1. Tony

“Your dirty martini, sir.”

I placed the glass on a coaster, always protective of the luxurious marble-topped bar that I babied, worried something would stain it.

The guy lifted the glass, his glazed eyes paired with broken blood vessels and puffy cheeks told a story every bartender could read.

“I hope it’s very dirty.” He took a sip and ate the first of three olives.

I pushed snacks toward him. Not the nuts or chips he’d be given in some dive. Nope, La Luna Noir prided itself on offering plump kimchi dumplings and miso chicken wings. But he grabbed the dish, and his fingers brushed over mine, his come-hither gaze hinting at him wanting more than bar snacks.

Damn. I plastered a smile on my face and prepared an excuse.

“What time do you get off?” he slurred and squinted at my tag. “Tony.”

“Very late.”

From the corner of my eye, I noted the bar manager tapping his watch. Time for my break. Getting involved with club patrons wasn’t just frowned upon; it was forbidden. I wouldn’t allow this guy to get me fired. I’d taken this job for one purpose, and no drunk was going to ruin it.

“If you need anything else, sir, Todd will assist you.”

After passing the problem to my colleague, I left the bar and skirted the dance floor, heading to the staff bathroom, squirreled away in a labyrinth at the back of the club. The cavernous space where guests gathered in La Luna Noir was about the same square footage as the back rooms—based on the building’s footprint—with their winding corridors and dimly lit rooms. Not that I had access to many of them.

But as I approached the bathroom, Arnie, an elderly guy whose brow was furrowed with decades of wavy lines, raced out of his office, wedged between a store room and the bathroom. He didn’t have a designated role in the nightclub, or if he did, it hadn’t been shared with me.

He rarely interacted with the staff, except when complaining about his computer. He was a short, skinny guy with a bald head and a slight stoop who wore cheap suits, his appearance contrasting with the opulent club interior. Maybe he’d worked for the current owner’s father and he was a pity hire, or more likely, a holdover.

My eyes flicked toward the circular stairs, located in a corner, leading to the mezzanine floor. It was roped off, and an impeccably dressed security guard, wearing a discreet earpiece, moved on any guests if they lingered.

That was the boss’s domain, overlooking La Luna Noir. I’d been working here for three months and had never laid eyes on him. But the word was he was coming in early tonight, and there was a frisson of excitement—or was it fear?—in the air.

Every night when I emptied the trash in the alley out back, I’d study the exterior of the building which was a testament to minimalism, with its understated black exterior of concrete and sleek metal cladding. There was an entrance, barely visible in the unassuming facade, that led directly onto the alley, and I suspected that was the boss’s entry and exit.

“Hey, wake up, Tony. You’re on break.” Bobbie, one of my fellow bartenders, slapped me on the back, his wide grin showing off pearly white teeth.

“Right.” I’d been standing near the bathroom entrance but had my eye on the door, open a tad, to Arnie’s office. I had been in there once when he insisted his computer had died. He hadn’t turned on the monitor, and when the screen lit up, he shooed me out, mumbling he’d get in trouble for allowing me in the space.

During those brief moments, I’d noted the peeling paint, exposed brick work, scuffed baseboards, and almost empty shelves. The dreariness was at odds with the public-facing parts of the club, with its lavish furnishings of velvet, leather, marble, and crystal. But there was a framed print of a woodland scene on the wall. My mind made a giant leap, and instead of Arnie trying to make the bleak office more welcoming, I reckoned there was a safe behind the faded print.

Each night, Arnie would emerge from the office, a memory stick dangling from a keyring clip hooked on his belt loop, and he’d head into the rabbit warren of rooms further back, labeled, “Private! No Entrance!” Apart from not having seen a computer that could accommodate a memory stick in a while, I was curious as to what it contained.

I swung around at a shouted, “Get your hands off me.”

The dirty martini customer! I peered over the heads of people dancing. Security had hefted the guy off the stool and were about to eject him, but he took a swing at them.

No more dirty martinis for him!

After washing my hands, I emerged from the bathroom to the persistent flashing laser lights on the dance floor and the accompanying thump of the music. Most nights on my break, I’d get out of the building and away from the noise, overpowering cologne, and heady atmosphere of money mingling with a dark undercurrent of power. The concrete parking lot and the distant hum of traffic on the highway was more pleasurable than staying inside. Even inhaling my colleagues’ cigarette smoke out back was preferable to the patrons’ voices competing with the pounding music.

I wanted to get into Arnie’s office, but I hesitated. If I got caught, what then? Losing my job was a given, but I’d get another job tending bar. Being arrested was a possibility, but that wouldn’t happen, not in a bar owned by a mobster. The alternative might be worse, though.

Goosebumps prickled over my skin as my overactive imagination flashed images of the punishments the boss or Emilio, the boss’s right-hand man, might mete out. Emilio was a shadowy figure, always clad in black, who rarely spoke to the staff. He communicated in head jerks or snapping of fingers, and I shivered when I thought of him breaking my wrist.

I was overreacting. This was the twentieth-first century, and my mind was dredging up images from cop shows and mob movies. But I had to have an excuse ready in case Arnie or anyone else caught me. If it was the former, I had nada. Another employee? I could fudge an excuse and race out, but I’d have to keep running and never return.

But the seconds were ticking by. As I stood, my feet frozen, I came up with a list of excuses why I shouldn’t barge in there.

The computer would be password protected.

The device was off, and as it was so old, it’d take ages to boot up.

If I did gain access, there’d be nothing to see. The information I was looking for was over twenty years old. Clunky as Arnie’s computer was, it was doubtful it stored ancient employment records.

And most likely, the incident that changed my life wouldn’t have been recorded, assuming my theory was correct.

It’s now or never.

After glancing around, I sidled into the office. My palms were sweating buckets, and fear prickled over my skin.

The old computer hummed, its blue screen flickering slightly. The screen was littered with files, the names mostly reams of numbers and letters. There was a tattered notebook beside the computer with the same numbers and corresponding scrawl in Arnie’s unintelligible handwriting, but I couldn’t decipher it.

Rubbing my sweaty palms together, I sat in Arnie’s chair, the only modern piece of equipment in the office. I clicked on a couple of files but they contained columns of figures.

During the long nights when I lay awake and puzzled over how to find what I was looking for, or alternatively, exact revenge, I wondered why Arnie used an outdated computer system, one that wasn’t connected to the internet. The obvious answer was that he didn’t want anyone hacking into the computer. The price of computer security and the ease of storage on the cloud versus what? An almost unhackable system.

Except when Arnie was distracted and an unscrupulous employee snuck in. Me!

My fingers danced over the keyboard, but I paused, because if I got caught, Arnie would also be punished. I cringed, thinking of the consequences. Arnie had been careless, but that didn’t necessitate someone breaking his knuckles.

There was my vivid imagination again. He’d get chewed out by the boss or more likely Emilio, nothing more. I convinced myself that was the worst that could happen. Arnie was a sweet guy. No one would hurt him. Me, on the other hand…

Damn! I should have brought in an old memory stick currently buried in the bottom of my drawer and copied the data. Frustrated, I gave up on the computer and scanned the few paper files, some covered in layers of dust which spiraled into the air, and I plugged my nose, holding back a sneeze. I refused to allow my spying to be undone by damn dirt.

But it was the picture on the wall where my gaze rested. Peek behind it or ignore it? I was no safe cracker, but I had to know if my intuition was correct. And why would there be a safe in this office? Surely secrets would be in the boss’s domain, a storage facility or an office building the family owned.

I lifted one corner of the old frame, flakes of fake gold leaf speckling my hands. There was nothing there, just smudges of dust. My sinuses convulsed, and I let go of the frame and barely registered when it banged on the wall. I squatted, covering my nose, begging my body not to betray me with a sneeze.

When I was satisfied I’d stifled it, I stood and moved the chair to its original position. As I made sure the room was as Arnie had left it, an ominous click punctuated the silence. I clenched my teeth, adrenaline coursing through my veins while an excuse was on the tip of my tongue.

But something cold was shoved on the back of my neck, a metal something. I gulped, because while I’d never handled a gun, I was pretty sure that was what was pressed on my flesh.

“You’ve just made the worst mistake of your life, kid.”