Streetlight Silhouettes - The Wilted Rose

Old piece of writing from a story I'm almost completely re-writing.

The Wilted Rose

Chesky Venole sneered as he checked his watch, “seventeen minutes, forty-six seconds late,” he spat in disgust, looking out across the tables and booths that made up The Wilted Rose. The Rose was a dingy tavern adorned in dreams of grandeur; its tables were dressed in linens, waited on by bumbling aspirants still clinging to hopeless fantasies and fashioning themselves as part of a grander scene. The central tables were lit by ornate chandeliers which looked as though they had been ordered from stock catalogues. The private booths had their own lighting, imitations of medieval torches. The patrons of the booths appreciated the low-lighting and closed-off section at the back of the building. Their dealings were best kept out of sight.
   
    A waiter noticed Chesky's discomfort, and immediately set upon his table, “Is there anything you need, Mr. Venole, sir?” Chesky raised an eyebrow.
    “I need the best whiskey in the house, no junk, and a coke with lime, not a trace of alcohol in that. Clear.”
    “Yes sir.” The waiter left quickly, having heard of Chesky's legendary impatience.

    Sebastian Dour pulled up in front of The Wilted Rose in his loaned car. He had valet, thanks to Chesky's venerable reputation. He walked through the wood-framed glass doors, held open for him by suited door men, into the faux-glitz of The Rose.
    He weaved his way, without effort, to Chesky's table. He had never seen Chesky Venole in the flesh but had heard enough about him to put together an accurate mental image. Chesky had grown soft over the years of indulging in luxuries, a departure from his youth (bring in photo at some later point)
    “You're twenty-one minutes and thirty two seconds late. There's no excuse you can make that I will except.”
    “I make none.” Sebastian replied.
    “In your tardiness I have taken the liberty to order drinks. Now let's get down to business. The location is, as you are already aware, Hotel 72. You have a room there, under my name. Give the receptionist this card when you check in.” He handed Sebastian a black card bearing the Venole crest. Sebastian slipped it out of sight. “When you get to the room you will follow the instructions my assistant, Seraph,” Chesky nods to a darkhaired man dressed in white, seated nearby, “will provide. This concludes my portion of the discussion.” Seraph rose from his seat and led Sebastian through the dividers into the booth section of the Rose.