Big Girls Get the Blues by Mercy Walker Page B

Creepy…
    “I don’t need to get you, you moron.” She glared into my eyes as a nasty smirk curled her pink, glossy lips.  “You’ll be back by the end of the week.  We both know that.  I simply want you to speed it the hell up so I can keep my regulars, and lure Mr. Magoo back in.”
    I had to ask.  “So what happened?”
    Tammy huffed haughtily and leaned her hand on her hip.  “That beautiful dope, Quinn, didn’t know how to mix a bourbon old fashioned.  So Mr. Magoo got up and walked out. ”
    “Shit…” I’d learned how to mix an old fashioned when I was twelve.  Even though they t aught it in most bartending courses, nobody ever ordered one, so you forgot it pretty quick. 
    “Yeah,” Tammy said snarkily. “If this keeps up, we ’ ll only have drive by customers, and college jocks blowing th r ough some of Daddy’s allowance.”
    That would be…terrible.  The tips would fall, and so would the morale.  Frisky Kittens would be deserted in no time.  Clubs closed their doors all the time.  Only repeat customers could keep a bar afloat.
    But I didn’t care…right?
    I gulped and felt a wave of guilt flutter up through my stomach.
    Tammy Fay’s glare softened, and her smirk turned to a knowing smile. 
    The bitch…
    “My work here is done.” She flicked the casserole dish with one of her lime colored fingernails.  “That’s from Shep…and don’t take too long getting back to the club.”  She turned and clomped towards my front door.
    She stopped and turned back toward me before taking her leave.  “We’ve got a new dancer starting on Saturday.  I don’t think your boyfriend will be able to resist her.  I hear she’s all kinds of hotness.”
    “He is not my boyfriend!” I shot back way too loudly.
    Tammy Fay smiled with satisfaction as she pulled my door open and sauntered out into the hall, pulling it closed gently behind her.  She’d gotten me again.  The bitch knew how to push my buttons way too well.
    Another reason not to go back.
    And I already had a nother job I was going to start tonight.
    Actually, I’d had four jobs in the last three days.  They…just weren’t me.
    I guess I was pretty spoiled after working for Teddy for the last five years.
    Gig number one was at a gay bar called The Hornet : a four story former Polish Veterans club that sat under a huge, gothic stone train trestle—like a freaking troll under a bridge.  I’d been excited about the quick find…that was until my first night—Orgy Night.  And no, I’m not a prude, and seeing nearly two hundred men getting naked and t h rusty with each other wasn’t the problem.
    The problem was that I was completely ignored by the clientele, and was asked by management to lug refill beer kegs not only to the first floor bar, but to the second floor bar as well…
    Their muscle - bound bartenders didn’t want to ruin their manicures…
    I quit on the spot , but not before rolling a keg down the cramped space behind the first floor bar.  The delicate bar boys scattered like bowling pins, and I majestically wafted out of there like Angelina Jolie in Salt , when she killed and blew up everyone on that boat.
    Job number two lasted exactly thirty seconds.  I’d gone in and talked to the manager at one of Frisky Kittens’ primary competitors: Temptations on Bigelow Blvd .
    The interview went great, and I’d been promised the job.  But first I had to meet the owner.  He was young and cocky, and dressed like he’d fallen out of a VHS copy of Scar Face .
    He’d hooted when he laid eyes on me, and actually said, “Oh yeah, I love it.  We can start having fat chick night once a week!”
    I could have flicked him off, or slapped him, or called him an asshole. 
    But I punched him in the teeth.
    M y father, Arthur D’Angelo , didn’t raise any wimpy children —e specially his little girl.  He taught me to throw a mean right hook by the time I was seven.  And I had never been one to suffer fools