Chapter 8: [1.7] Two Parts Flattery, One Part Proposition
I started making her martini. Dry, two olives, slight dirty. She’d ordered the same thing every visit for two years. Knowing it wasn’t special. It was just memory.
"How’s school going? You’re a senior now, aren’t you?"
"Yes, ma’am."
"Any thoughts on college?"
"A few."
"You should apply to Columbia. I know people on the admissions board. I could put in a word."
Of course you could.
"I appreciate the offer, but I’m looking at schools closer to home."
"Philadelphia, right?" She accepted her martini, taking a delicate sip. "I remember you mentioning that. Something about family?"
"Something like that."
She studied me over the rim of her glass. Her eyes were sharp. People underestimated women like Mrs. Ashworth. They saw the blonde hair, the expensive dress, the flirtatious demeanor, and they assumed there was nothing underneath.
They were wrong.
Karina Ashworth hadn’t become one of Manhattan’s most successful real estate developers by being stupid.
"You work too hard, Isaiah."
"So I’ve been told."
"A young man your age should be enjoying himself. Going to parties. Chasing girls." She smiled. "Or letting girls chase him."
"I’m enjoying myself right now."
"Making drinks for old women?"
"Making drinks for interesting women. Age is irrelevant."
That earned me another laugh. The real one this time, not the performance.
"Flatterer."
"Realist."
She took another sip of her martini. "My daughter is about your age, you know. She goes to some fancy school in the city. Maybe you know her?"
Her daughter. Right. I’ve heard this pitch before.
"What school?"
"Hartwell Academy."
I paused. Just for a second. "Small world."
"Isn’t it?" Her eyes sparkled. "Her name is Rebecca. Rebecca Ashworth. Jet black hair, about this tall, probably looks like she’s judging everyone around her?"
Rebecca Ashworth. I’ve seen her in the hallways. Student council type. Friends with Vivienne Valentine, if I remember correctly.
"I might have seen her around."
"You should introduce yourself."
"I’ll keep that in mind."
"You won’t."
"Probably not."
She sighed. But she was smiling. "You’re impossible, Isaiah."
"That’s what they tell me."
I moved down the bar to serve another customer. But I could feel Mrs. Ashworth’s eyes on my back.
She’s been coming here for two years. Always sits in my section. Always tries to set me up with her daughter.
I should probably find that creepy. But honestly? She tips well and she’s never actually made me uncomfortable.
That’s more than I can say for some of the other regulars.
The night continued.
More customers. More drinks. More women who smiled a little too long and men who frowned a little too much.
There was a rhythm to it. A pattern. The Velvet Lounge attracted a certain type of clientele. Old money wives bored with their husbands. Young executives trying to impress their dates. Tourists who’d read about the place in some travel magazine and wanted the "authentic Manhattan experience."
I gave them all what they wanted. Charm without commitment. Attention without attachment. The illusion of connection that came with a well-made cocktail and a face that was, apparently, pleasant to look at.
This is what Vincent means when he talks about being a host.
Being a bartender is much more socially acceptable though.
The next wave came at 10 PM. That was when the after-work drinkers got tagged in with the late night crowd.
Almost there, just two more hours until I can finally see my bed.
"Isaiah!"
Another regular. Ms. Williams, early thirties, worked at some finance firm downtown. She came in every Monday, Tuesday and Thursday, always ordered a whiskey sour, and always found a reason to touch my arm while she talked.
"Ms. Williams. The usual?"
"You know it." She leaned against the bar. Her blouse was unbuttoned one button more than professional. "Long day. I need something to take the edge off."
"Coming right up."
I made her drink. She watched my hands the entire time.
"You have nice hands, you know that?"
"I’ve been told."
"Very... capable looking."
"They make drinks. That’s about the extent of their capabilities."
She laughed. Took her whiskey sour. Let her fingers brush against mine during the handoff.
And there it is.
"What time do you get off?"
"Midnight."
"That’s so late. A young man like you shouldn’t be working so hard."
Second person tonight to tell me that. Starting to notice a pattern.
"Bills don’t pay themselves."
"I could help with that."
"I appreciate the offer, Ms. Williams. But I’m good."
She pouted. It was a practiced pout. The kind that probably worked on guys her own age, in clubs designed for this exact purpose.
It didn’t work on me.
"You’re always so professional, Isaiah. Don’t you ever let loose?"
"I let loose on my days off."
"When’s your next day off?"
"I’ll let you know."
I won’t.
She stayed at the bar for another hour. Made two more attempts. Got the same polite deflection each time.
Eventually, she left. Tipped forty percent. Probably hoping it would change my mind next time.
It wouldn’t.
Thanks for the money anyways.
Eventually, it became midnight and the last customer finally trickled out. Derek, the other bartender, started closing out his register.
"Had a good night Angelo?"
"Can’t complain."
Derek gave me a sideways glance. "I saw Mrs. Ashworth looking like she couldn’t wait to gobble you up."
"She’s a vegetarian"
Derek snorted. "Sure she is. What about the finance girl?"
"Ms. Williams? What about her?"
"She left her number on a napkin. Found it when I was cleaning tables."
"Throw it away."
"You sure? She’s sexy as hell."
"She’s a customer."
Derek shrugged. "Your loss, man. Some of us would kill for that kind of attention."
Some of us don’t have time for that kind of attention.
I finished closing out my register. Tips for the night: $247. Better than average. Mrs. Ashworth had been generous, as usual.
I changed back into my school clothes in the break room. Grabbed my backpack. Headed for the door.
"Isaiah."
Vincent’s voice stopped me at the exit.
"Yeah?"
"Same time tomorrow?"
"Same time tomorrow."
"Get some sleep."
"I’ll try."
I stepped out into the night.
The air was cooler now. September in Manhattan. Summer dying, autumn being born. The streets were quieter at this hour, but not empty. Never empty. This city never really slept.
Neither do I.
What a coincidence.