The Beast’s Den stood proudly on West Peachtree Street, nestled within the Atlanta Loop, at the city’s western edge. As soon as Martin stepped off the bus, the giant neon sign flickering in the night sky caught his eye.
The club’s entrance was grand and luxurious, exuding a sense of high-class appeal.
A scattered line of a dozen or so women waited on the sidewalk, ready to buy their tickets and enter.
In contrast, the bar across the street, with its black-lettered neon sign, seemed much livelier, with at least forty or fifty men waiting in line.
Women didn’t need to wait in line—they entered for free.
Martin approached the club’s entrance and said to the tall young man collecting money, "I’m here for Vincent."
Ivan nodded. "Entrance fee, twenty dollars."
Martin didn’t want to pay. He pulled the “I’m a friend of Bruce’s, bringing money for Vincent” card.
Ivan made a call. "Go ahead."
Martin slipped into the club without heading toward the bar, finding a quiet, unnoticed corner to observe.
A $6,000 loan didn’t just mean paying back $6,000.
That was compound interest.
He needed to think of something.
Martin had done some digging earlier in the day. Bruce’s words carried some weight.
Perhaps the place hadn’t been open long, as the club, with a capacity of hundreds, only had about forty patrons.
Yet, the atmosphere remained electric.
After one song ended, a few customers went to the bar for a drink. Martin's gaze shifted, and he spotted Bruce, the so-called "civilized man," working as a bartender.
On the opposite side of the bar stood Vincent Lee.
A white man, probably in his late twenties, with a curled cowboy hat and a large, menacing hooked nose that could probably peck at someone.
Martin’s stare caught Vincent’s attention. Vincent cast a sidelong glance his way.
Anyone running a club like this and offering loans wasn’t someone Martin could foolishly think of as just a businessman. He steeled himself and strode over.
Vincent rested a hand on the bar, glancing at him. "Jack’s worthless son, Martin."
Martin pulled out the check he’d prepared earlier, placing it in front of Vincent. "First payment—interest and principal, six hundred dollars."
Vincent flicked the check, then tucked it into his jacket pocket. "Jack’s a real talent—scamming even his own son. I admire that."
Martin tread carefully, asking, "Can we put part of the debt on him?"
Vincent didn’t bite. "Found a way to make some money?"
"No," Martin’s eyes drifted back to Bruce.
The so-called civilized man’s talents were better suited to paperwork; he was a clumsy bartender.
Martin kept talking. "I injured my leg at work. My boss was kind enough to give me some compensation."
Vincent gave a slight nod. "You’ve perfectly inherited Jack’s sleazy genes. Work for me—perform on stage. You’ll pay off that debt in no time."
Martin couldn’t hide his desire for the money. Only a fool wouldn’t want it.
But he feared that once he got used to lying down to earn money, it would be too hard to stand up again.
He forced himself to look away from the cash, suppressing the urge, and muttered as he glanced at Bruce, "There’s something wrong with that drink."
Bruce was pouring a Long Island Iced Tea into a glass filled with ice.
Vincent was intrigued. "Bruce’s drink has issues?"
Martin pointed at the glass. With a confident flourish of knowledge from his past life, he said, "The essence of a Long Island Iced Tea lies in the ice. The ice should fill no more than half the glass. Without enough frost, it lacks the icy allure that tempts the senses."
Vincent remained unmoved. His customers weren’t coming here for refined details.
So Martin changed his approach. "That means the top third of the glass is left empty, which requires more alcohol to fill it. Even using the cheapest spirits, you’re losing out on a lot of profit with every drink."
Vincent tipped his cowboy hat, mentally calculating. "You can earn two more dollars per Long Island. Selling thirty a night means an extra four hundred and twenty dollars a week."
For the first time that night, Vincent gave Martin a real look. "You know bartending?"
Martin smoothly deflected. "Jack’s the most multi-talented scoundrel in Marietta."
Vincent nodded toward the bar. "Show me."
Martin shed his jacket, draping it over a barstool. His tight T-shirt stretched over his muscles, radiating testosterone. He stepped behind the bar and patted Bruce’s shoulder. "This isn’t the job for someone like you."
Bruce had noticed Martin earlier and, seeing his boss nod, moved aside.
Martin washed his hands, his eyes quickly scanning the materials. He asked the nearest customer, "What can I get you, ma’am?"
The woman, who had just finished a Long Island Iced Tea, replied, "Another one."
As its name suggests, the Long Island Iced Tea hails from New York’s Long Island and is a rather strong cocktail, especially for most women.
Yet, in this lively atmosphere, its crisp, refreshing bite was a perfect match.
Martin got to work. Though his movements were a bit awkward at first, he quickly got into the rhythm, recalling the skills from his previous life as he prepared the gin, vodka, rum, and tequila.
He filled the glass with ice, two-thirds of the way up, and poured in the mixture. He added a slice of lemon for garnish, slid in a straw, and handed it to the woman. "Here’s your drink."
This one used far less alcohol than Bruce’s version.
The woman took a careful sip. "Much better than the last one."
She paid for the drink and slid an extra dollar toward Martin as a tip.
Bruce glanced at Vincent, bewildered, as if to say: "Why didn’t I get a tip?"
More customers started to approach, eager to spend their money on cocktails. Some ordered a Pink Lady, others an Angel’s Kiss, and a few opted for a Manhattan. All common drinks.
Martin worked hard. If he didn’t skip town, he needed a job that allowed him to make money during the day to support his pursuit of opportunities in his true field.
When the crowd thinned, Vincent called Martin over. "Let’s talk."
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