Chapter 2

2

JACK

I 'll give Ronnie an earful over this. I said I'd step in and look after the bar for a week even though I don't like the seedier atmosphere. I swear there's secondhand smoke clinging to this place from the eighties. Everything has that ugly yellowed look to it, but I guess the dinginess is kind of the point. It attracts the neighborhood drunks and gamblers, the ones that are so far gone they don't care if everybody knows what they are.

No more hiding the habits and pretending respectability. Sit down at Bettino's and you might as well dig your grave and climb in it. Let's just say there's not exactly an alumni reunion for this joint with fond memories and old friends. It's a bunch of poor bastards trying to screw each other out of money for a drink or a late payment on a bad debt.

This joint depresses the hell out of me. If my pop was still around, he'd laugh his ass off at me thinking about dusting off a chair with my handkerchief before I sit down, but this is a nice suit, and I don't want it soiled by contact with the decades of smoke and hopelessness inside these walls. It's a profitable concern, if you don't think about the scavenger aspect of the business. It does a good amount of liquor sales, and the bookies love it here. Fuckin' vermin. I like the profit margin, but nobody wants to see the sausage get made as it were.

"Ronnie said you was comin' in to babysit this place while he's out. How do ya like it? I bet you ain't been in here since you was too little to get up on a stool," Foz chuckles as he lines up glasses on the bar.

He's not far from wrong. I had a lot to learn about the business and didn't spend much time hanging out in the crappy bars with backroom poker games that cost people their houses, cars and the occasional ear or thumb.

"You're right about that," I say, shaking his hand, "But it's an institution, everybody knows that."

"Right you are. You're the spittin' image of your old man, but he never cleaned up so nice."

"Thanks, Foz," I say, "Don't let me catch you checking me out." He laughs heartily which spills straight into a smoker's cough that rattles hard. I make my way to the dim, cluttered office.

I'm about done checking over the payroll and ordering which was a damn mess when Foz comes and knocks on the door. The joint's been open for a couple hours and even though it's early, there's always a crowd of sad sacks warming the stools and drinking over sob stories. I tell him to come in because I know he wouldn't bother me unless it was urgent. I stifle a sigh. I don't want to deal with this shit.

"Sorry to bug ya, but there's a lady here."

"A lady?" I ask, wondering when we started calling them ‘ladies' if they hang around here.

"A real one. She don't have fake tits or fake eyelashes neither. I never seen her before. She's not leavin', and she wants to talk to the boss. She got no idea she's gonna get the real deal tonight."

I follow him out to see what the situation is. Before she turns around, I know which one he's talking about. She stands by the bar all self-possessed, shoulders back and beautiful legs, a hint of her thigh peeking out beneath the hem of a red dress. A red dress like she saw Bugsy when she was a kid and has no fuckin' idea what she's doing getting mixed up in the Bettino's crowd.

Her dark hair is pulled up showing the sweet curve of her bare throat. My first instinct is to get her the hell out of here. Nothing fresh and young belongs inside these walls, that's for sure. I clear my throat and she turns around, understanding the cue. I don't know which one of us is more shocked. Me by the pretty face that's way too young to even know about this joint or her by the recognition I see click in her dark chocolate eyes.

"Blackjack Marino," she breathes.

"The one and only," Foz says proudly as if he's brought out an exotic animal to show this girl.

"Do I curtsey or what?" she asks, recovering her sass almost instantly.

I've seen grown men piss themselves when they find out who they're face to face with. I give the kid credit for being brave at least. I rake her up and down twice with my gaze. Once to intimidate because I'm assessing whether she's even worth my time and the second look is just for me, taking in every detail from her trim ankles a little wobbly in heels she's unaccustomed to all the way to the exact part in her hair where it's pulled up and pinned in place.

"I'd kiss your ring but you're not wearing one. I assume you count yourself on par with the Pope," she adds. I just stand and wait, letting my presence and the weight of the silence coax her into spilling her reason for showing up here.

Finally, she gets to her point. "All right, I'm Serena Mayfield. My father, Joel, apparently owes a significant amount to Mr. Shapiro. I was hoping to speak with someone about working out a payment schedule so I can repay his debt."

"You're here to pay your daddy's gambling debts," I say, my voice rough. Looking at her, the pretty little sacrificial lamb, I want to slam my fist into her dad's face repeatedly. What kind of man does that, runs up a bad debt and leaves it to his daughter to clean up his mess? No kind of man at all, I think scornfully, and letting her come into a place like this, he might as well send a tender veal chop to the lion's den to negotiate.

I can already see the regulars checking her out. Sweeping up the line of her bare legs with hungry gazes that make me want to throw a coat around her and maybe shoot somebody's fuckin' hands off if they don't keep them where I can see them.

The younger Nelson boy is here, redheaded and good for nothing, but with a smile that charms the ladies. The way he looks at her I feel the urge to feed this little shit his own balls to teach him to keep his eyes in his head. I wonder how many of them have already offered to buy her a drink. Part of me wants to know who they are, wants to warm them off.

I'm not sure what's going on—heartburn maybe? I haven't eaten in hours, but the feeling I got in my chest is a burn like I'm dying. Something itches below my collarbone, a tug that takes me off guard. I finally put a name to it but wish that I hadn't. I want to protect her. She's in a goddamn cesspool dressed like that and no idea what she's got herself into.

Every man in here would like to slide that dress further up her thighs, bend her over that bar and rail her without saying a word. I know because I'm thinking about it myself. There's no way she can sense that or she'd run for the hills and never look back. She really thinks she can come in here and talk to someone about a payment schedule like we sell used cars. I'd chuckle but my mouth went dry a while back.

"That's not how it works around here," I say.

"How does it work then?" she challenges.

"It works however I want it to," I can't resist saying. "We're down a waitress tonight. You can fill in while I think of some way for you to pay off his debt. How much did you say it was?" I prompt.

"I didn't," she says a little miserably before she straightens her shoulders again. "Sixteen. thousand," she says clearing her throat. "I'll need some time to come up with the money. And if working a few shifts here will help, I'll do that. I don't have much waitress experience. I work on the stepdown unit from ICU at St. Anthony's as a CNA. Or I did before I had to leave work early again. I can provide medical care. You know, on the DL." She drops her voice to a whisper conspiratorially.

I chuckle, "I haven't heard anyone say ‘on the DL' in a long time, Serena Mayfield," I tell her. "Maybe I'll keep you around cause you're funny. Get an apron and Foz'll tell you what's what. Come see me at the end of your shift. I'll draw up papers on his debt, figure out some installments for you," I say.

I'm not sure why I offer it. We don't do financing plans for eligible losers. We just take the money or the merch we can sell to get the money. It's simple really, until somebody walks in with long legs like that and makes me damn near forget my name.

Even though I should go back in the office to look over the delivery invoices, I stay out front. I'm watching her work. Red dress, red lips, the coltish tremble of her ankles as she rushes on those silly high heeled shoes. She may have tried to dress up like she belongs in this crowd, but she stands out way too much.

For one thing, she's all business. I can see her briskly striding from hospital room to hospital room, doing whatever needed to be done, efficient and precise. For another, she's not at home here. She tries to lean on the bar waiting to pick up an order, but she's in nonstop motion. Picking at her nails, stealing a look at the exit. Everything about her telegraphs how uncomfortable she is and also how brave.

It never ceases to amaze me how many girls throw themselves away on misplaced loyalty. Any man who can live with himself knowing his wife or girlfriend or daughter had to make a deal with the devil to save his ass doesn't deserve the oxygen he uses as far as I'm concerned.

I know what the barmaids earn at this joint. At the current wage, it'll take her over two hundred shifts to earn back what he owes before interest. Not to mention that we don't make a habit of waiting ten months for payment. It stops people taking us seriously with respect to terms of collection.

The question I ask myself as she offers to refill my glass is this: Would I rather extend a special payment arrangement to that garbage just to keep her around for months hustling drinks in this hell hole?

When I look up to tell her I don't want another drink, our eyes meet and there is pure steel in her gaze. Nothing vulnerable, no trace of a woman who's willing to walk away or let this go. Serena Mayfield has a stubborn look to her, and that unbending determination hits me in the gut.

"How long you think you'll have to sling drinks to pay off his debt? And what's to stop him from running up a tab somewhere else while you do?" I ask, laconic and challenging.

"It takes as long as it takes," she answers me, lifting her chin. She doesn't sound resigned, she sounds like she could plug two bullets in my forehead and then fix her ponytail and walk away. I smirk despite myself.

"Don't they talk about saving people from the consequences of their actions? Enabling or something?" I say.

"I don't have time for Instagram psychology," she snaps, and the little rise I get out of her feels like wine going to my head. I lean back in my chair a little, hands behind my head.

"Ten months," I say, "and that's if every penny from this job goes to your old man's debt. Not counting interest."

"Interest?" she says, indignantly, "what kind of deal is this?"

"It's standard practice. His signature's on the marker in my files. He agreed to the terms. Interest goes to thirty-five percent after the first thirty days of nonpayment. It's legally binding, you can check."

"You're telling me that a piece of paper my dad signed agreeing to the terms of an illegal gambling operation is actionable? You'd be an idiot to take that to court and deliver yourself to the cops for racketeering in the process," she spits, stone cold but with a glint of mischief in those eyes.

"All right, you got me on that one. Legal recourse isn't our motivator of choice."

"How much do I need to put down to keep him from being hurt again?"

"Your father's activities ran afoul of the agreement he made with one of my associates. He didn't honor his marker and owes a lot of money, more than you or he can hope to pay back in a timely fashion."

"Why lend it to him?"

"Why not?" I ask. "He's of legal age and then some. He knows the stakes if he loses. I'm not running a nursery school here. There's no way he accidentally got into this mess. It was arrogance plain and simple."

"He doesn't deserve the beatings," she says, the grimness around her mouth daring me to disagree with her. I'm not a man who takes the bait, but something about her has shaken off my boredom, so I follow through.

" You don't deserve it. Everything I know about him points to the fact that he's dodged this bullet—metaphorically of course—longer than anyone would've thought possible. I take it this isn't the first time he's found himself in trouble," I lift my eyebrows.

"If I want to look out for my dad, what's it got to do with you?"

"What it's got to do with me," I counter, leaning in closer till I can smell what has to be strawberry lip gloss, "is he got mixed up with my business, and you insist on getting involved."

"Yes, I do," she says.

I want to get closer, to see if the lip gloss tastes like berries. She's taken all the air from my lungs, and the only thing that will keep me alive would be brushing my lips against the soft curve of her cheek.

"That leaves me with a problem," I tell her. Maybe it's because our voices are so low in a crowded place, like we're apart from everyone else. Maybe her eyes on me are like truth serum, some snake-charmer magic she possesses.

"What's the problem? That you're obligated to break his kneecaps because I can't earn tips fast enough to stop you? Or is this the part of the Lifetime movie where the bad guy tells me that now I have to dance in his strip club to make money starting tonight?" she says, all sass even at close range.

Being five inches from my mouth doesn't slow her down even though I feel like I'm swimming in molasses right now, everything going sweet and slow and my brain can't quite take it all in properly.

"Problem is it makes the most sense, business-wise, to eliminate your dad. He's a liability. The fact he's walking around breathing and hasn't made good on his marker makes my organization look like a bunch of pussies and undermines the whole operation. If I give that order, since the guy who manages this crap is out this week it's my call—then you never forgive me."

The mischief drains from her eyes. Her brows come together, fine and light brown, making a wrinkle of concern on her forehead. She curls her lips under and bites them, her face looking bloodless at the shock of what I said. Her eyes never leave mine, and I wish she'd look away.

Otherwise, it's like I'm on trial for every crime, every cheat, every fucking impure thought since I was twelve years old, just sitting under the scorching grief of her gaze and trying with all my might not to squirm. She's going to beg now, I think. That makes a bitter taste in my mouth.

She shouldn't have to do any of this, and it makes me angry. There's no good reason I should care about her problems. Here I am, killing time at a table in the most depressing shithole I own, listening to her try to save her father.

"Bit of a gambler yourself I see," I observe.

"Never even bought a scratch off ticket," she says, stubborn chin lifting.

"You came here willing to play whatever game we set up to see if you can win. Because the stakes matter to you."

"If you put it that way, I sound like an idiot," she says, "because you should never gamble anything you can't afford to lose. Isn't that what they say?"

"I don't have time for Instagram advice, so I wouldn't know," I toss back at her.

"You keep saying we. Whatever game we set up. It's you though. This isn't a group decision. You said it's one guy and he's at Disney World or some shit, so you have to make the call."

"He's got prostate cancer, the surgery's today. I made him take a week off," I grumble.

"He must be important to you, since you look pretty disgusted with this whole place but here you are."

"I see where you're going with this. It's not a bad gambit but it won't work on me. I wouldn't sacrifice much for the guy that runs this place. I consider him an old friend, but I wouldn't try and work off sixteen large on his account, and I wouldn't face down somebody who can get away with crimes all day long and hope for their mercy either."

"Then why do you care if I ever forgive you?" she asks, finally picking up the words I wish I could take back.

"I don't. Why would I?"

Her little laugh is barely an exhale, and so close I can feel her warm breath on my face, but the sound is bitter as hell.

"You lie worse than I do. That's got to be bad in your line of work," she says.

"I don't have much occasion to lie. What you see is what you get. I don't try to hide who I am or what I do," I say.

"Then why'd you just try to lie to me? You think I'm dumb enough not to notice?"

"No," I say quickly, again not sure why I want to reassure this total stranger that I don't have a low opinion of her intelligence. "I don't know why I said it," I finally admit.

"Ah, you were embarrassed, and I caught you out," she says, a small, sly smile curving her lips.

"What wouldn't you do to help your old man?" I ask because I'm dying to know.

"I don't think it's smart to answer that," she says, faltering for the first time. "Gives you an unfair advantage."

"I already have the advantage. And no, I don't own a strip club. If I did, I wouldn't tell an amateur over twenty-five to go dance it off for tips."

"I'm twenty-four!" she says hotly and I give her my shit-eating grin because I got a rise out of her again. It rankles her, I can tell by the way she straightens up and backs away from me. "Anyway, I have tables to take care of. Or I'll never be out of debt to you."

"Maybe I like having you owe me something," I say, my tone a seductive challenge.

"I don't agree till I know the terms."

"Do you have another job to support yourself? Anything you can sell to keep the wolf from the door?" I ask, irritated by the concern I reveal when I pose the question.

"I came to you. I'm at the wolf's door, I think, in this scenario," she says. I like the image of myself as her wolf, of inviting her in.

"You're not Little Red Riding Hood," I say, giving myself the excuse to look her up and down as if I'm actually comparing her to a fairy tale kid and not staring because I want to do it. She can't help it. Indignant or not, she licks her lips, stands up straighter, chest out. I want to do a lot of filthy things to her right here and now.

I think she knows. Instead of shying away, rushing to the bar to grab a tray of drinks, she lingers near me, her eyes darkening. I don't let myself wonder about that. She wants to save her dad's life, and I have no intention of being something she did to try and rescue him. I don't operate that way. If she wanted to offer freely though, I'd probably break my leg jumping up to volunteer.

Standing, I nod toward the bar as if telling her to get back to work. Then I barricade myself in the office to get some work done. I tell myself I'm not hiding from her but even I know that's bullshit.