Chapter 9: Why Didn't I Get a Tip
The Beast House was located on West Strip Avenue within Atlanta's inner ring, right at the edge of downtown. As soon as Martin got off the bus, he saw the giant sign flashing in the night sky.
The club's facade was luxurious and upscale.
Scattered along the sidewalk were a dozen women queuing to buy tickets to enter.
In contrast, the bar across the street, adorned with black neon letters, was much busier, with at least forty to fifty men waiting in line.
Women didn't need to queue and could enter for free.
Martin arrived at the entrance of the Beast House and said to the tall young man collecting money, "I'm here to see Vincent."
Ivan nodded, "Ticket, 20 dollars."
Martin didn't want to pay and pulled out the good friend card, "I'm a friend of Bruce, bringing money to Vincent."
Ivan made a phone call, "Go ahead."
Martin snuck into the club but avoided the bar area. He found a corner where no one noticed him and quietly observed the club.
Owing $6,000 in high-interest loans far exceeded just repaying $6,000.
That included compound interest.
He had to think of something.
Martin had specifically asked around during the day. Bruce's word had some credibility.
Maybe because it hadn't been open long, the venue, which could hold hundreds, had at most forty guests.
Even so, the atmosphere was heated.
After a dance number, several guests went to the bar to have a drink and rest. When Martin looked over, he noticed that the bartender was none other than Bruce.
Martin also saw Vincent on the other side of the bar.
This white guy wore a curved cowboy hat and appeared to be twenty-seven or twenty-eight years old, with a big hooked nose that looked like it could peck someone.
Martin's gaze drew Vincent's attention, and Vincent gave him a sidelong glance.
Running such a club and daring to lend money at high interest; Martin wasn't naive enough to see Vincent merely as a businessman. He psyched himself up and walked over boldly.
Vincent pressed one hand on the bar counter and glanced at Martin, "The old geezer Jack's son, Martin."
Martin took out the prepared check from earlier in the day and put it in front of Vincent, "First installment of interest and repayment, 600 dollars."
Vincent picked it up, flicked it, then put it into his inside jacket pocket, "Jack's quite the talent, even screwing over his own son. I really admire him."
After making a payment, Martin cautiously probed, "Can the debt be counted on his head? Even just a part?"
Vincent didn't bite, "Found a new way to make money?"
"No," Martin's eyes fell on Bruce.
The civilized man had a knack for paper-pushing but was clumsy at mixing drinks.
Martin kept talking, "I injured my leg at work. The boss is a kind man and gave me some compensation out of goodwill."
Vincent nodded slightly, "You've perfectly inherited Jack's scoundrel genes. Work for me, perform on stage, and you can pay off that debt quickly."
Martin couldn't hide his interest in the green bills. Only a fool wouldn't be tempted.
But he was also afraid that once he got used to lying down to earn money, it would be too hard to stand back up.
Martin forcibly turned his head back and resisted the yearning for quick cash. He looked at Bruce, the bartender, and muttered, "This drink has a problem."
Bruce was pouring the Long Island Iced Tea into an ice-filled glass.
Vincent was intrigued, "Bruce's drinks have problems?"
Martin pointed at the iced glass and went on a highfalutin spiel with his previous life's knowledge, "The essence of a Long Island Iced Tea is in the ice. If the ice column in the glass doesn't reach halfway, the frosty aura isn't enough to tempt the taste buds into submission."
Vincent was unmoved. Guests here for fun didn't care about that.
Martin promptly changed his argument, "It means the upper part of the glass needs at least one-third more alcohol. Even using the cheapest base liquor, you lose a lot of profit per drink."
Vincent lifted his cowboy hat slightly and calculated, "Two more dollars per Long Island Iced Tea. Selling thirty a night makes $420 more a week."
For the first time that night, he looked directly at Martin, "You know how to mix drinks?"
Martin skillfully pulled up his shield, "The old geezer Jack is the most talented guy in Marietta."
Vincent nodded towards the bar, "Show me."
Martin took off his jacket and placed it on the high stool. His tight T-shirt showcased his rippling muscles. He walked behind the bar and tapped Bruce, "Buddy, this isn't a job for a civilized man."
Bruce had already noticed Martin. Seeing his boss's nod, he willingly stepped aside.
Martin washed his hands, quickly scanning over various ingredients. He asked a nearby customer, "Miss, what do you need?"
The woman who had just finished a Long Island Iced Tea said, "Another one."
As its name suggests, the Long Island Iced Tea originated from Long Island, New York. For a typical woman, it's a rather strong cocktail.
Yet it's suitable for a refreshing and crisp taste in a lively atmosphere.
Martin sprang into action. His initial moves were a bit shaky, but as he prepared the gin, vodka, rum, and tequila, he gradually grew more proficient and found his rhythm from a past life.
He filled the glass with an ice column over two-thirds full, poured in the mixed liquor, garnished with a slice of lemon, and added a straw, "Your drink."
This one used more than a third less base liquor than Bruce's.
The female customer took a careful sip, "Compared to the last one, this one's more to my liking."
After paying for the drink, she pulled out an extra dollar and pushed it towards Martin.
Bruce looked at Vincent again, spreading his hands, puzzled: Why didn't I get a tip?
Others came by. Customers willing to spend money didn't mind ordering a cocktail. Several people asked for common drinks like Pink Lady, Angel's Kiss, and Manhattan.
Martin worked hard. If he didn't run away, he needed a job with flexible daytime hours to make money and support his career in his field of expertise.
When there were no more customers temporarily, Vincent called Martin over, "Let's talk."
*****
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