“What?”
He waved his hand. “You get the point.”
I didn’t, but I wasn’t going to admit it. I’d have to do some searching online later.
“Remember this. If you want to make money, you have to sell what people need.” Lars tapped his head.
“Okay,” I said. “I’ll try.”
He winked. “Hey, thinner on the slices. People don’t want half a lime in their drinks.” The front door opened, and we looked over. A couple of cocktail waitresses trickled in, wearing old-school glittery dresses slit up the sides.
Lars stood up. “We open in half an hour. I’ll get Rob to show you how to handle the register when he gets here. Why don’t you go and change?”
I picked up the shiny toddler T-shirt and disappeared into the bathroom.
By 2:00 a.m., Hush was packed. I was drenched in sweat, the T-shirt sticking to my skin like a wetsuit, the bar mats soaked and squishing under my feet. Lars was slicing through the crowd around the bar, whispering into girls’ ears, shaking guys’ hands. Nick was nowhere to be seen.
“Make it strong, okay?”
If I heard that one more time, I was going to need a drink myself. But I nodded at the cute blonde and a five dropped into the tip jar. Rob, the other bartender, touched my shoulder. “Behind.”
I leaned forward to let him by. We both had our own ends of the bar, but he made it look easy and I was sweating like a pig just trying to keep up with the orders. He came over to help when he could. He was a six-foot-five, red-haired house with Celtic tats, the kind of guy who keeps the peace just by raising his eyebrows.
A couple pushed up to the bar and the girl managed to get a seat just as someone was leaving. I looked—and then I looked again. Big brown eyes, caramel skin, shiny black hair. Latina hotness. She was wearing this red thing that looked like a popped balloon stretched over her curves. Her stomach was bare.
“Two Manhattans,” the guy said over her shoulder. He was older, slick-looking, tan—straight SoCal. I’d only been working three hours and already I could spot the dudes from LA. Their gloss was a little harder than the Vegas guys’. I sighed and started mixing the drinks. Strain, pour, drop in cherries. On the plasma screen in the corner, the Dunes was imploding. The next one over showed a Tyson-Holyfield match from the nineties. But the soundtrack was strictly twenty-first century, and people were getting crazy on the dance floor.
I served the drinks and Mr. LA pushed a fifty at me. “Keep the change.”
“Thanks.” I rang it up and stuffed the extra in the tip jar. All I saw when I looked in there was a plate of pancakes, bacon, and eggs.
“Gabe, bottle service!” Lars called from the end of the bar. I hurried over. He was standing with two of the hottest women I’d seen in my life, one blonde and one redhead. “Louis Thirteen and four glasses. Have a waitress bring it to Nick’s office,” Lars said coolly. He steered the women toward the hall.
Freaking Lars. I found his bottle on the top shelf and handed it to a waitress. When I turned around, half the bar was waving cash at me. “Three martinis, one extra dry, one smoky, one Gibson.” “A cosmo and a Smurf on acid.” They didn’t teach me half this stuff in bartending school, I thought wildly. I was an octopus, one hand on the juice hose, one hand shoveling ice, one hand reaching for the top shelf, one hand shaking drinks . . . I bent low for a chilled glass and as my eyes came bar level, I saw LA’s hand pass over the Latina chick’s drink.
It was so fast I wasn’t even sure what I saw. With the other hand, he was pointing at one of the plasmas.
I stopped moving. The guy picked up his own drink and took a sip.
“Maker’s Mark on the rocks!” “Appletini and cosmo, please.” “Bartender!” Snap, snap. “Bartender!”
“Whoever snapped is getting served last,” I said, and that got a laugh. But my pulse was going. Did I see what I thought I saw?
The girl reached for her drink, and that did it. I grabbed it, too. Our hands touched and she looked at me, surprised. “I think he put something in your drink,” I said, and dumped it out. “I’ll make you a new one.” She looked at the guy, her eyes huge.
“What are you talking about?” he demanded. But his face was turning bright red, and I knew I was right.
“I saw you,” I said. The people around him were starting to stare.
“Fucking liar,” the guy spit out. He backed away, turned, and pushed through the crowd.
“What’s going on?” Rob asked behind me.
I told him what happened. “I’m not positive,” I finished, “but look at him.” The guy was moving fast, headed for the door.
Rob’s eyes went down like shades. “Be right back.”
I turned to the girl, who was sitting there with her mouth open. “You want a fresh one?”
She shook her head. “No, that’s okay.”
She seemed kind of shaky, so I left her alone and went back to work, trying to keep up with people’s insane ability to down alcohol. My arms were getting sore, mostly in the wrists and elbows.
“Four espresso martinis chilled very well, and please make sure there are no grounds.”
“Can I get some extra olives? Like a glass full? Here, I’ll just take these.”
“Make me something good. Anything. I don’t care.”
I was a robot, but I was getting paid. I couldn’t wait to count that jar. Vegas locals know how to tip. Finally there was a break in the orders, and I wiped the sweat off my forehead and chugged a bottled water.
“Can I get a Coke?” asked the girl who’d dodged a bullet.
“Sure.” I could feel her watching me as I poured her drink.
“Thank you for what you did.” She really was beautiful. Her eyes drooped at the edges and she had that little bit of sexy extra weight that some girls stupidly tried to starve away.
“No worries. Be careful, huh? There’s a lot of creeps out there.”
“What’s your name?” she asked.
“Gabe.”
“Here.” She dug in a glittery silver purse and pushed a card across the bar. “My name’s Analisa. Call me. I mean, if you want.” Her cheeks had gone pink. She stood up and grabbed her Coke and pushed off through the crowd.
A guy I’d been serving for the last hour whistled. “I’ll take that for you.” He reached for the card.
I grabbed it. “Nice try, fool.”
He grinned. “Wish I had your job.”
I stuck the card in my pocket and went on pouring drinks.
I had a fifteen-minute break, and instead of using it to chill and eat in the break room, I was standing in a bathroom stall, staring at a picture of Irina on my phone. She had texted me the picture earlier that day. She was making a kiss face, goldfish lips, eyes half-closed. MISS YOU SO MUCH. I stared at her brown eyes and felt around in my pocket for the card so I could flush it down the toilet before I fucked up the one relationship I actually cared about. I didn’t have the best track record with being loyal. Actually, I’d never pulled it off before. But I’d never been in love before, either.
The door to the bathroom opened and a bunch of stags stumbled in.
“Aw man, get outta my way.”
“Where’s the . . . where’s the . . .”
“I have it.” Screech. Screech. Screech. Water running, then turned off.
I remembered Nick’s speech about being “blind.” Maybe I should sit tight for a minute.
“Eenie meenie miney moe—”
“Shut up, fool! Give me that.”
Then there was mostly silence. A few big breaths. A loud clink. Somebody giggled. Then the water turned on, and I figured it was safe to leave. I pushed open the stall door and strolled out, looking at the ceiling. Three clubbers were leaning against the bathroom wall, pupils exploding. One of them, a skinny dude with a blond goatee, was chuckling to h
imself.
I washed my hands and dug Analisa’s card out of my pocket. I forced myself to drop it in the trash, even though it felt like throwing away a hundred-dollar bill.
I took two steps toward the door and then—I turned around and reached in the trash to grab it out again.
The goatee guy saved me. “Aw, sick, man! He’s going through the garbage!” He started cracking up.
I pulled my hand back and bolted without the card. Good. That was what I wanted to do, anyway.
Albertsons was surprisingly packed at five in the morning. I was seeing things blurry, my wrists were aching like I’d been lifting weights all night, and I smelled like nightclub. But I was totally charged as I pushed my cart through the store. I kept throwing in stuff that I didn’t even know how to cook: sausages, eggs, beef patties. I’d already been to Denny’s and had the Grand Slam, but I was still hungry. I got three boxes of cereal, the best sugar kinds. A bunch of protein bars. Shampoo, razors, little stuff that adds up. But it was fine, because there was a fat roll in my pocket. I had cleared three-sixty my first night, and that was after tipping out the waitresses.
I unwrapped a Snickers and started eating it right there in the checkout line. The checker was a cutie, big chocolate eyes and long braids. She smiled at me. “You look like you’re enjoying that.”
I nodded and smiled through a bite of Snickers. I had this weird, relieved feeling. I suddenly wanted to shout or something. But I just took another bite of candy and paid the girl. Being a man means handling your bills. There are other parts, too, but I was getting the first, most important piece down.
CHAPTER FOUR
Baby, you’re going to do great. You are.”
“I hate it when people say that. How do you know? Seriously, what makes you so sure?” Irina was quiet for a second, and I felt bad. “Sorry, that was harsh.”
“No, it’s okay. You’re stressed.”
I rolled over on my bed. I was stressed. In a few minutes I was supposed to go to the Institute of Technology and take the GED.
“I took it before we decided to go with homeschooling, and it was basic, I swear,” Irina said.
“Yeah,” I said, thinking, for you. Irina was a genius, a music prodigy. Well, she didn’t like it when I called her that. But her parents had trained her like a seal.
“I love you,” she said softly. And that made me feel better.
“I love you, too.”
We were quiet, just hanging out on the phone. That’s how you know somebody’s the real thing; you don’t always have to fill the air with words. Finally I said, “You know how I am with tests.” I wanted her to understand. I’d tried to explain before.
“I know, but this is easy,” she said. “It’s not like finals at Claremont.” She was trying to help, but calling it “easy” made me feel like if I didn’t pass, I’d be even dumber than I thought.
“Yeah. Okay, I’m going to do this thing. I don’t want to be late.” I got up and grabbed my keys off the cardboard table, which was a little soggy where I’d spilled water.
“Call me the second you’re done,” she said.
For having such a legit name, the Las Vegas Professional Institute of Technology looked like a run-down strip mall. It was brown, one story, with weedy bushes around the front. “Where your SUCCESS is our FIRST priority” it said on the glass door. I stopped on the sidewalk a second, drank the rest of my soda, and tossed it in the trash. I took a breath and walked in.
Inside, the Institute was like a cheap dentist’s office: ugly blue carpet, water cooler, dirty plastic chairs, fish tank with one straggly goldfish swimming around. The secretary was jolly-looking, with round glasses and puffy red hair. “Hi, sweetie. Here for the GED?”
I nodded.
“You’re registered, right?”
“Yeah.” I showed her my driver’s license, the real one.
“You’re all set. Through the door over there, honey. They’re starting right at three. Good luck.”
I walked through the door. The room was the size of a regular classroom, quiet and very cold. There were computers against the walls, each with a divider and an orange plastic chair. A handful of people, mostly older guys, were already sitting down.
I licked my lips. My pulse was acting up. I sat down in one of the orange chairs. The computer screen in front of me was dark.
An old lady in a suit—she looked like my friend Kyle’s grandma—stood up. She was holding a clipboard in one hand and a book in the other. “Hi, everyone. My name is Michelle and I’ll be your proctor. We’re here to take the science portion of the GED. The test is eighty minutes long and consists of fifty questions. There’s a timer on the bottom right hand of your screen. Now, I’d like to take you through a brief tutorial . . .” Our computer screens lit up.
I watched Michelle’s mouth moving and tried to breathe through my nose. I’d heard that would calm you down. “Is there anyone here who’s not comfortable using a mouse?” she asked. One guy raised his hand. So then we had to sit through five minutes of “how to use a mouse.”
Michelle kept talking us through the most basic stuff in the universe. Then she did a sample question about the sun. But there was a roaring in my ears, and I couldn’t really hear her. I kept my hand on the mouse, ready to go.
“You may begin.”
I leaned forward.
Directions: Choose the one best answer to each question. Click on the answer with your mouse.
Question 1: Clay soil forms a fairly effective barrier against the movements of water. It also swells and shrinks significantly as its water content changes. Sandy soil, in contrast, allows water to move freely and does not change shape as the water content varies. In which statement is the appropriate soil selected for its intended site?
Sandy soil would make a good lining for a toxic waste site.
Clay soil would work well in a drain field.
Clay soil would be a good foundation for a large building.
Clay soil would form a good liner if a person built a pond.
A sandy lake bottom would prevent water from seeping out of the lake.
I tried to focus. But the words were playing tricks already, sliding off the screen. It took me three times as long to read the question as it should have. Even then, I wasn’t sure I read it right. So I did what I always do. I looked at the clock, panicked, and picked an answer.
I felt like puking. That always happened with tests, too. I blinked and tried to concentrate. The guy next to me was hunched over, muttering. Somebody was tapping his foot. Sweat pricked the back of my neck. The computer keys were too big, nothing like my computer. You had to drag the mouse hard to make it work. Analisa jumped into my head. Her tan belly, soft and curvy. The way she blushed when she said I should call her.
Whoa. I switched the mental picture to Irina. And that made me remember I had to pass this damn thing. Even though apparently I already had the best job in the world. I looked at the clock. Seventy minutes left.
“Time.” Michelle’s voice cut through the blur in my head.
I looked up, and she was standing at the front of the room, hugging her clipboard, smiling like she was giving us a prize. But I wasn’t done. I looked back at my computer screen, and the question I was working on had disappeared. The screen was blank except for a timer.
“Well, that wasn’t so bad, was it?” she asked. “Don’t worry if you didn’t finish. It doesn’t mean you didn’t pass. Just hang on a minute, and you’ll have your scores. Then I’m sure you’ll want to stretch your legs. If you signed up for the math portion, we’ll begin in twenty minutes.”
People started to move, stand up, and stretch. I stayed put and stared at the computer, feeling like I’d just stepped off the Tilt-A-Whirl. Finally the timer disappeared and a box popped up.
I looked away quickly, not daring to read it. I’m not re
ally superstitious, but I wished I had something lucky. A rabbit’s foot. A special knock.
I took a breath and looked back at the screen.
Your score is 390. A minimum passing score is 410. You can retest in one content area a total of three times a year. We’ll save your scores on the subjects you did pass and combine them with the scores you receive when you test again. Please schedule an appointment to retake this portion of the GED.
I swallowed and stood up. My eyes were stinging. I walked fast out the door, almost running into Michelle, and charged through the waiting room.
“Don’t be gone too long,” the red-haired secretary called as I pushed through the door to the parking lot. “Your next test starts in fifteen minutes.”
Fuck my next test. I got in my car, peeled out, and flew down Decatur. I almost wanted to get pulled over and get into it with a cop. I couldn’t believe this was real. But then again, I could. I knew it would happen.
Berto and his homies were smoking in the corner of the parking lot, under the one tree in the whole complex. Their cigarettes looked small and homemade. Weed? I sure hoped so. I felt so terrible about failing, I would have done anything to hit the kill switch in my head. I walked over, stopped a car length away, and raised my hand. I didn’t want to spook them.
Berto lifted his chin at me. “S’up?” Three other guys were with him, all in chinos and flannels.
“Can I have a puff?” I asked.
He shrugged. “You can roll one, if you want.” His homie handed over a paper and a little pouch of tobacco. Oh well. I did my best to roll a cigarette, but it looked like a burrito falling apart. Berto’s friend laughed, took back the pouch, and rolled me one. I went ahead and smoked it, and my nerves were so jacked, I didn’t even mind the taste.
Out of Aces (Betting Blind #2) Page 3
