Chapter 9: Bartender

The Hulk Mansion stood proudly on Nishijo Avenue, marking the western edge of Atlanta. As Martin disembarked from his bus, the massive sign illuminated the night sky, announcing its presence.

The club boasted an opulent and upscale exterior. A line of a dozen or so women formed along the sidewalk, patiently waiting to purchase tickets for entry. In stark contrast, the bar across the street, adorned with black neon signs, buzzed with life, with at least forty or fifty men queueing up.

Interestingly, women didn't need to stand in line and enjoyed free entry.

Approaching the entrance of the club, Martin addressed the tall young man collecting money, saying, "I'm here to see Vincent."

Ivan nodded curtly, "Ticket's $20."

Martin, unwilling to part with his money, played the civilized card, "I'm a friend of Bruce, here to deliver funds to Vincent."

Ivan called out, "Let him in."

Martin slipped into the club without stopping at the bar. He found a quiet corner, unnoticed, and discreetly surveyed the establishment.

Owing $6,000 to a loan shark meant paying back a sum far larger than the initial debt due to compound interest. Martin knew he had to find a solution.

During the day, he had asked around, and Bruce's message carried some credibility. The club, though newly opened, hosted at most forty customers in a space designed for hundreds. Despite this, the atmosphere remained electric.

After the dancing, several patrons migrated to the bar to indulge in drinks and rest. Martin's eyes caught Bruce, the civilized man, behind the bar.

On the other side of the bar stood Vincent Lee, a white man in his mid-twenties donning a curled cowboy hat, sporting a prominent hooked nose.

Martin's gaze drew Vincent's attention, prompting him to glance in Martin's direction.

Martin didn't consider Vincent a conventional businessman, given his ability to run a club and lend money at exorbitant interest rates. He mentally prepared himself and approached Vincent.

Vincent leaned one hand on the bar and smirked, "Martin, old bastard Jack's son."

Martin produced the check he had written earlier in the day and placed it in front of Vincent, saying, "The initial interest and repayment installment, $600."

Vincent picked it up, examined it briefly, and tucked it into his inner pocket, remarking, "Jack really has a knack for deception, even with his own son. I have to admire him for that." After settling the debt, Martin cautiously inquired, "Can he handle the debt?"

Vincent evaded a direct answer, "Parts of it, maybe."

Vincent shifted the conversation, "Have you figured out how to make some money?"

Martin responded honestly, "Not yet." His eyes drifted toward Bruce.

Civilized people excelled at their unique skills, such as licking paper, but bartending wasn't their forte.

Martin continued, "I had a work-related injury, and my generous boss voluntarily compensated me."

Vincent nodded thoughtfully, "You've truly inherited Jack's scoundrel genes. Come work for me, perform on stage, and you'll clear your debt quickly."

Martin didn't hide his longing for the green bills; after all, who didn't like money? However, he also feared that once he got used to earning money with minimal effort, it would be challenging to stand on his own two feet again.

Martin abruptly turned his head, resisting the allure of quick cash, and stared at the civilized bartender. He muttered under his breath, "There's something off about this drink."

Bruce skillfully poured a mixed Long Island Iced Tea into a glass filled with ice.

Vincent, intrigued, inquired, "Is there something peculiar about Bruce's concoction?"

Martin gestured towards the ice-filled glass and shared some of his previous life knowledge, "The essence of a Long Island Iced Tea lies in the ice. The ice cubes in the glass barely fill half of it, and there isn't enough frosty allure to entice the taste buds."

Vincent remained unimpressed, thinking, who cared about such details among the patrons out for a good time?

Quickly changing tactics, Martin continued, "This means that at least one-third more alcohol must be added to fill the empty upper portion of the glass. Even with the cheapest base spirits of the same type, the profit per glass is significantly higher." Vincent, with his cowboy hat on, began to calculate silently, "An extra $2 per Long Island Iced Tea. If we sell 30 of these a night, that's an additional $420 per week." He finally looked at Martin and asked, "Do you know how to mix drinks?"

Martin, donning his metaphorical armor, replied confidently, "Old bastard Jack was the most versatile person in Marietta."

Vincent, at the bar, shook his head, "Show me."

Martin removed his coat and draped it over a nearby high chair. His taut T-shirt exuded confidence and masculinity as he strolled around the bar, giving Bruce a reassuring pat, "Man, this job isn't suited for civilized folks." Bruce had already noticed Martin, and with a nod from the boss, he willingly stepped aside.

Martin washed his hands, quickly assessed the array of ingredients, and approached the nearest customer, asking, "Ma'am, what can I get you?"

The woman, who had just enjoyed a Long Island Iced Tea, requested, "Another one."

As the name suggests, Long Island Iced Tea hails from Long Island, New York. It's a potent cocktail for most women, but its refreshing taste is perfect for a lively atmosphere.

Martin sprang into action, his initial movements slightly awkward. After assembling the four base liquors, gin, vodka, rum, and tequila. He gradually regained his former expertise from his previous life.

Filling the glass with ice to over two-thirds full, he poured in the prepared spirits, garnished it with a lemon slice, inserted a straw, and handed it to the woman, saying, "Here's your drink."

This glass used three fewer ingredients than Bruce, providing more than one-third of the base spirits.

The female customer took a careful sip and remarked, "This suits my taste better than the one I had earlier."

After paying for the drink, she added an extra dollar and slid it in front of Martin.

Bruce, looking at Vincent, shrugged, puzzled as to why he wasn't receiving tips.

Customers willing to spend didn't mind ordering cocktails. Some opted for classics like the Pink Lady, Angel Kiss, and Manhattan.

Martin was diligently at work, aware that unless he was planning to make a hasty escape, he needed a daytime job to sustain himself while pursuing opportunities in his field of expertise.

During a lull in customer activity, Vincent summoned Martin, saying, "Let's have a chat."