SatSphere. Jack Drennan sat slumped on a barstool with his elbows propped on the bar and his chin resting on tightly closed fists. He stared hypnotically into his tumbler of 16-year-old Lagavulin scotch, the two sacrilegious cubes of ice floating around the rim like a pas de deux. He left its twin untouched on the bar in front of the empty seat next to him.  Fucking SatSphere. A nudge at his elbow wrenched him from the depths of his melancholic reverie. “Brother. Sorry to keep you waiting. Is our table ready?” Jack looked up over his shoulder at his older brother, Peter. Drops of rain wound snakelike patterns down his…