“This is my last day. The money bartending at Tradewinds is too good. I don’t need to work this piss-poor beer bar anymore.”
“Good for you.”
“Good for you, too, because I’m trying to get you in.”
“Oh yeah? You take such good care of me.” I place my hand over my heart.
“Don’t I know it.” He grunts, like it’s his job.Please.
Michael Scott Johnson, otherwise known as Mac, is the son of a fishing captain and has been my closest friend since I was eighteen. We met as busboys at a fancy seafood restaurant. Three weeks later, he was a waiter, which is unheard of unless you know someone or do something to seriously impress the managers. I learned quickly that Mac knows how to impress people. He’s a smart talker who can bend almost anything in his favor. So, if he says he’s getting me a job, it’s pretty much a done deal. He doesn’t talk shit, and he always makes things happen. And a job at the area’s hottest dance club sounds pretty fucking good to me.
“You have to come in tonight and meet Spiro.”
“Who the hell is Spiro?”
“The GM. He’ll decide.”
“Decide what?”
“If you have the goods, but a pretty boy like you should be a shoo-in.”
“Aww, you think I’m pretty?” I bat my eyelashes at him.
“Beau-ti-ful,” he mocks.
* * *
I puton my best shirt, a turquoise blue polo I got on clearance at Abercrombie and Fitch, and a pair of white shorts. I run some water through my wavy hair —that really needs to be cut — and swipe on some spicy smelling deodorant.
I look in the mirror. This is about as good as it gets.
Neither Sean nor my mother are home, so I lock the door behind me and hop into my Jeep that now has no doors.What can I say? I caved.
When I pull into the parking lot of Tradewinds, it’s mostly empty. It’s seven o’clock, and the doors don’t open until eight. It won’t start getting crowded until eleven. That’s just how it works. I stroll up the front walkway and get a whiff of the salty ocean behind the building. You can’t see it from the side entrance, but you can definitely hear it and feel it. The sound of waves crashing against the shore can give you tingles. I open the door to a huge muscle head sitting on a stool by a cheap cash register.
“Not open yet, buddy,” he snipes rudely.
“Yeah, I know, I’m here to see Mac. Or actually, Spiro.”
“Well, which is it? Mac or Spiro?”
“Both.”
The large black man huffs at me, like he’s annoyed he has to move, but he gets up and walks me into the club.
“Mac!” he yells across the room. “Do you know this chuckle head?”
Mac looks up and smiles. “Yup, he belongs to me.”
“Go on, chuckle head.” He gazes down at me and folds his arms, his veins rippling under his skin.
Buddy, you need to lay off the juice.
“Thanks,” I intone impassively and walk across the large dance floor to Mac. The club is one open massive space. The back wall is constructed completely of windows and pocket glass doors leading out to a large back deck. The design makes the room feel free and airy.
“Right on time, man.” Mac clasps my hand over the bar. “Spiro should be here any minute. You want a drink?”
“Nah, I’m good.” I lean against the edge and look behind the bar. There are tons of different alcohols on the speed racks, and three work stations with ice bins, soda guns, and fruit trays.