youth. People see his face and think he’s trouble, and that’s the way he likes it. They see that nose, and the heavy gold chains around his throat and wrists, and they think crime. But he’s the first person to tell you there’s nothing illicit about the club. Everything’s above board. He knows too many operations that have been brought down thanks to breaking the law (It’s always the fucking taxes, he’d told me the first day we met, they always get you on the fucking taxes), and none of the billionaires step in to save you when you’re going down. So he’s careful. He’s got a solid accounting operation, which he’ll brag about for an hour if you let him. And his office just looks like an office. There are chairs and a desk and a computer.
God damn, what was I getting myself into, talking to Jimi again? I really didn’t want to be back here, even if I needed the money.
“Look, I’ll just hustle drinks, that’s all I need. Who said I approached him?”
“Doesn’t matter who.”
“I didn’t.”
“But did you talk to him?”
“A little.”
Jimi shakes his head. “Don’t. You know the rules.”
“We were behind the door.”
He leans back in his chair and gives me a big gold smile. “Kid, you ever hear of Roman Schlage? No? You wouldn’t, these days. Big real estate guy in his former life. Back in the ‘90s, when I was up in New York, we ran a little operation like this. High-class all the way. Schlage liked twinks—skinnier than you, pale-blond, guys that looked like they just stepped off the plane from Sweden, you know what I’m saying? And barebacking. That man would not come within a hundred yards of a rubber. Always with the barebacking.
“Anyways, he took to this one kid I had at the club, little scarecrow of a thing, big shock of straw-colored hair. Got him in a room, night after night, but the problem with Schlage was, he wouldn’t shut up. Once he got what he wanted, he’d lie there with the boy and just spout off the rest of the night. This kid was smart. One night Schlage tells him about a big waterfront deal, major investors coming in, sick money to be made. What does our little twink do? Fucker goes out the next morning and calls a broker, buys shares of Schlage’s company on the margin, thinks he’s gonna cash in. I had the motherfucking SEC on my ass at that point, they were going to pull him and me in for insider trading. Word got out, Schlage was ruined. Nobody wants to do business with a loudmouth.”
It’s the only time I like Jimi, when he’s telling stories about the old days. There’s something glamorous about it. Nah, that’s the wrong word, it’s not glamor, it’s something else, like when you’ve had too much to drink and the music’s really loud and the lights are too bright, and you feel on the edge of something really real, something beyond the border of the world you’re used to. His stories make it seem like that was happening all the time back then.
“What happened to the kid?”
Jimi snickers. “Last I heard, he settled down with a husband in Connecticut, and never touched the market—or a club—ever again. But the moral of the damn story is—”
“Don’t talk. I get it.”
“If a rich guy wants to say something to you, that’s one thing. He can do whatever he wants. But you’re not there to talk, you’re there to serve. Finn, you know this. You know the rules. I want to help you. You’re in a bad spot right now. I get it. I’m happy to have you at the club. You’re not going to be one of the pretty boys on display, I get that, although damn, if you weren’t ugly, maybe I’d push you harder to do it, but seriously, nobody’s forcing you to do anything you don’t want. But if you’re going to be a waiter, then you need to respect the rules.”
What can I say? He knows he’s got me in a corner. Rent’s coming due and I can’t keep the landlord off our backs another week.
“Okay. Respect.”
“Attaboy. See you tonight, then.”
It’s funny how quickly you get used to something. Last time I was here, I was scared. I could feel it tingling inside me. And tonight? Tonight I know that another job will come up—some little office job that doesn’t pay as much, sure, but will at