Page 1 of Mated into the Mob

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TONY

“Your dirty martini, sir.”

I placed the glass on a coaster, always protective of the luxurious marble-topped bar that I babied, worried something would stain it.

The guy lifted the glass, his glazed eyes paired with broken blood vessels and puffy cheeks told a story every bartender could read.

“I hope it’sverydirty.” He took a sip and ate the first of three olives.

I pushed snacks toward him. Not the nuts or chips he’d be given in some dive. Nope, La Luna Noir prided itself on offering plump kimchi dumplings and miso chicken wings. But he grabbed the dish, and his fingers brushed over mine, his come-hither gaze hinting at him wanting more than bar snacks.

Damn. I plastered a smile on my face and prepared an excuse.

“What time do you get off?” he slurred and squinted at my tag. “Tony.”

“Very late.”

From the corner of my eye, I noted the bar manager tapping his watch. Time for my break. Getting involved with club patrons wasn’t just frowned upon; it was forbidden. I wouldn’t allow this guy to get me fired. I’d taken this job for one purpose, and no drunk was going to ruin it.

“If you need anything else, sir, Todd will assist you.”

After passing the problem to my colleague, I left the bar and skirted the dance floor, heading to the staff bathroom, squirreled away in a labyrinth at the back of the club. The cavernous space where guests gathered in La Luna Noir was about the same square footage as the back rooms—based on the building’s footprint—with their winding corridors and dimly lit rooms. Not that I had access to many of them.

But as I approached the bathroom, Arnie, an elderly guy whose brow was furrowed with decades of wavy lines, raced out of his office, wedged between a store room and the bathroom. He didn’t have a designated role in the nightclub, or if he did, it hadn’t been shared with me.

He rarely interacted with the staff, except when complaining about his computer. He was a short, skinny guy with a bald head and a slight stoop who wore cheap suits, his appearance contrasting with the opulent club interior. Maybe he’d worked for the current owner’s father and he was a pity hire, or more likely, a holdover.

My eyes flicked toward the circular stairs, located in a corner, leading to the mezzanine floor. It was roped off, and an impeccably dressed security guard, wearing a discreet earpiece, moved on any guests if they lingered.

That was the boss’s domain, overlooking La Luna Noir. I’d been working here for three months and had never laid eyes on him. But the word was he was coming in early tonight, and there was a frisson of excitement—or was it fear?—in the air.

Every night when I emptied the trash in the alley out back, I’d study the exterior of the building which was a testament to minimalism, with its understated black exterior of concrete and sleek metal cladding. There was an entrance, barely visible in the unassuming facade, that led directly onto the alley, and I suspected that was the boss’s entry and exit.

“Hey, wake up, Tony. You’re on break.” Bobbie, one of my fellow bartenders, slapped me on the back, his wide grin showing off pearly white teeth.

“Right.” I’d been standing near the bathroom entrance but had my eye on the door, open a tad, to Arnie’s office. I had been in there once when he insisted his computer had died. He hadn’t turned on the monitor, and when the screen lit up, he shooed me out, mumbling he’d get in trouble for allowing me in the space.

During those brief moments, I’d noted the peeling paint, exposed brick work, scuffed baseboards, and almost empty shelves. The dreariness was at odds with the public-facing parts of the club, with its lavish furnishings of velvet, leather, marble, and crystal. But there was a framed print of a woodland scene on the wall. My mind made a giant leap, and instead of Arnie trying to make the bleak office more welcoming, I reckoned there was a safe behind the faded print.

Each night, Arnie would emerge from the office, a memory stick dangling from a keyring clip hooked on his belt loop, and he’d head into the rabbit warren of rooms further back, labeled, “Private! No Entrance!” Apart from not having seen a computer that could accommodate a memory stick in a while, I was curious as to what it contained.

I swung around at a shouted, “Get your hands off me.”

The dirty martini customer! I peered over the heads of people dancing. Security had hefted the guy off the stool and were about to eject him, but he took a swing at them.

No more dirty martinis for him!

After washing my hands, I emerged from the bathroom to the persistent flashing laser lights on the dance floor and the accompanying thump of the music. Most nights on my break, I’d get out of the building and away from the noise, overpowering cologne, and heady atmosphere of money mingling with a dark undercurrent of power. The concrete parking lot and the distant hum of traffic on the highway was more pleasurable than staying inside. Even inhaling my colleagues’ cigarette smoke out back was preferable to the patrons’ voices competing with the pounding music.

I wanted to get into Arnie’s office, but I hesitated. If I got caught, what then? Losing my job was a given, but I’d get another job tending bar. Being arrested was a possibility, but that wouldn’t happen, not in a bar owned by a mobster. The alternative might be worse, though.

Goosebumps prickled over my skin as my overactive imagination flashed images of the punishments the boss or Emilio, the boss’s right-hand man, might mete out. Emilio was a shadowy figure, always clad in black, who rarely spoke to the staff. He communicated in head jerks or snapping of fingers, and I shivered when I thought of him breaking my wrist.

I was overreacting. This was the twentieth-first century, and my mind was dredging up images from cop shows and mob movies. But I had to have an excuse ready in case Arnie or anyone else caught me. If it was the former, I had nada. Another employee? I could fudge an excuse and race out, but I’d have to keep running and never return.

But the seconds were ticking by. As I stood, my feet frozen, I came up with a list of excuses why I shouldn’t barge in there.

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