pretty, collected all the tags from the pilots that were looking for work, placing them on the same tray as the bottle of Whiskey so Miss Lamarr could go through them at her pace.<br/><br/>Tiny looked at a small clock next to his cash drawer, then pulled out several papers, loosely bound together. "Alright boys and girls; kitchen's open. Get your menus here."<br/><br/>He paused, glaring at the newest arrival to the bar. "Hey! Back of the line, and wait like a proper human being does." One large finger, nearly the size of a hefty bratwurst pointed straight at Maxwell.