“Almost one hundred dollars?” I asked. “That’s pretty good.” I finished wiping down the sink and tossed the rag to the side. Fifty dollars a piece, plus whatever hourly rate Mikey was paying me . . . not bad.
Tracy held up a finger while she counted two more bills. “Eight hundred and ninety-four.” She shoveled the money to the side. “Pretty good. I think the customers like the new girl.”
“Wait,” I said, gripping the counter. “Did you just say eight hundred and ninety-four Euros?” I felt my mouth drop open.
She nodded and lit the cigarette dangling between her lips. “That’s four hundred and forty-six, no . . . forty-seven a piece.” A smile curled up one side of her mouth. “And my eighth-grade teacher said I’d never amount to anything if it had anything to do with math.” She began counting out the bills into two separate piles. “Adding cash is completely different than adding beans.”
I still couldn’t believe I’d heard her right. If this was any indicator of the kind of money I’d be making on a nightly basis, I’d only have to subject myself to four or five nights a month in this place. My first stroke of luck in awhile.
“Closed so early?” Mikey erupted from the hall, motioning with both arms to the empty room.
“Sorry, bub,” Tracy replied, not looking up from the stashes of cash. “Looks like you’re going to need to up your booze order with the new girl in town. Didn’t have a moment of peace from the time I got here. Ran out a couple hours earlier than usual.”
“Shouldn’t there be three piles?” Mikey asked, leaning against the bar. “Don’t I get a share of that?”
Tracy humphed. “Do you see an ice skating rink anywhere around here?”
“You expecting an answer?” Mikey asked, righting a barstool with the tip of his shoe.
“Yes,” she snapped.
“No, then.”
“Exactly. Since hell hasn’t frozen over yet . . .”
Mikey snorted. “You’ve always had a way with words, Trace.”
“Bite me.”
“How is he?” I asked, diverting my attention to lifting another overturned stool. The passing of hours and the image of Tony’s face twisted in pain had shifted my anger to remorse.
“I ain’t seen anything like it,” he said, letting out a low whistle. “His hand looked like it was stuffed with pea gravel on the x-ray—every bone busted. They admitted him, not quite sure what to do yet.”
I felt sick. I’d turned the boy’s hand to pea gravel—as Mikey had so graphically described—all because he’d copped a feel.
Was no one safe around me? Would I have to sequester myself to a remote corner on the edge of the Milky Way?
“Don’t worry, you won’t get in any trouble,” Mikey said, mistaking the look on my face. “There’s no way Tony was going to confess to a girl busting him up. He told ‘em he punched a wall . . .”
He was covering for me; I somehow felt worse. “I’d like to cover his medical bills,” I said, knowing it was an inadequate gesture, but not knowing what else I could offer. So what if I had to work a few more nights this month?
Mikey waved his hand dismissively. “Already taken care of. Besides, I would have paid twice as much to see Tony get his butt whooped by a girl.”
“Here’s your share, California,” Tracy said, shoving the roll in my hand. “Go blow it all in one spot.”
“She will.”
“Always do,” Tracy snarled at Mikey, retrieving a trench coat from behind the bar. She slipped on the jacket before sliding off the leather pants and stowing them in a cupboard. She slid back into the four inch clear platforms and cinched the belt of her jacket.
“Time to head to your other night job?” Mikey asked as Tracy passed him, ramming jewel-crusted sunglasses over her eyes.
“You couldn’t afford me.”
“I couldn’t afford the bills from the therapy I’d need after.”
From the jesting in their voices, I would have guessed they were joking, but knowing Tracy had on a scarf of fabric covering her boobs and a pair of underwear—hopefully—under her jacket, I wondered if she really did have another night job. They didn’t call it the red light district for nothing.
“Good job tonight,” Mikey said, tilting his head at me. “I’ll see you tonight. Be here at seven.”
“I’ll be here,” I said, eager to escape from the stagnant air.
“Hayward,” Mikey called out as I was entering the hallway. “Who is he?”
I tensed, calling back, “Who’s who?”
“The boy that broke your heart.”
More tensing. “Excuse me?”
“You got the look of a girl who’s had her heart sliced out of her chest. Is that who you were looking for earlier?”
“No,” I lied. “There’s no one.”
I licked the envelope, puckering at the flavor, and wrote Appartement F on the front before slipping it under the manager’s door, hoping four hundred and forty-seven Euros would buy me a couple more days until I could come up with the rest of the rent. I tip-toed down the hall, knowing Pierre—the fattest, baldest Frenchman in the country—was likely still dozing from the painkillers he liked to double-up on before going to bed . . . but then again, this was me we were talking about and UnLucky should have been my surname. I quickened my pace, checking over my shoulder to make sure the door didn’t open.