Maelstrom

Chapter 33: In Big Trouble

"I thought maybe you weren't working tonight," Glory muttered under her breath. "I certainly didn't expect to see Malcolm back at his old station."

I glanced over at the short, bearded, ponytailed bartender in the AC/DC concert T who was working what was supposed to be my station. I pursed my lips. Ivan had been humoring me; he was obviously very sure I'd say yes if Stefano had already arranged for coverage.

I continued to look through the cabinets under Glory's backbar. Actually, it would make sense to call in back-up anyway – after my behavior yesterday, there was certainly a possibility that I might not have shown up tonight, and it was conceivable that Ivan could have fired me if I'd refused to work the box. That was an unsettling thought.

I found a second bottle of Casa Dragones and straightened up. "Yeah, they've got me working a party or a meeting or something up in the owner's balcony."

Glory sighed dramatically. "All night in a little room with Prince Charming. I hate you."

"Yeah, me standing around all night hoping a couple of guys focused on talking business get thirsty, while you're down here having tips thrown at you like rice at a wedding. I'm so lucky."

That seemed to perk her up. "Still," she said consolingly. "At least you'll have something dreamy to look at during all that waiting."

"Don't you have a boyfriend?" I shot back.

Glory moved up to serve a couple who had just completed their beeline to the bar. "Doesn't mean I can't look."

I saw Chauncey hustling past with two tall stacks of pounders leaning against his chest. "Hey, Chaunce, could you do me a favor when you're done with that?"

"Anything for you, Miss Goody Two-Shoes," he answered, moving the stacks to the mat next to Sterling's well. I looked down at my schoolgirl get-up and sighed. A perfectly tip-worthy outfit was going to be completely wasted on a couple of druglord douchebags and their smarmy security. Then again – I remembered Ivan's finger tracing a searing line around my waist and his gentle tug on my pigtail – perhaps it wasn't completely wasted.

"Could you fill the well in the owner's bar with ice as soon as you get the chance?"

"No hay problema." He mouthed a loud kiss for me and scurried into the kitchen for the ice. The kitchen. I should have thought of that earlier.

"See ya later," I called to Glory. My friend waved a handful of bills by way of parting. If Ivan hadn't promised me a $500 tip for the night, I thought, or if I actually needed money, that might have hurt.

I pushed through the doors to what I expected to be a busy kitchen, only to find a couple of cooks gabbing away in a corner, another pounding on a bag of frozen french-fry-cut potatoes with his fist, a dishwasher in the corner stacking freshly washed glasses on the drying rack, and Chauncey filling up a giant white bucket with ice from one of two industrial ice machines.

I looked about in confusion. The bank of gas burners was clearly not in use, and didn't look like it had been in some time; in fact, the deep fryers were the only things putting out any heat. A bank of microwaves took up the largest part of the prep area, a stack of boxes containing microwaveable appetizers waiting nearby.

It made sense, I guessed. People came to Asylum for the drinks and the music and to hook up with people attractive enough to get past the door; no one was here for the food. In fact, I guessed that the only reason there was a kitchen at all was to make sure that no one left early because of a case of the munchies, and because the club's liquor license required them to provide food at all times. This definitely would not do.