The clerk shrugged. "Retail price. I don't believe in gouging people for nostalgia."
"I didn't say I didn't have it," the man interrupted, a slow smile creeping across his face. "I said it was hard to find."
Julian stared at the bottle like it was a pirate's treasure chest. "You have no idea what this means to me. How much?"
The old man turned and walked toward the back of the store, disappearing into a maze of towering shelves. Julian waited, listening to the muffled sounds of bottles being shifted. Minutes ticked by. Julian was about to give up and leave when the man reappeared, carrying a bottle coated in a thin layer of dust.
The neon sign above Miller’s Liquor Emporium buzzed with a low, rhythmic hum that matched the nervous tapping of Julian’s fingers on the steering wheel. It was 11:45 PM on a Tuesday, and he was on a desperate, late-night quest for a ghost. Specifically, a liquid ghost. Bacardi Torched Cherry Rum.
"Help you find something, kid?" the man asked without looking up.
