Last Call at the Nightshade Lounge (2 page)

Bailey Chen was taking care of some serious business.

“Hello?” She plugged a finger into her non-cell-phone ear. “Jess? Are you still there? I was just saying that I think Divinyl’s doing some really interesting things with their business model—”

“Yup!” said a perky-sounding female. “That’s great! So you probably know we’re—”

“ ‘A revolutionary return to revolving music,’ ” Bailey recited. “ ‘The company that’s bringing the retro sound of vinyl to the convenience of a mobile platform.’ I think that’s really, uh—” She cast around for the right word.
Cool? Awesome?
What could you really say about an audio-filter app that took sharp, clear mp3s and re-rendered them into record-styled hiss- and pop-filled playback?

Anything, she reminded herself, anything as long as it landed her an interview.

“… really innovative,” Bailey said. “And I’d love to come in and talk with you.”

She heard a crackle on the line, and Bailey wondered for a split second if it was an intentional throwback designed into Divinyl’s corporate phone system or just a side effect of her shitty cell reception.

“Totally!” Jess said. “God, can you believe we haven’t talked since, like, high school? We have
so
much to catch up on.”

“Oh,” Bailey said. “Um, yeah!”

Bailey could believe they hadn’t talked since, like, high school because they hadn’t talked that much
in
high school. But maybe Jess was one of those people who had dramatically changed in college. Besides, if Bailey landed the job, Jess would probably be her first office friend. They could do business-lady things, like go out for chopped salads. Or, even better, make an intern bring them chopped salads, which they would eat in their spacious, window-filled corner offices while planning total domination of their market sector. (And maybe online-shopping for statement necklaces, because it was, after all, their lunch break.)

Bailey smiled. If she’d ever had a mental picture of success, that was it: lunch delivery, ruthless business sense, and power jewelry.

“Bailey?”

“Sorry, Jess, I’m here. So do you have any time coming up this week or—”

“Bailey!”

This time her name was not coming from the phone. Zane Whelan’s shaggy-haired head appeared over the end of the bar, his square eyeglasses gleaming. “There you are!”

Shit
. “Um, gotta go,” Bailey chirped into her phone, “but
callme​backwhen​you​getach—
”

Zane frowned. “Are you … talking to someone?”

“Hydrangeas,” Bailey said quickly.

“Huh?”

“Hydrangeas, wisterias, oleander, rhododendron, and anthurium,” Bailey said, nodding to the trivia emcee gamely grinning down at a clipboard from behind her microphone. “Five of, uh, the most common poisonous plants.”

“Anthurium?” Zane blinked. “That sounds like something from a B movie.”

Bailey pocketed her phone. “Well, it’s real.”

The emcee paced the bar floor, shooting pleading glances at
each team. “Come on, guys,” she said, with microphone-added reverb. “I only need five. You’ve still got twenty seconds left to—yes! You.”

The captain of a team of yuppies had leapt to his feet. “Oleander, poinsettia, dandel—”

But just as he said “dandelion,” a buzzer drowned him out.

“Duh,” Bailey said under her breath. “Dandelions are edible.”

“Really?” Zane said.

“They’re good in salads.”

“Sorry.” The emcee shook her head like a rueful gameshow host. “Dandelions may not taste great, but they are not poisonous. They’re actually—”

Bailey mouthed the rest of the sentence: “—edible and good in salads.”

“Wow.” Zane tapped out a few polite claps. “I’m impressed.”

“Oh, um, don’t be,” Bailey said, praying he wouldn’t ask about the phone call. “Poinsettias aren’t toxic to humans unless you eat, like, five hundred leaves. She should have called him on that one.”

“Hey, ease up. Not everyone in this bar’s an Ivy League graduate.”

Bailey flushed. “I didn’t mean—”

But Zane was grinning. “Because
that
distinction is the exclusive territory of our smartest barback.”

He patted her shoulder, and Bailey tried not to cringe.

“Right,” she said. “Thanks.”

“And as the smartest barback at the Nightshade Lounge”—Zane went on—“you really should know better than to go sit on the floor during a busy shift.”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Bailey rushed to say. “I just had to, uh, the music—”

“Music?” Zane shook his head. “Bailey, that jukebox has probably been here since the sixties. It totally doesn’t work. You
know that.”

“Right,” Bailey said. Sometimes it felt like nothing worked at the Nightshade Lounge except Bailey. And Zane, of course.

Zane gave the jukebox a fond pat on its cracked glass. “Anyway. Don’t slack on me, okay?”

“I’m not,” Bailey protested. If there was one thing she
wasn’t
, it was a slacker. “I’m just—”

“Look, Bailey, I told my uncle you could do this job with no experience,” Zane said. “And you
can
do it. But if you
don’t
 …” He cleared his throat and continued in a low voice. “I don’t want to have to fire you the first week.”

Bailey could only nod. She wanted to explain—
Sorry, Zane, that I’m not only looking for the first opportunity to ditch the job you pulled major strings to get me but also doing it while on the clock
—but instead gave him the truncated version: “Sorry. Yup.”

“Good.” Zane smiled. He’d shown up to work wearing what he always wore: a slim old three-piece suit, complete with loosely knotted tie and rumpled dress shirt, which made him look like a Swinging London modster about to zip off on a candy-colored scooter. “And in return, I’ll continue to pay you and act as your beneficent overlord.”

“More glasses!” Trina, the redheaded bartender who was Zane’s counterweight that night, yelled at them from the other end. “Sometime this century, please?” she added. “Not
those
glasses, Zane. You already made that joke, like, five minutes ago.”

Zane crammed his spectacles back onto his face. “I still think it’s funny.”

“On it,” Bailey said, glad for the abrupt end to the conversation. She scooted along in the narrow space behind them, calling out, “On your back! On your back!” as she passed. After depositing a freshly cleaned stack of old fashioned glasses by Trina’s side, she glanced at the garnish tray.

“Thanks,” Trina said. “I’m low on—”

“Cucumbers,” Bailey said with a nod. “On it. On your back, on your back …”

“Bailey—” Zane said as she passed.

“More towels?” Bailey knew Zane could never have enough towels.

“Damn, you’re good.” He plunged a spoon into his shaker and stirred the contents into a froth.

On the one hand, Bailey was well suited to the job of barback. Her small stature meant she could navigate the cramped bar with ease. Her sharp eye for details and logistics allowed her to solve problems before they became problems—a shortage of cucumber slices, for instance. Her Ivy League education … well, the really nice UPenn bottle opener she’d gotten sure came in handy. And though she liked people well enough, she wasn’t always the best when dealing with them. But as a barback she didn’t have to. She just had to keep shuttling supplies and ensuring the line moved smoothly.

On the other hand, barbacking was a terrible job.

The Ravenswood neighborhood had plenty of bars, but the Nightshade was an institution (which, in Chicago, more or less meant a place that stubbornly refused to close). The dark drapes, low lights, and worn-down emerald-colored booth cushions evoked a kind of comfortably faded Second City swank—emphasis on
faded
, because Bailey was pretty sure the cushions hadn’t been replaced since at least the Carter administration. But while the place wasn’t trendy enough to serve fourteen-dollar cocktails, it wasn’t crappy enough to sell only cheapie cans of light lager, either.

Even though it seemed to Bailey like Garrett Whelan had no business savvy whatsoever, the Nightshade did a brisk business selling mixed drinks to mixed company. So in theory her duties as barback should have been:

(Bailey did her best work when she could prioritize everything, preferably in list form.)

At the height of a rush, however, her list was far more likely to look like this:

All night, every night she never stopped moving. No matter how on top of the situation she was, there was always another fire to put out.

And then there were the customers. They started the evening pleasant enough. But a few rounds had the same effect as a trip to Pinocchio’s Pleasure Island: anyone could turn into an ass.

“So that’ll be a martini for me,” one of the hard-core trivia enthusiasts slurred at her awhile later. She leaned over the bar and gazed down at Bailey with glassy eyes.

Bailey greeted the girl with a patient smile. “I’m sorry, but I’m just a barback,” she said. “I can’t make—”

“—two glasses of whiskey with ice,” the girl continued. “And for Trev—hey, Trev! What do you want?”

A few paces away, Trev muttered.

“Oh, yeah,” said the girl. “A Long Island iced tea.” With her
lazy, boozy diction, the order came out
lawn-ilan-icy
.

Bailey doubled down on her outward customer friendliness, even as her internal patience evaporated. “I’m sorry, ma’am,” she said again, “but I—”

Zane appeared like magic. “Ladies,” he said smoothly, positioning himself between his barback and members of the “Wreck Your Privilege” trivia team. “I know a thing or two about making a decent Long Island. Why don’t you leave it to me?”

His performance felt increasingly unreal as Bailey watched. The Zane she’d always known had been clumsy and awkward, but apparently a lot changed when you hadn’t seen someone for five years. This version of Zane effortlessly charmed his customers, entertaining them while he mixed their drinks with the showy vigor of a stage magician.

Speaking of people who’ve changed since high school
, she thought, and then squashed the notion as quickly as it appeared. Yes, high school Zane had been the kind of guy who couldn’t admit to his feelings for his best friend Bailey until a couple of beers at Luke Perez’s graduation party had loosened his tongue … and Bailey’s pants. Yes, talking to Zane two weeks ago had been a catch-up session even more awkward than her theoretical upcoming “please give me a job” chat with Jess. But no, overall, things were fine. Zane and Bailey were friends again, and it wasn’t too awkward (which was good). He’d even given her a job to help get her parents off her back (which was even better). And if the only side effect was her own sudden, terminal uncoolness, well, so be it. She probably deserved it.

“You know,” Bailey said, “it’d probably help if you taught me how to make drinks. Just for when you or Trina are too busy.” The bar lifestyle had wreaked havoc on her sleep schedule and her social life, and the pay truly sucked, but calling herself a bartender was at least kind of cool and would sound less embarrassing when she got
around to having friends again.

Zane shook his head. “No dice,” he said. “No offense, but you’re not ready.”

“Not ready?” Bailey was incredulous. “What happened to
smartest barback
?”

“You’re also our only barback,” Zane said. “And right now that’s where I need you. Okay?”

Bailey tried not to scowl. “Okay.”

Zane nodded his head toward the blank spot behind him that Trina should’ve been occupying. “It’s gonna be a little busy for a bit,” he said. “Trina’s stepping out for a smoke.”

Ah, yes
, Bailey thought.
Wouldn’t be an evening at the Nightshade without one of the staff taking a suspiciously long smoke break right at the height of the rush
. All the bartenders, even Zane, usually excused themselves during shifts, leaving Bailey and the remaining bartender to hold down the fort—which, fine, drinking and smoking did kind of go hand in hand. But as far as she could tell, none of the lounge’s staff smoked: no tobacco smell, no yellow teeth, no pack-size faded spots on their pockets.

“Zane,” she asked slowly, “do you have a light?”

“Huh? No. Why?”

Interesting
, Bailey thought. “No reason,” she said. “What do you need me to do?”

Zane winced. “I’m sorry to ask—”

Bailey’s heart sank. Zane had no poker face. Whatever he was about to say, it wasn’t going to be pretty. But unfortunately, “not pretty” was her job.

“What is it?” she said. “Spit it out.”

“Funny you should use that phrasing,” Zane said. “Someone must’ve been feeling a little, ah, soft-boiled. Women’s bathroom—”

“How bad?”

Zane smiled weakly. “She almost made it.”

“Hey! Suit guy!” yelled a Cubs fan. “We’re thirsty over here!”

Zane nodded to him. “Sorry,” he said. “Really, sorry.” And then he was off, grabbing a shaker and glass of ice as he went.

Bailey spent a half hour scrubbing the bathroom to a serviceable shine, though she knew full well someone would undo all her work the second she put the mop and bucket away. She probably could’ve gotten to the bar faster by half-assing the job, but being detail oriented was so entwined in her DNA that she couldn’t leave things unfinished, no matter how stupid or gross they were. By the time she rejoined Zane on the line, that goddamn bathroom sparkled.

The trivia game was winding down as Bailey slipped behind the bar, and even though she’d flitted in and out all night, she still mentally answered more questions than most of the teams, faltering only in classic literature.
So I haven’t read every book
, Bailey thought. Trivia was just a test of fact retention, and her brain was as absorbent as a sponge.

Also
, she thought as she replenished the plastic straws without being asked,
I’m a self-starter. Think of what I could do in the right environment
.