In dealing with different people at various times, Martin adopted different strategies. He placed the $7 tip in front of Vincent.
Vincent pushed it back. “Tips are personal.” Then, he asked directly, “How many cocktails can you make?”
Martin dropped the pretense. “I can mix all the common ones. I wouldn’t claim to be exceptional, but my skills are at least average.”
Back when he was vying for a bartender role, he had trained hard. Though he didn’t get the part, his love for good drinks kept him practicing, building up years of experience.
Vincent continued, “What’s the best way to cut costs without compromising taste?”
Martin, now in his element, answered, “I can guarantee some of the drinks will be more profitable.”
While collecting tips, he had been carefully observing. The women focused on the stage; the drinks were merely to enhance the mood—they didn’t care much about the taste.
As long as the basic flavor was there, there wouldn’t be an issue. After all, Bruce’s poorly mixed drinks were still selling.
Suddenly, Vincent’s face darkened. “Are you a scoundrel like Jack?”
“Mr. Lee, a man of your stature—if you lent me ten lives, I wouldn’t dare deceive you,” Martin replied, adopting the humble guise of a small man in awe. “Even that old rascal Jack couldn’t hide from your wisdom. I can’t fool your eyes.”
Vincent, visibly pleased, said, “You’re the bartender at Beast’s Den now. Eight dollars an hour, paid biweekly. We’ll settle the debt along with your wages.”
The real money in this job, of course, lay in tips.
Satisfied with his skill being acknowledged, Martin cautiously ventured, “Now that I’m part of the club, about the interest…”
Vincent considered for a moment. “We’ll only calculate the total interest. No more compounding. You’ll pay back $7,000, and the debt will be settled.”
Martin felt a bit relieved. This would give him time to see if the Marietta Theatre had any openings.
“The condition is that you show me your value!” Vincent cared more about Martin’s approach to the Long Island Iced Tea than his mixing skills.
Martin needed the money. “When do I start?”
Vincent casually gestured toward the bar. “Right now.”
Without another word, Martin stepped behind the bar. A customer was asking for a Bloody Mary.
One of the most famous cocktails, the Bloody Mary had countless variations. Martin took the tools from Bruce, using a recipe Americans had modified after 2010.
It was said to better suit the American palate.
Apparently, it matched the woman’s taste—she tipped him two dollars.
Bruce leaned in and whispered, “Earned the boss’s approval?”
“With the tools of a civilized man,” Martin quipped before continuing, “I thought you were security for the club.”
Bruce shook his head. “Times have changed. The days of violence are over. I gave up my gun to adapt to the new era and learned bartending. Even the boss is dabbling in legal business now.”
A woman came over for a drink, so Martin fell silent and got back to work.
In no time, he had made over $15 in tips. The club’s customer count, however, remained under fifty, limiting his earnings.
During a lull, Martin asked, “Is business always like this?”
Bruce, wiping down a glass, replied, “It’s a bit better on weekends. The club just opened, so we haven’t really made a name yet.”
Martin was surprised. “No advertising?”
Bruce grinned like a cultured man. “You wouldn’t know, would you? Of course not, you don’t get it.”
Being looked down upon by the master of paperwork didn’t anger Martin. Instead, he asked, “What do you mean?”
Bruce adjusted his shirt, adopting a scholarly air. “According to Georgia state law, clubs can’t advertise directly in the media or public spaces. The boss paid for recruitment ads, skirting the rules.”
Martin glanced at the large, empty sections of the club. “Doesn’t seem too effective.”
Bruce, ever diligent, continued wiping down the bottles. “The boss insists on doing legitimate business. We have to follow the rules.”
Martin, of course, didn’t buy it. Charging compound interest on loans—was that legal? Or maybe this clean club was just a front for laundering money?
As the music swelled and the handsome men on the circular stage began their synchronized performance, the bar grew quiet. Martin continued asking Bruce about the club’s situation.
Vincent Lee had invested heavily in the Beast’s Den, hiring male dancers at high salaries, bringing in professional choreographers from Savannah Art Academy, and paying top dollar for a public relations expert to handle promotions.
A month into opening, the club had some patrons, but they were still far from their target.
By the end of the night, Martin had earned $21 in tips.
As he left the club and headed toward the minibus stop, he passed several taxi advertisements plastered along the way.
After walking about fifty meters, two Black men with dreadlocks, dressed in black, suddenly emerged from the dark spot where the streetlight was broken.
They were naturally stealthy, and from a distance, it was hard to spot them.
Martin didn’t hesitate—he turned and ran. The two men chased after him immediately.
Bruce, who had just finished his shift, was walking toward Martin. With his jacket flung open, he reached under his arm, pulled out a gun, and aimed it ahead, shouting, “Back off!”
The men stopped, raised their hands, and slowly backed away.
Martin could see clearly now—both men had knives.
Once they were far enough, they turned and ran.
Martin realized he had completely misjudged Bruce. “Old Bruce, I’m such an idiot. Now I get why you show the gun when you’re being civilized.”
Bruce holstered the gun and replied, “It’s what keeps things civilized.”
Martin said, “Give me a ride—five bucks.”
Bruce headed for his Dodge pickup parked on the side. “We’re friends. No charge.”
Martin didn’t argue and climbed into the passenger seat. “I’ll figure out a way to get you a stack of autographed photos. That should satisfy your needs.”
Bruce started the engine, heading northwest toward Marietta. “Sounds like a great idea.”
Martin was utterly defeated.
Bruce added, “Here’s a tip for you: You need a car and a gun.”
Martin asked, “Is it easy to get a gun?”
Bruce nodded. “Georgia’s gun laws aren’t too strict. It’s easy to buy one legally. I wouldn’t recommend getting an illegal one—it’ll bring you a lot of trouble.”
He chuckled warmly. “Want to buy a gun and practice? I’m a certified firearms instructor. Ten dollars an hour. I also know the owner of a used car lot. Want me to introduce you? I’ll take a small referral fee.”
Turns out, free is the most expensive price! No wonder he didn’t charge for the ride. Martin flipped him the middle finger. “You’re a crook!”
Still, he’d need to buy a used car. If things ever went south, he’d need a way to escape.
Martin realized that ever since his head had cleared, all he could think about was running away.
Like the cursed life of a broke man, always plotting his escape!
Comments (0)
See all