25

---

I do as requested and, in fact, do get myself a Shirley Temple. I’ve grown used to the taste of grenadine, given the amount of events you’re expected to go to as a young Jewish woman that have people getting sloshed off their ass. A Shirley Temple is often all one can be given, so I sidle up to the bar and feel extremely out of place sitting down at one of the stools.

I place my twenty-dollar bill on the bar, making eye contact with the bartender who’s a middle-aged guy wearing a button-up shirt that seems two sizes too small. “Shirley Temple, please,” I ask, trying to keep my mouth closed as much as possible so that nobody sees my weird fucked up shark teeth.

“Coming right up, kiddo,” he says, chuckling a bit as he turns away to prepare the drink. I watch him work, grabbing a highball glass, filling it with ice, splashing in the ginger ale and a dollop of grenadine. A cherry and a straw complete the concoction, and he slides it over to me. I feel judged, but, also, he’s totally right. I am, in fact, even younger than the minimum allowed age here.

When he hands me the chilled glass, crowned with a Maraschino cherry, I take a sip. The grenadine syrup is sickeningly sweet, only adding to the sensory assault around me. The music pumps through the space, deep bass notes vibrating my bones, treble searing my eardrums. The swirl of colors from the club lighting plays tricks on my eyes, with every strobe from the many strobe lights threatening an epileptic fit. Everything feels slightly in slow motion, like the saccades are all happening on off-beats. “Tenner’n seven’s your change,” he says, scraping my twenty off the condensation-slick countertop and returning a ten, a five, and two one dollar bills to me.

I grip my drink tighter, focusing on the chill of the glass, on the familiar taste, trying to ground myself. For a moment, it’s too much. The scents around me oscillate between sweet perfume and pungent sweat, and I resist the strong need to dry-heave.

As I’m battling my sensory overload, I see Jordan, eyes narrowed, trailing someone who seems suspicious — a guy in a suit that’s too well-tailored for a casual night at a club like this. They follow him towards the restroom area. My eyes flicker back and forth, considering the risk. I figure if I was needed, I would’ve been grabbed, and remain sitting.

While I nurse the rest of my Shirley Temple, I take a bit to survey the room more closely. I switch into people-watching mode, and I’m not disappointed. A cluster of guys in the corner, trying too hard to look casual; a woman at the bar who hasn’t sipped her cocktail in quite a while but keeps glancing towards the VIP stairs—these people stand out. There’s a pair of women by the DJ booth, speaking low in a corner, occasionally casting furtive glances over the dance floor. They don’t fit. They’re like pieces from a different puzzle, and I make a mental note to keep tabs on them.

My eyes wander next to the guards. Man, there are a lot of them—more than you’d expect even for a place that clearly caters to a higher-end clientele. At least four bouncers stationed near the forbidden staircases, another two by the main entrance, and even more blending into the walls near the VIP section above. I start counting them in my head. My gaze swishes, making mental notes. Security is heavy here, way heavier than a regular club. Armed bouncers by the VIP section, plainclothes guards circulating the floor, and a tech booth that likely controls more than just the sound system.

This place isn’t a nightclub. It’s a fortress.

Jordan comes back, zigzagging through the crowd, eyes sharper than I remember them being when they left. The iridescent glow from the neon lights casts weird shadows on their face. “Anything interesting?” I ask as they slip into the stool next to mine.

“No one’s chatting about world domination or secret plans,” Jordan says, taking a quick swig of their water. “But this place is crawling with more guards than a police precinct. Seriously, I’ve never seen so much security in a club.”

“You’re telling me,” I reply, glancing once more at the bouncers near the stairs. “Even with this noise, it’s like they’ve got ears like hawks. Also, tasers. I think. It’s hard to tell from here, but none of them seem to be packing actual guns.”

Jordan smirks. “Well, it wouldn’t be classy to shoot up your own club, would it?”

I chuckle but the laughter doesn’t reach my eyes. “Yeah, but tasers can do a number on you if you’re not careful. Plus, you know, the whole getting beaten to death by a bunch of bouncers thing. What’s the plan?”

Jordan rubs their chin, eyes scanning the area. “I’ve been looking around for places to hide if things get hairy. Worst comes to worst, I can stash us in a cramped space and stretch it out. But if we want to get up those stairs to where the big players are, we’re going to need disguises, or an invisibility belt. What do you think about following one of the waiters into the back, knocking them out, and taking their uniform?”

“No,” I say, shaking my head. The bartender, not listening to us, goes and cleans a glass elsewhere around the rectangular bar, tending to one of the many other patrons.

“Why not?” Jordan asks, pursing their lips exaggeratedly.

I sigh, keeping my head swiveling around. “You can’t just… knock someone out with zero consequence. It’s not as easy as movies make it sound like. Even if you just strangle someone unconscious, you’re still risking damage via oxygen deprivation. And you can’t just ‘tap’ someone to sleep – if they pass out, it’s because they got a concussion,” I repeat, channeling one of Rampart’s many lectures to me during our training sessions.

“And? They work for criminals,” Jordan harrumphs. “Like, the really bad kind.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose. “I’m sure a solid 90% of the people that work here have no idea what their bosses are up to. And even if they do, we can’t knock people out based on assumptions, especially if we’re thinking they’re civilians. We don’t have the right to go knocking out random civvies.”

Jordan looks almost disappointed, a frown pulling at their lips. “I forget you’re one of the good guys,” they say, mockingly solemn.

“I know it sucks playing by the rules sometimes, but that’s how it is. If we’re going to do this, we have to do it right.”

Jordan sighs, rolling their eyes. “Fine, Miss Goody Two Shoes. Got any bright ideas then?”

“Actually, I do,” I say, tapping my fingers on the bar counter, drumming them rhythmically in time with the music floating around me. Just speaking to Jordan is itself a kind of fresh, new, interesting ordeal, even at this relatively quiet part of the club. “If we can’t knock out a waiter, maybe we can still borrow some uniforms. They’ve got to store extras somewhere in here. Maybe we could do some sneaky breaking and entering to get them?”

“Oh, so theft is okay?” Jordan challenges, with a shit-eating grin.

“Yes! Theft is much preferrable to assault and battery. Will you need me to go with you or is this a solo operation?” I ask, leaning into the bar. I run my hands along the edge of my Shirley Temple glass.

“You’re about as conspicuous as a set of fireworks going off, so I think I’ll handle things from here.” Jordan replies, clapping a hand over my shoulder.

I raise an eyebrow. “Can I trust you not to knock anyone out?”

“Scout’s honor. I’ll be back in a jiffy. Go enjoy your baby drink,” Jordan replies, getting up from their barstool and vanishing into the crowd before I can actually stop them or get a word in edgewise. I sigh quietly.

The air feels oddly still and silent even as it’s so full of new, interesting noises. I eye the neon brand attached to the back of my hand, tracing the ink patterns with my other hand. The bartender returns to me, his rough, hairy hands pressed against the countertop. “Another Shirley Temple?” He asks.

“Yeah, please.”

---

I’ve spent my twenty entirely by the time that Jordan gets back, on five Shirley Temples and a bathroom break. Not that the bathroom cost any money, that’s just about how long it took. Despite the huge confluence of personalities traveling in and out of the club at all times, I don’t catch anyone that strikes me as particularly hardened criminal except maybe a couple of the bouncers, and only one person actually goes upstairs to the VIP floor that isn’t a waiter. Nobody has left yet, the night is young.

The other five dollars went towards tipping the bartender.

My head is full of worst-case scenario nightmare visions basically from minute two. I see Jordan in my mind’s eye, getting caught out somewhere they shouldn’t be, getting stabbed, murderized, captured, hog-tied, and basically fucked up in all the least fun ways possible. A couple of times, the bartender tries to make light conversation about my friend, but I brusquely brush them off, feeling extremely bad about doing so. If he’d noticed my teeth, he hadn’t commented on them.

Eventually, though, the nightmare visions end with a somewhat sweaty-looking Jordan returning through the crowd, patting me on the shoulder. “Mission accomplished.”

“Did anyone see you?” I ask, the bartender conspicuously making himself scarce to the other side of the bar as Jordan gets closer.

“Nobody that’s still alive. Kidding. We’re good. Follow,” Jordan replies, curt and a little bit out of breath. “Come on,”

“Status report?” Crossroads’ voice crackles through our earpieces. “Yes/no – all clear?” I tap once. Jordan taps once. “Good. It’s still early, don’t rush.”

Jordan taps twice, and I swat them gently with the back of my hand. Jordan grabs hold of my other wrist and starts almost dragging me down the hall to the bathrooms, which are clogged with people making their way in and out. Jordan shoves past the line, and I try to ignore the screaming void in my head that forms at people’s disgruntled reactions, wanting to apologize to every single one of them individually for my social transgressions.

We arrive in the gender-neutral bathroom, and Jordan makes some room as subtly as they can, when nobody is looking directly at us. Just enough room that nobody questions two people entering one bathroom stall, although given the place we’re in, I don’t think anyone would question it that much. “Is this really the best hiding place you could think of?” I harshly whisper, as Jordan pulls out two waiter’s outfits from behind the toilet.

Gross!

“On short notice? Yes,” Jordan whispers back directly in my ear. I sigh and turn around as their clothes start coming off, with their shoes clambering onto the toilet seat so that anyone looking in would only see a single pair of feet. Despite my burning curiosity, I do not turn around and look while Jordan gets changed into the besuited attire of one of the club’s waiters slash waitresses. It’s about a minute of awkwardly shuffling around before they tap me twice on the shoulder and climb down.

“Don’t worry about these clothes, we can just get new ones. I’ll throw these in the trash. Meet me near the closest stairwell to the bathroom hallway,” Jordan whispers into my ear again, grabbing their clothes and wrapping them up into a bundle while I strip. There’s no use lingering over the details here – I get out of one set of clothes and then awkwardly squeeze myself into another one, probably one of the smallest sizes they had available, judging by the way it feels like it’s about to rip at any moment. Extremely uncomfortable, especially with Jordan occasionally peeking out under the bathroom stalls to look for feet to know when the coast is clear.

Jordan scoops up my dress, puts it in the clothes ball, and vamooses from the bathroom stall once they get an opportunity, while I’m busy adjusting my clip-on bow tie. Where my clothes went, I will never find out. All I know is that I’m now in sneakers, a tuxedo, and a bow tie, and I look very fetching in the mirror when I finally step out of the bathroom stall.

I try to look as normal as possible as I escape from the stifling, piss-scented prison of a nightclub bathroom, looking as supposed-to-be-there as I can manage, power-walking past partygoers while I put my hair up in a loose bun, letting just enough of it stay fallen past my ears to hide my earpiece. The streaks of color make a fun little pattern all packed into a ball at the back of my head like that. It’s cute. I should do that when I’m not in mortal peril.

Well, I’m not exactly in mortal peril yet. Always time for that to change, though!

“This is going way better than it has any right to be going,” Jordan stage-whispers to me as quietly as they can while still being loud enough to be heard over the music. “I’m expecting to get shot any second now.”

“Please for the love of G-d do not jinx this,” I murmur back. Jordan takes the lead, the one of us with any real confidence in social situations, as they push through the Employees Only gate with a keycard that I had no idea they had. “I’m not even going to ask where you got that from.”

“I pickpocketed it, obviously,” Jordan answers. I can’t help but roll my eyes.

Every single one of the steps rattles underneath us as we make our way up to the VIP floor, the acoustics of the place constructed just so to make the sound dampen almost immediately once you get halfway up. I don’t know if it’s the weird, wave-shaped puffy cloth on the wall or what, but it’s immediately so much quieter, and I feel relief wash over me in an awesome wave – awesome in the old-style sense of the word, like, “awe-inspiring”, not awesome like super epic awesome extreme.

The stairs are more intimidating than the guards that were leering at us on the way up, honestly. They’re the kind of thin metal with the little criss-cross x patterns on them, I don’t know how to explain it better, but they’re very industrial style, super incongruous with the rest of the club. It reminds me more of the stairs of the old factory we first encountered the Kingdom at – a thought which makes my heart skip a beat or two, if I’m being perfectly honest. Each step up echoes, just a little bit, before the sound is swallowed by the muffling and the music beneath our feet.

There’s a second gate, another Employees Only barrier, at the very top of the stairs, and for the world’s most frightening moment I am fearful that Jordan’s filched ID card won’t get us through. But it does, and I breathe again. My hands grip the railing, and the metal is cold underneath my palm, spray painted black and flaking with age.

The guard at the top of the stairs gives us a slight little nod, the familiar, hello kind of nod, as we walk by, and I notice the gun on his belt. A real gun, not a taser. I follow nervously behind Jordan, trying not to sweat right through my fancy new uniform, as we survey the situation. “Sorry, it’s her first time up here. She’s nervous about the guns. Promise not to use them on her?” Jordan asks the guard, poking a finger at him through the air.

He… chuckles. His hard, square face softens, creases in dark skin unwrinkling as he puts himself in a good mood at Jordan’s comment, somehow. “Can’t guarantee anything, ma’am. Just don’t do anything stupid.”

“Don’t worry, I’ve got her on a tight leash. Don’t I, kiddo?” Jordan answers, laughing a little bit at my expense. I go entirely red, from toes to scalp.

“I’m not answering that,” I hiss.

“Yeah, yeah, get a move on, newbie,” Jordan cuts back, grabbing the cuff of my tuxedo’s sleeve and giving me a sharp but gentle little yank. The guard gives us a polite salute, and we make our way onto the second floor balconies with no issue.

I stare holes into the back of Jordan’s head while we walk, examining the booths that seem like they’ve been carved into the walls, each one surrounded by that same wavy cloth that was on the walls near the stairs going up. I assume that it has to be some sort of soundproofing, given just how much quieter it is up here, and I know logically that we’re only like 8 feet up, maybe 9, maybe 10, but everyone underneath us, all the partygoers look so small. So insignificant, almost. They don’t look like ants, but everything has this weird toy-like quality from up here. It feels just a little bit less real.

“I am going to kill you,” I whisper to Jordan’s back. Jordan turns their head over their shoulder and just smirks at me, which makes me even more embarrassed, and even angrier. Embarrasseder… I roll the not-word over in my head.

Jordan and I do rounds around the balcony of the second floor – it’s shaped sort of like if you took the number 8 and added another bump to it, so there’s two bridges in the center instead of one. It’s almost entirely catwalk, and I’m not quite sure how it’s secured to the walls and ceiling, but it gives the appearance of a hanging factory almost, looming over top the dance floor, about to collapse at any moment. I know logically that the various booths haven’t really been carved into the brick wall, but whoever made this club sure did put a lot of effort into making them look that way.

There’s lots of waiters running around and not quite enough room for them, each with trays, drinks, goods, items. Jordan and I look comparatively out of place just by our lack of hustle, but Jordan’s power-walking is a pretty good imitation. We pass by curtain-sealed booths, the acrid smell of cigar smoke and marijuana leaking out in a thin but powerful stream, forming a dense sort of fog that eats this entire second floor.

Every so often, a guard gives us a knowing look, like we’re supposed to be there.

We do two whole laps, to no avail. Nothing exactly stands out – everyone here is equally likely to be some sort of career criminal working for a hardened criminal enterprise, and that just happens to be the people in booths without their dark purple curtains shut. I take a quick break, chafing in my dress pants, and lean against the railing, sucking in air between my sharp teeth.

“You good, chief?” Jordan asks, patting me on the back.

I scowl at them. “Just a lot of… I’m gonna need some baby powder after this. A lot of chafing.”

“Yeouch. Anyway, I’m about ready to call this a wash. I’ve already gotten like five pictures of dudes doing coke, that should be enough, right?” Jordan drags my hand over to their pocket, where I can feel the outline of their phone. I shake my head.

“We’re here for specific people. And keep your voice down, please, Jor. Can I try to handle this one?” I ask, giving my best puppy dog eyes. I’m not exactly the social expert, but I have been paying attention to the myriad voices surrounding me the best I can, and it’s giving me some ideas.

Not good ideas, exactly, but ideas.

Jordan laughs. “Sure, just don’t expect me to bail you out if you get caught immediately,” they whisper.

I roll my eyes. “Isn’t that literally your job here?”

“Oh, right. Well… I’ll laugh at you about it, assuming we survive,” Jordan quips. I thump them on the shoulder, and then gesture for them to start walking.

“Get me near one of the guards. That one you made fun of me in front of, drag me to him. I have a question,” I whisper, trying my best to look as demure and unintimidating as possible. Jordan sighs, puffs out their chest, and grabs me by the wrist.

It’s not hard to look embarrassed in front of a bunch of glancing waiters and waitresses and other employees and possible people with guns when you are getting dragged along like a toddler that just ate too many crayons. I’m extremely good at looking embarrassed because I’m embarrassed basically 24/7, it’s my default state of being. In a situation like this, that means embarrassment and I are good friends, and I can call on her in my time of need. It’s useful like that.

My feet slide along the metal beneath me, making uncomfortable clanging noises as I shuffle along morosely, looking at the ground. Jordan gently pokes the earlier guard on the arm, and he twists around to face us. “Something up, ladies?” He asks, his face immediately jerking tight into serious mode.

Jordan sighs – I know it’s because of being called a lady, but the annoyance on their face very easily channels over to being annoyed at me, which only enhances the effect I’m going for. “My protege here has a question for you, John.”

For a second, I consider Jordan’s ability to consistently make lucky guesses its own sort of minor superpower, but then I realize that he’s wearing a nametag, and that Jordan probably just read it from earlier. I look small, curl my lips down, and try to speak without revealing too much of my teeth. “Sorry to bother you, John, I just… um… I don’t know which one of these has our VIVIPs here? You know, like… the owner’s friends?”

John looks down at me with an expression I do not know how to parse. A bead of sweat rolls across my forehead. I half expect him to blow my face off any second, just whip that ginormous pistol out and blow my head into two separate chunks. I wonder, idly, if that would even kill me, or if I would heal from even something like that. “Huh?” He asks, folding his arms inward.

“Sorry, I forgot the words… It’s… It’s a lot louder than I thought it’d be. You know, the really important peoples? Very important very important people?” I ask, not able to make eye contact with John the Security Guard. I mean, I’m barely able to make eye contact with anyone on a good day, but it really, in my eyes, sells the effect.

Jordan sighs in only the way a beleaguered manager could accomplish. “She forgot what booth they’re in and they ordered a bunch of cigars from the storeroom. I’m not going to walk her there, she has to learn how to ask for help instead of letting me babysit her all day.”

John looks between the two of us, and I feel static electricity in the air, getting ready to explode. I have no idea if I’m selling this or not. This performance would fool me, if I’d seen it, but this man is presumably, like, a trained security guard. Clearly, obviously, I’m not the only person who’s tried to sneak in up here, am I? I keep expecting any second now that the shoe is going to drop, and the lid will pop off, and everything will go to hell, but the moment never comes.

He sighs, and bends down to get closer to eye-level with me. “Back left, booth 12, all the way in the corner. You can remember because it’s the quietest seat in the house. You know where the storerooms are, right?”

I cannot believe this is working. I nod my head, shaking like an easily-scared leaf. “She doesn’t have her ID card yet, so I’m gonna take her down in a hot second. Thanks for everything, John, I’ll make sure to tell the big guy about you,” they quip, patting me on the back and then giving me a forceful little thump so I stand up straight. “At ease, soldier,”

My entire body stiffens like a log, about the opposite of at ease. John smiles and steps back to let us back through, since he’s big enough to almost take up the entire catwalk, and we squeeze past him, back into the line of workers ferrying goods around.

“Nice guy. Shame he’s getting got by two sixteen year olds,” Jordan whispers to me as we round the corner.

“Shame,” I mirror, while we make our way to booth number 12, counting the little signs along the walls. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven…

Twelve. Back left corner. Jordan bends over and snatches one of the platters from its place set down, on one of those… you know, the little fold-out table things you put a waiter’s tray on. They take it, just lift it up so casually it’s almost impressive, and keep walking like it’s nobody’s business.

Our earpieces buzz to life. “Whatever you are doing, you need to be extremely careful. I’m getting firefights now in some of my visual branches. That’s new. Any issues?” Crossroads asks.

I watch Jordan’s fingers tap twice, hear their two chimes in on the earpiece. Then, I follow. No problems here. I reach out for the curtain of booth number twelve, but Jordan beats me to the punch, and pulls it open first.

---

I’m greeted with three people that, should I have been able to see them openly, I probably would’ve guessed that they were the people we were looking for. Compared to all the professional looking scumbags surrounding us, these individuals look surprisingly normal, but also supremely weird, and the presence of a gigantic dog that stands up to my chest probably would’ve been a bigger tip-off.

“Someone call for some cigars?” Jordan asks, setting down the platter on the table in front of them – lucky for our bluff, it’s indeed presenting a small ornate box that does indeed appear to be full of cigars. The little silver tray glints in the low reddish light, and Jordan’s face is stern and unflappable, looking so much like that they’re supposed to be there.

The dog opens an eye and looks at us warily. I can tell now that it’s probably a greyhound, but it’s easily twice if not three times as large as any greyhound I’ve ever seen, with an eerie bluish tint to its fur that I think isn’t from the lighting. The booth itself is simple, consisting of a long, round couch-like seat, you know, like a booth at a diner, with a table in the middle, a little old-style phone that I assume is for ringing for service, and that same sound-dampening cushioning along the walls.

It’s indeed really quiet here, and I like that. I look around nervously, the wimpy cop to Jordan’s manager cop, or whatever.

“No, nobody ordered any cigars. But I’ll take ’em if you’re givin’ em,” The man in between the two women says, his voice gruff, rough, and low like an excavator motor rumbling. His build is distinctly geometric, with broad, square shoulders and a cylindrical head that reminds me far too much of a pencil eraser, a flat cut of black hair framing his face. His jacket is olive green, his vest and pants leopard print, and his gloves I have to assume from the texture are gator leather. He reaches out, snatches a cigar, and reaches a hand out to the woman to the right of him, expectantly.

She puts a heavy metal lighter in his hand. He flicks it ’til the flame comes out, lights the end of the cigar, and passes it back. Then, he takes a long, languid hit and ashes it in the ashtray. “Yeah, that’s good. How much?”

Jordan nudges me in the arm, and I straighten myself up, coughing twice – once from nervousness, second from the smoke. “Compliments of the house, of course. Any friend of the owner is a friend of the establishment.” I pipe up, my voice a little lispy and light from having to curl my lips over my teeth.

The man leans back in the couch, throwing his arms out to take up more space, cigar hanging from between his fingers. “‘Attagirl, right answer! Now skedaddle. We were having an important conversation.”

“No we weren’t,” the woman to his left says, adjusting her glasses. “You were talking about strip clubs.”

“‘Ay! Shut up,” the big man says, making an angry gesticulation with his free hand. “That’s important business. A lot of money flows through those jawns, X.”

X. Like Mrs. X? It sticks in my head. Jordan and I both share a sideways glance. “Excuse me, but what did you say your name was?” Jordan asks for me, leaning towards the other woman. She tries to lean away from both Jordan and, evidently, the larger man’s cigar, waving her hand in front of her face before pinching her nose.

“What, you don’t know the baddest bitch-breeder on the east coast?” the big man says, waving his cigar dangerously close to Jordan’s face, thrusting it in her general direction. “Our Mrs. Xeno–“

“You really need to be quiet,” the other woman says, pocketing her lighter – at some point, she grabbed and lit up her own cigar, but I wasn’t paying close enough attention to notice the exact moment. Her fingerless gloves rest on the big man’s face, fingertips against skin, and he looks totally blanched, all the color draining from him in an instant. “Remember, letters only, new guy. We can’t speak openly with the curtain open.”

She turns to us, examining us, her reddish-brown eyes reminding me of my own. Her body is just as squared up as the big man’s, but pressed and squeezed into a more feminine frame – hips, a chest, slenderer shoulders, the whole nine yards. A white blouse under a black vest under a red jacket and pants shape her figure, with a dark red tie loosely draped over her front, not tied quite properly, her tan skin accentuated with marks of red makeup. “Apologies, you two. There must’ve been a mix-up – we have our people for waiter service. And he’s a bit of a lout so… please, just forget anything you’ve overheard. Alright, darlings?”

She reaches into her pocket, grabs a wad of hundred dollar bills, wrapped up in loose bands, and passes it over the table. “I don’t recognize you, so I’ll assume you’re new, just like the big guy over here. Take this, shut our curtain, and go wait on someone else, okay, darlings?” she asks, dangerously politely, her voice low and cigarette-burnt. Her gold hoop earrings, almost comically big, dangle with every movement, and when her fingertips scrape against mine against the wad of cash, I feel my heart skipping a beat or two.

“Wait, I wasn’t paying attention, what did you call me, T?” Mrs. Xeno-something – let’s just say Mrs. X – says. As if picking up on her tone, her massive greyhound begins to get up from its position curled up at her feet, leering at Jordan and I. I notice that Jordan has taken a couple of steps back, as if expecting the situation to get volatile, and I do the same. “First off, I’m a doctor, not a missus, you lummox, secondly, I don’t breed bitches, I conduct scientific experiments, which I will gladly turn you into if you really want to get snippy with me, young man.”

“You said yourself that don’t work on people, X!” Mr. T, I assume, says, flicking his cigar about, sending ashes every which way. Mrs. X’s greyhound begins to growl, and it’s all Jordan and I can do to stare.

“You’re not people approximately 20% of the day. I’m sure we can find out if my powers work on Tyrannosaurus Rex specimens, if you’d care to donate yourself to science,” she replies, looming over him. She’s easily the smallest, and least professional, of the three, with a green turtleneck sweater over a labcoat over some black slacks, but Mr. T still shrinks away from her.

“Leave, you two. This isn’t any of your business. We’ll call someone if we need them,” the red-dressed woman says.

“We should go, boss,” I say, grabbing for Jordan’s sleeve. They turn around, shoot me a look that just screams ‘we need to stay’, and for once, I see sweat beading on their pores. “Really, we need to bounce. Let’s not get in their way.”

“Down, Scylla,” Mrs. X says, her pet mega-greyhound standing up to its full height and beginning to growl at us. I watch its nose twitch, sniffing the air, its harness held back by what looks like a fancy braided leather leash that terminates somewhere in the vicinity of Mrs. X’s hand. “No civvies, girl. No civvies.”

“Sorry about that, we’ll get going now. You three have a nice day,” Jordan speed-talks out, wheeling around a hundred eighty degrees and looking for all the courage in the world that they pissed themselves. I spin around with them, extremely prepared to leave. We have a visual confirmation on who we can reasonably assume two, maybe even three of our capos or underbosses or whatever they’re called.

The growling continues behind us as we take two steps forward, not really in sync. Then, the woman in red, the kind that handed me the big wad of cash I’m carrying, calls out. “Stop,” she orders, and I cannot help but stop, mostly out of fear. “We have a dress code. Why are you wearing sneakers?”

There’s an uncomfortable, painful silence. My ears are ringing and it’s not just from the music. I feel blood creeping in at the edge of my vision, metaphorically speaking, I feel it pulsing. I turn around sideways. “M-me?” I stammer.

“Yes, you. We have a dress code. Your… partner is dressed adequately. You are wearing sneakers. Do you know what the owner would do if he caught you wearing sneakers?” She asks, her voice having a hint of an accent that I can’t quite place. I’ve tuned out Mrs. X and Mr. T’s argument by now entirely, even though it is continuing – up until the red-clothed woman swings an arm out in front of the two of them, shutting them both up instantly.

“I, um… I didn’t… This is my first day and, um, I didn’t… I don’t have… enough to get the shoes yet? I’m sorry, ma’am. It won’t happen again, I promise,” I lie. Now I’m the one that’s about to piss myself.

Her eyes narrow. “You couldn’t get a good pair of dress shoes with your advance?”

“No, I, um, I mean I could, it just… I just forgot until it was too late, I’m sorry. I’m really sorry, miss. It won’t happen again. I can… I can start my break early and go out and get a pair right now, if you want,” I mumble, my heartbeat rising. Jordan turns a couple of degrees, and I peek them making hand motions, pointing the way we’ll need to run. I can feel the catwalk stretching out, watching it lengthen and elongate in the corner of my eye, just by a couple of feet or so. “Sorry, I just forgot.”

She smiles. “That’s okay. We don’t give you an advance anyway, I lied to catch you off guard.”

I fake a laugh. “Good one, ma’am. We’ll be on our way now, if that’s alright?” I ask, turning back around, facing away from her.

“No, it won’t be alright. I didn’t notice until you stepped out past the curtains, but both of you have the ‘minor’ stamps on your hands. Why would you have those if you are employees? We don’t hire anyone under 18 here,” she asks, and my entire body goes cold. My gums clench up. Where is my purse?

My purse. The one with all my stuff, including phones, including support gadgets. It’s still at the bar.

Crossroads’ voice is loud and immediate. “Get out of there, now.”

“Who are you two? You’re not waitresses,” the woman asks. “Answer honestly and I won’t kill you.”

Crossroads’ voice clicks in again. “Now!”

Scylla’s growls, quiet and panting, turn into barks. Each one echoes through the second floor balcony, curdling my blood in my veins.

“Scylla! Get ’em!” Mrs. X orders, and I hear the sound of leather slipping against skin, a metal buckle hitting the table.

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