Chapter 9 Why I Didn't Get a Tip

House of Beast sat on West Strip Avenue within the inner loop of Atlanta, perched on the western edge of the downtown area. Martin had just gotten off the bus when he saw the huge, twinkling sign in the night sky.

The nightclub's façade was luxurious and classy, very upscale.

A dozen or so women were sparsely lined up on the sidewalk, waiting to buy tickets to enter.

By contrast, the bar across the street with the neon sign in black letters was much more lively, with at least forty or fifty men queuing up.

Women didn't have to queue, entry was free.

Martin approached the entrance of House of Beast and said to the tall young man collecting money, "I'm looking for Vincent."

Ivan nodded, "Admission, 20 US Dollars."

Martin didn't want to pay, invoking a moral high ground, "I'm a friend of Bruce, here to deliver money to Vincent."

Ivan made a call, "Go on in."

Martin blended into the club without heading over to the bar but found a corner where no one paid him any attention, silently watching the club.

Owing a high-interest loan of 6000 US Dollars wasn't just about repaying 6000 US Dollars.

That was compound interest.

He had to think of something.

Martin had deliberately asked around during the day, Bruce's words had some credibility.

The newly opened venue that could accommodate hundreds had at most forty customers seated.

Even so, the atmosphere was still electric.

After a dance was over, a few customers headed to the bar for a drink and rest; Martin's gaze followed and he discovered that the bartender was none other than the civilized Bruce.

Martin saw Vincent Lee on the other side of the bar.

This was a white guy wearing a curled cowboy hat, twenty-seven or twenty-eight with an oversized hawk nose that seemed sharp enough to peck at someone.

Martin's gaze caught Vincent's attention, and Vincent glanced sideways at him.

Being able to own such a nightclub and daring to loan at high interest, Martin wasn't foolish enough to consider Vincent a mere businessman. He quickly prepared himself mentally and strode over.

Vincent, with one hand on the bar, glanced over, "Old bastard Jack's son Martin."

Martin produced the cheque he had prepared during the day and placed it in front of Vincent, "The first installment of interest and repayment, 600 US Dollars."

Vincent flicked the cheque and tucked it into his inner jacket pocket, "Jack really is a talent, even screwing over his own son, I admire him."

First to repay the debt, Martin then carefully probed, "Can the account be put on his head? Even just a part of it."

Vincent didn't bite, "Found a way to make money?"

"No," Martin's eyes fell on Bruce.

The civilized man's genius lay in licking stamps; he was clumsy at mixing drinks.

Martin didn't stop talking, "I hurt my leg at work, the boss was kind-hearted, and he paid me some compensation voluntarily."

Vincent nodded slightly, "You perfectly inherited Jack's scumbag genes. Come work for me, get on stage, and you'll clear that debt in no time."

Martin did not hide his craving for the green bills, only a fool would dislike them.

But he was also afraid, once you get used to making money laying down, it's too hard to stand back up again.

Martin forcibly turned away, suppressing his thirst for the small bills and muttered as he looked at the civilized bartender, "There's something wrong with this drink."

Bruce was just pouring the mixed Long Island Iced Tea into an ice-filled glass.

Vincent, surely intrigued, "Bruce messes up a drink?"

Martin pointed at the ice-filled glass and launched into some high-level nonsense with knowledge from his previous life, "The essence of Long Island Iced Tea lies in the ice. The ice column in the glass filled to less than half its height lacks the chilly whiff to seduce one's taste buds into the abyss."

Vincent remained unimpressed; who cared about such things when out for fun?

Martin quickly switched tacks, "That means the empty space on top of the glass needs at least a third more alcohol, even if using the cheapest similar base liquor, you're losing a lot of profit per glass."

Vincent tipped his cowboy hat slightly, silently recalculating, "Earn an extra 2 US Dollars per glass of Long Island Iced Tea, calculating 30 glasses sold per night, that's an extra 420 US Dollars a week."

For the first time that night, he looked Martin directly in the eyes, "You know how to mix drinks?"

Martin confidently took up his shield, "Old bastard Jack was Marietta's most multitalented man."

Vincent motioned to the bar, "Show me."

Martin took off his jacket and put it on a high stool, his tight T-shirt exploding with hormones. He made his way behind the bar, tapped Bruce, "Buddy, this isn't a civilized man's job."

Bruce had already noticed Martin, and seeing the boss give a nod, he moved aside willingly.

Martin cleaned his hands and his gaze quickly scanned the various ingredients, asking the nearest customer, "What would you like, miss?"

The woman who had just finished a Long Island Iced Tea said, "Another one."

As the name suggests, Long Island Iced Tea originated from Long Island, New York, considered strong for the average woman.

Yet, perfect for the brisk, refreshing taste under a fiery atmosphere.

Martin sprung into action. At first, his movements were a bit stiff, but after preparing gin, vodka, rum, and tequila, he got smoother, returning to his past mastery.

He filled the glass more than two-thirds with ice, poured in the mixed drink, adorned it with a slice of lemon, inserted a straw, and handed it to the woman, "Your drink."

This glass used over a third less base liquor than what Bruce used.

The female customer took a careful sip, "It suits me better than the last one."

After paying for the drink, she fished out an extra US Dollar, pushing it specifically towards Martin.

Bruce looked back at Vincent again, hands spread, puzzled; Why don't I get tips?

People started coming over, customers willing to spend money didn't mind ordering a cocktail, with subsequent orders for Pink Lady, Angel's Kiss, and Manhattan among other common cocktails.

Martin was very dedicated; he needed a job that left his days free for income, if he wasn't planning to run away, to support seeking opportunities in industries he was adept in.

When there were temporarily no customers, Vincent called Martin over, "Let's talk."