Libiamo Bar
Downtown Manhattan
1960

"Dick?"

Leaning against the bar, Don Draper felt a shock pulsate from his heart when he heard the name. He knew that looking up had already given him away, but he stared directly at the bottles of liquor lined up neatly in front of the wide mirror.

"Dick Whitman. I thought you were dead. Or, at least that's the story I heard."

Finally recognizing the voice, Don turned to his right. Although slight wrinkles had already begun to crease other the man's face, Don recognized him from his time in Korea.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Don said before turning back towards the bar.

The man removed a packet of cigarettes from his breast coat pocket. "Dead men aren't supposed to know anything, Mr. Whitman. Or is it Draper?"

Don looked back at his uninvited visitor, who began lighting a cigarette. "What the hell do you want?"

After focusing on lighting his cigarette, the man's blue eyes looked back up at Don. After his initial puff, he removed the cigarette from his mouth. "Nothing really. I just happened to see you here, so I thought I would congratulate you on your work."

"What do you mean?"

Indicating the packet of cigarettes he set on the bar, the man said, "Morleys are my brand. But, I must say that I almost considered switching to Lucky Strike." Smiling, he added, "'Toasted.' That's genius."

Don stared at the man. "How do you know about this?"

"I have connections, Mr... Draper. I've heard about your work with Sterling Cooper. Without you, they would be falling even further behind the times."

Feeling himself become tense, Don decided to play what he perceived as the man's game. "All right. What do you want from me... Spender?"

"I see our conversation just got a little more convivial." Spender commented sardonically. "I'm actually en route to Martha's Vineyard to visit a colleague, but I'm here in New York on other business. And of all the gin joints in town, I find you in this one."

"What are you, an existential comedian?"

"We have a way with words, you and I," Spender replied. "I hope to become a novelist someday. What about you?"

"I'm happy at my job with Sterling Cooper."

"Yes. Or at least content. Nice and safe, snuggled behind a desk with a bottle to get the words flowing. A few words from you, and millions decide, 'I want that.'" Spender puffed on his cigarette. "I can't blame you, considering what happened to your doppelgänger."

"What agency are you with?"

"A little different in scope from yours, Mr. Draper. But we could still use someone with your skills for some propaganda."

"Politics," Don surmised. "You must be with the Kennedy camp."

Spender smiled. "It depends on the eventual outcome, Mr. Draper."

"That doesn't even make sense," Don said. "Whatever that's supposed to mean, I'm not interested."

"I understand. You don't want to inconvenience your wife and family." He paused. "Or that Beat dame you're banging."

Don lept from his stool, grabbing the lapels of Spender's jacket. "Listen. If you're here to blackmail me..."

The rage in Don's eyes contrasted with the preternatural calm he encountered in Spender's. "You disappoint me, Draper." He turned towards the rest of the bar. "A man who can manage to keep all kinds of secrets, and yet let a few words draw attention to himself."

Don noticed that people at several tables had turned towards him and Spender, waiting to see if they would start slugging each other.

"Is everything all right here," the bartender asked.

Draper let go of Spender's lapels as they both turned towards the bartender. "Yes," Draper said. "Everything's fine."

The bartender nodded, returning to wiping glasses.

"Blackmail," Spender chuckled, adjusting his jacket. "I'm sorry if it came across that way, Draper." Noticing that his cigarette had fallen to the floor, he discretely ground it with his left foot.

"My apologies for not understanding your intentions," Don said. "But I'm still not interested."

"You haven't even heard what I have to offer."

"Sorry, Spender. But I'm tired of moving around. I have what I want. A great-paying job. Wife. Two kids..."

"You have indeed turned bourgeois," Spender said, lighting a fresh cigarette. "Just like Tonio Kröger."

Noticing the lack of a ring on the third finger on Spender's left hand, Don asked, "You're jealous, then?"

Spender cocked his head. "Sometimes, I want to believe in those images you sell."

"If you believe in them enough, you can make them real."

Spender nodded. "Perhaps someday. But I just know too much to believe otherwise." He got up from his stool. "It was good to run into you, Dick."

Don watched quizically as Spender turned around and began walking towards the exit.

"I might see you again," Spender added. "When the illusion shatters."