Last Call at the Nightshade Lounge Read online

  “Great. Zane wanted to make sure you had a friendly face around, so he pulled some strings to get you in here. You’re gonna be apprenticed to my boss, Vincent Long.”

  She could practically hear Bucket’s smile over the phone. “The Long in Long & Strong?”

  “That’s the one,” said Bucket. “I’ll text you the address. It’s not far from the Brown Line. Vincent’ll want to tell you what’s what, so get here at seven, eh?”

  And so it was quarter to seven when the door to Long & Strong slammed behind Bailey. The bar’s inside was no better than the outside. The place was lit with strings of bright red lights shaped like little chili peppers. The paint peeled in spots. The pool table was scuffed, its balls and cues weathered. Even the rainbow flags in the corners looked halfhearted. All bars existed to serve a need, just like any other business, but as Bailey stepped in, all she could think was: Who would need a place like this?

  The answer was surprisingly apparent. At only almost seven in the evening, the bar was already packed. The room held an even ratio of older men who’d probably been customers for years and younger men who were probably too poor to afford anywhere else. Neither side seemed to mind. In fact they mingled freely. A few gave her cursory glances when she walked in, but otherwise they ignored her. She smiled. Nervous as she was about being reassigned, that was something she could get used to.

  Bucket was behind the bar. His mohawk stood straight up, like some kind of Canadian crested bird. “Bailey!” he called over the music. “Vincent’s downstairs in his office! You can go on down!”

  “Great!” Bailey shouted back. “Anything I should, uh, know about him?”

  But Bucket had already dashed off to serve a customer. Bailey let herself in past the bar, then looked around for a door leading to the basement. But there were only walls, no doors.

  Bucket noticed her confusion and pointed at her feet. She looked down, wondering what the hell her shoes had to do with it, until she realized she was standing on top of a genuine, bona fide trapdoor.

  “Holy shit,” she muttered as she knelt and pulled it open. “What the hell kind of place is this?”

  “A magical one!” Bucket called to her.

  A flight of metal stairs led directly to an office, whose door was wide open. She stepped onto the staircase and shut the trapdoor over her head. “Hello!” she yelled. She realized the music from above wasn’t filtering past the floor, and so she lowered her voice and tried again. “Hello?”

  The reply sailed up to her: “Yeah.” It wasn’t exactly an invitation, but she had the feeling it was the closest she’d get.

  The office was cramped. There were no filing cabinets, just a small old desk with a computer, whose keyboard curiously had no letters. Next to the desk, a large dog with salt-and-pepper fur lay curled on the floor asleep. It was a giant schnauzer, its ears un-cropped and its beard as resplendent as any wise man’s. But the dog and the computer drew her attention for only a moment.

  Vincent Long was old—maybe as old as Garrett—but the similarities ended there. Long was a solid brick of muscles and tattoos. Unlike Bucket, whose arms were covered in flowing sleeves, his looked as if they’d been collected piecemeal over decades, turning his arms into a collage. His light gray hair was cropped Marine close, and he wore jeans, combat boots, and a plain black T-shirt. Bailey got the distinct impression that his closet at home was filled with nothing but more of the same.

  She winced preemptively when she stuck out her hand and introduced herself, imagining his grip could crush her bones into a fine powder. But to her surprise, his handshake was gentle, though calloused.

  “Bailey Chen,” she said. “And you must be—”

  “Yeah,” Vincent said, and he sat down. “So you’re the latest thing Garrett’s dumped in my lap.”

  Something was off about the way he looked at her.

  “We’re old friends,” she said. “I mean, Zane, his nephew, is technically my old friend—” She felt a squeeze of guilt, since technically she and Zane hadn’t spoken since their ill-fated patrol. “But, um, I’ve known Garrett forever.”

  “Hope not,” Vincent said darkly. With an unconvincing lightness, he added: “I’ve known them longer than you, and I don’t like the idea of being older than forever, is all. What experience you got, Bailey Chen?”

  Bailey tried not to wilt. One of the biggest pains in the ass about searching for employment was its horrible catch-22: you needed experience to get a job, but to get experience you needed a job. Browsing job sites, she’d silently flipped off every scumbag corporate HR rep who thought having a half decade of relevant experience was the definition of entry level. But she never expected to run into similar problems trying to work in a bar.

  “I barbacked at the Nightshade Lounge for two weeks,” she said. “And I also—”

  “Kicked the shit out of a tremens, then kicked the shit out of its shit,” said Vincent. “Pretty cool stuff. But I’m gonna be straight with you, kiddo. Right now you’re pretty much useless.”

  “Hey,” she said, then shut her mouth. She didn’t really have a good rebuttal. At least not one that was fact based and nonprofane.

  “Nothing against you personally,” he said. “You’re what, twenty-one?”

  “Twenty-two.” She couldn’t stop staring at his face. He wouldn’t even look her in the eye.

  “Same difference. Everyone’s useless at your age,” he said. “Hell, my boyfriend’s eight years older than you, and he’s still useless. And you know what? The world out there didn’t help Gavin with that, and it’s not gonna help you. Everyone agrees you need training and experience and all that. But they also all agree that giving it to you is not their problem.”

  Entry-level job, two years’ experience required. “Yeah. But if you’re my”— Bailey still had trouble saying the word with a straight face—“master now, doesn’t that make it your problem?”

  Vincent grunted. “Yeah,” he said. “Emphasis on problem. I’ve got a business to run, and it’s not like you’re gonna be a big draw for my clientele.”

  She felt a stab of indignation. “Well, if you didn’t want an apprentice, why’d you ask for one?”

  His chuckle was hollow and mirthless. “You think I asked for you? No, this is old Garrett up to his tricks, the tiny rat bastard.”

  So she’d been inflicted on someone as a punishment. It felt like a slap to the face. But Bailey shook it off.

  “Then get back at him.” She still thought of Garrett as Zane’s goofy uncle, not someone to be bested. But if she was being honest, she was the one who wanted to get back at the Whelans. Show off. Prove herself. “Make me the best bartender in town. Put me out on the streets, and I’ll kick ass. You’ll see. I promise.”

  Her words rang out in the small space, and Bailey slowly realized the situation: his indirect stare; the letterless keyboard; the dog.

  She gasped.

  Vincent grinned. “Now’s the part where you realize I’m blind and you feel like an asshole.”

  Why the hell hadn’t Bucket or Zane mentioned this to her? “Vincent, I’m sorry,” she said, mortified. “I had no idea—”

  His grin spread. “Bet you’re pretty embarrassed right now.”

  She nodded—nodded!—and then flushed, not that he could see that either.

  “Um, yes,” she said clearly. “Yes, I am.”

  “Well, trust me,” he said, “you’ll be twice as embarrassed when you see that a guy with two bum eyes is still ten times the bartender you are. They told me you’ve put in a night on patrol with the little Whelan. Kid was out of line, taking you with him. You ain’t ready.”

  “I’ll never be ready if I don’t get to see a master at work.” She kicked herself again for her poor word choice. Who knew English had so many sight-based idioms?

  Vincent appeared not to care. “It’s not about watching a master work,” he said. “It’s about rebuilding you from the ground up. You’re right that you need a good grip on your fou
ndation, but killing tremens isn’t our foundation.”

  “It isn’t?” Bailey said. “I thought that’s why this whole crazy … society existed.”

  “Yeah, and Halloween’s just an innocent, fun-filled night where we all pass out gumdrops to kids in bedsheets.” Vincent shook his head with a chuckle and Bailey shivered, remembering Mona’s words: It’s not just a holiday for children.

  “But I won’t scare you with that just yet.” He rose to his feet. “I got a bigger point to make.” When the dog saw Vincent stand, it followed suit, ears pricked and tail wagging. “All right, Poppy. Nice girl. She’s a friend.”

  Determined to be friends, Bailey smiled down at the dog. “Poppy, as in the flower?” she said, a “my dad is a florist” anecdote at the ready.

  “Actually it’s short for Populist Uprising to Overthrow Our Systemic Oppressors,” said Vincent. “Good guess, though. Bring us up top, Poppy.”

  The dog barked twice in assent. Tail still wagging, she wedged her way past Bailey and out the office door. Vincent followed right behind her, and Bailey behind him.

  “You were a business kid, right?” Vincent started down the narrow hallway, each footfall ringing dully. In front of him, Poppy kept looking over her shoulder, making sure her master wasn’t too far behind.

  Bailey hastened to keep up. “Yeah. But don’t hold my capitalist upbringing against me.”

  “We all make mistakes,” he said. “Hell, I was an army kid. Business school and the army. Two terrible places for someone to go when they’re eighteen, and not much in common except for one important thing.”

  She got the sense he was enjoying making her ask the inevitable question. “What?”

  “Service,” he said. “What’s your shiny new job title, kiddo?”

  “Bartender?”

  “That’s right.” Vincent had reached the top step. He knocked against the underside of the trapdoor, then turned to face her. “You’ll get your first smoke break. But before I put you up against monsters, I have to make sure you can handle something even more difficult and impossible to please.”

  Bailey caught on. “Horny, drunk gentlemen?”

  Vincent grinned approvingly. “No to the third thing, yes to the first thing. As for the second, that’ll be up to you.”

  He shoved the trapdoor, and it swung open. Poppy stepped out first. Vincent motioned for Bailey to follow, then disappeared top-side. Bailey took her time, hoisting herself up to face a sea of dudes dancing, dudes drinking, and dudes kissing. The wolves to which she was about to be thrown.

  Vincent pointed to Bucket, who was working through a line of beer orders. “Kill the music,” he called. The Canadian saluted and then hit a button on the jukebox remote. The music died abruptly, amid groans and shouts.

  Vincent stepped forward, putting up his hands. “Everyone, shut up!” he called. “I’m Vincent Long, the owner.”

  “We know who you are, Vince!” an older customer called back.

  “Yeah,” said a younger one. “Put the fucking music back on!”

  “Tell me what to do in my bar again, and the only music you’ll hear is me using your head as a drum,” Vincent said. That alone was enough to shut everyone up. He continued: “I’ve got two announcements to make, so listen up. First off, this is your new bartender, Bailey.” He gently prodded her forward into view. “Everyone say hi to Bailey.”

  To her great surprise, the entire bar chorused like schoolchildren: “Hi, Bailey.”

  “Now Bailey’s brand new here at Long & Strong,” Vincent said. “So we’re gonna welcome her. In honor of our newest family member, for the next three hours all cocktails are half off! But,” he said, shouting over the rumbling cheers, “only if she makes it for you. Bucket: music on. Drink up, gents.”

  Bailey glanced back at Vincent, desperation etched on her face. “But—”

  Vincent grinned.

  “Best way to hit the ground is running, kiddo,” he said. “Welcome to the life.”

  Bailey turned back just in time to see the wave of customers descend upon her counter, orders on their lips and dollars in their hands.

  THE DEVIL’S WATER DICTIONARY.

  The Negroni

  A cocktail to fortify the flesh

  1. Fill an old fashioned glass with ice.

  2. Mix an ounce apiece of gin, sweet vermouth, and Campari. Stir well.

  3. Garnish with an orange twist, and serve.

  The negroni was commissioned by Count Camillo Negroni in the summer of 1919. Italy had lately been ravaged by a mutated strain of tremens whose bladelike forearms could slice a man in two. The count turned to the nearest, most consistent source of enlightenment: his local barman. After three weeks of painstaking research, the bartender, whose name has regrettably been lost to time, debuted a new gin cocktail that rendered its drinker all but unbreakable.

  Flush with his servant’s success, Count Negroni bullied his way into the next convention of the Organisation Européenne des Échansons et Sommeliers—the Continental equivalent of the Cupbearers Court—held that year in Belgrade. There he demanded an exorbitant fee of the OEES in exchange for his recipe. When officials balked, he demonstrated the drink’s strength on the convention floor when his skin turned aside all attempts to pierce it. But he also demonstrated its inability to protect against internal damage when he provoked the convention’s host, a local bartender named Damjan Zupan, into beating him over the head with a fire poker. Zupan’s poker is today on display in his family’s bar and still carries the contours of Count Negroni’s unbreakable skull.

  SWEET VERMOUTH.

  Not to be confused with dry vermouth—and because dry vermouth is far from sweet, such confusion would theoretically be difficult to manage in the first place. Where the use of dry vermouth traces back to France, sweet vermouth is an Italian innovation. Its deep red color prompted the Florentine barkeep Vittorio Serrano to market it as il sangue imbottigliato, “bottled blood.” But Serrano proved a far better bartender than he did a capitalist. His sanguine nomenclature put off the wider drinking public while disappointing the few customers whose interest his sales pitch had piqued.

  CAMPARI.

  A bitter liqueur of Italian origin, Campari first rose to prominence as an ingredient in the Americano, an early precursor to the modern negroni. The cocktail in question was equal parts Campari and sweet vermouth, with a splash of soda water added for texture. Despite its close relation to one of bartending’s best defensive drinks, the Americano is best known as a thirst quencher, though it may induce blindness if thrown into the eyes of an obnoxious bargoer.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “You’ve got forty seconds to make me a perfect negroni, or you’re giving me fifty push-ups.”

  Bailey had taken many courses and studied under many instructors, but she’d never had a rougher classroom than Long & Strong. The place was a rainbow-spangled rat hole, but it did a brisk business, and on top of the grind of mixing-drinks-making-change-running-tabs, the mixology challenges that Vincent threw down were grueling for her and a delight for him. But not nearly as much of a delight as the perfect negroni she set down in front of him with three seconds to spare.

  Vincent had yanked her down to his office for a midshift pop quiz. Now he picked up the crimson-glowing cocktail and breathed in its vapors.

  “Think I can smell the magic on this one,” he said. “You know what a negroni does?”

  “ ‘A cocktail to fortify the flesh,’ ” she recited. Gin was the transformative liquor, and the negroni made the drinker’s skin unbreakable.

  “Good memory, kiddo, though it wouldn’t kill you to put things in your own words once in a while,” he said. “So we’re gonna have ourselves a wager.” He took a decent gulp. “You want to get out on patrol, right? Have yourself a smoke break?”

  The thought of finally testing out her new knowledge was almost irresistible. Every night there’d been a never-ending press of men demanding drinks that Bailey barely knew how to make
: shooters, twisters, Jack and Cokes—or Jack and Diet Coke, and God help you if you forgot—with no magical value but plenty of popularity. It was a good thing the staff pooled tips; her inexperienced service left plenty to be desired, and it wasn’t like she could fall back on flirting to score a few extra singles. She practically limped to the end of her shifts, and not once had she gotten anywhere near patrol duty.

  “Yes,” she said, trying but failing to hide the eagerness in her voice.

  “Then here are the terms,” Vincent said, and he gulped a bit more of the negroni. “By the time I finish this, I should have unbreakable skin. If I do, you hit the streets tonight.”

  “Unsupervised?”

  He chuckled. “You’re not in business school anymore. Quit acting like greed’s a virtue. No, you’ll shadow young Bucket.” He drank again, closing his eyes to relish the flavors. “If I’ve got unbreakable skin, that is.”

  “And if you don’t …” Bailey tried not to groan. “How many push-ups?” Physical exertion was Vincent’s favorite punitive measure (“a bartender’s gotta be in shape, kiddo”), and though she was still a far cry from strong, under his tutelage she could drop and give him thirty without stopping.

  “Not push-ups. You’ll have to do something a whole lot worse.” Vincent polished off the drink, placed the empty glass on the desk, and calmly laid his hand next to it.

  “Which is … what?”

  “Take an old man to the hospital.”

  And then with blink-and-you’ll-miss-it speed, Vincent slammed a paring knife into his outstretched palm.

  Bailey yelped.

  But the blade bent, and in what seemed like slow motion shattered, spraying metal across the room. The force had indented Vincent’s skin, but the knife point hadn’t made a mark.

  And he was howling with laughter.

  “Are you crazy?” Bailey sputtered.

  That only made him laugh harder. He had to squeeze out words between gasps.