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It's December 15, 1953.

John Hill walks down Fifth Avenue in New York City, carrying a black leather briefcase in hand.

In the street, can drivers hawk their horns and pedestrians weave through the traffic.

Hill takes a moment to compose himself.

He straightens his spotted blue tie and adjusts his wireframe glasses.

Then he lowers his chin and trudges over frosty concrete toward the gleaming doorways of the Plaza Hotel.

Hill is 63 years old.

He's well aware that right now, he's about to walk into the most important business meeting of his life.

He'll step out of an elevator and spots a man with a cigarette in his hand.

The man is named Bert Goss and he works at Hill's public relations firm.

He'll grease him with a knot.

You know, you really shouldn't smoke, Bert. You're kidding, right?

You think I'm going to get sick?

I'm not talking about your health. The God knows you could use a little exercise.

No, in a few minutes, the foremost powerful tobacco man in the country will walk out of that elevator.

But only one of them makes the cigarette in your hand.

The other three, they'll be sore and shoot for not buying their product.

So put it out.

Goss nods and right as he stops out his cigarette, the elevator chimes.

The four men have arrived.

He'll put on his biggest winning smile.

...