The mahogany-paneled cellar of *The Obsidian Quill*, a discreet, members-only speakeasy hidden beneath an unmarked townhouse on East 63rd Street, was quiet except for the low murmur of jazz and the clinking of heavy crystal. In the secluded rear booth, shielded from view by heavy velvet drapes and soundproofing acoustic baffles, Julian Cross sat swirling an eighty-year-old vintage cognac. Opposite him sat Arthur Davenport, cutting the tip of a Cuban…
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