by Leanne Shear
I warily walked over to Billy, careful not to cross onto his side, and asked in a low voice, “Who are those guys?”
“They’re from the neighborhood. Try to keep an eye on them. They like to be taken care of, know what I mean? The skinny one in the middle is Baby Carmine. He just got out of prison. That’s why they’re celebrating.”
“Why was he in prison?” I asked, but before Billy could answer, Baby Carmine himself swaggered over to the bar.
His hair was greased back and he had beady, penetrating eyes as black as the shining onyx stone on his pinky ring. He wore three gold chains adorned with ornate images of Christ and a diamond-studded bull’s horn—the Italian symbol of masculinity. Nestled in his thick nest of black chest hair, I could see a Miraculous Medal bearing a picture of the Virgin Mary. His gray velour jogging suit was zippered halfway down, giving the overall impression that he had just wandered off the set of The Sopranos. Still, it was hard to imagine him killing someone or pulling off a major heist. There was an air of calm about him. I attributed it to his newfound freedom.
“Hey, honey, how’s about giving me a good ol’ Sicilian kiss?” he asked.
“What?” I stalled, with a nervous laugh not sure if he was serious. I’d seen The Godfather enough times to know that men like Baby Carmine wouldn’t take no for an answer.
“It’s a shot!” Billy smirked from his perch three feet away. I thought I detected a glimmer of amusement in his eyes. “Amaretto and So Co. Chilled.”
“I know,” I answered testily, and then threw a glittering smile out to Baby Carmine as I started mixing, hoping that So Co was what I thought it was—Southern Comfort. “I’m Cassie,” I said with a hint of flirtation, determined to make my way into his good graces, since he seemed to exert so much power at Finton’s. Three days ago, I reflected, the notion of willfully charming a low-level New York City mobster would have been unthinkable. Times had changed.
“Cassie, it’s a pleasure to meet you,” he said as he grandly grabbed my free hand and kissed it. “I’m Baby Carmine.” He stepped back and studied me admiringly, yet somehow not in a lecherous way.
“Nice to meet you too, Carmine,” I said sweetly.
“It’s Baby Carmine, sweetheart, and don’t you fucking forget it,” he said as his wide smile disappeared briefly. Clearly this was a man whose temperament could turn on a dime.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” I said, silently wondering why anyone would adhere so strictly to a juvenile nickname. Flustered, I concentrated on pouring out his shot.
He slammed it back and then said loudly, so that the other guys could hear him, “Cassie, you’re a great Sicilian kisser. Keep it up, honey!” They all laughed uproariously as he threw a $100 bill at me. He walked away with a wink and a “Keep the change.”
The price of the shot had been six dollars. That meant a $94 tip on one drink.
“Billy!” I squealed. “He left us a ninety-four-dollar tip!”
“No,” Billy quickly corrected. “He left me a ninety-four-dollar tip. You’re still training, remember?”
I’d read earlier in Laurel’s manifesto that trainees didn’t get to keep any of the tips until they were officially on the schedule. Apparently that was a standard practice in the bar industry, but I’d foolishly hoped Billy would make an exception in lieu of my hard work—or maybe even my short skirt. “I know,” I acknowledged, “but that’s still pretty amazing.”
“Not really,” he replied coolly. “He comes in here and throws money at me all the time.”
After Baby Carmine had rejoined his group of raucous cohorts and was safely out of earshot, Billy leaned in close and whispered, “Baby Carmine’s a ‘made man’ in Gotti’s family. He started off as a garbage man, but now he has enough judges on his payroll to shorten a federal prison sentence.”
“Really?” I asked. Both of our eyes traveled back to Baby Carmine, who continued to laugh and drink with his entourage. I marveled that these men had actually spent their lives hustling on the street, maybe even killing people, in order to ascend the pyramid of organized crime. As I dutifully wiped down Billy’s side of the bar, my mind raced with possibilities. I might be able to incorporate elements of this seamier side of New York City into my screenplay. Audiences loved a rags-to-riches story, not to mention a violent Mafia twist.
Around 10:30, two young guys wearing NYU sweatshirts strolled into the bar and ordered Budweisers. I patted myself on the back for remembering to check their IDs as Billy hovered over my shoulder.
“Look at that. You didn’t even screw up,” he said, but not without another small glint of amusement in his eyes. “I thought for sure you’d forget to card those guys, seeing as they’re practically your age.”
“That’ll be twelve dollars please,” I said, ignoring him.
The guys pulled crumpled singles from their pockets and combined them into one pile on the bar, topping it off with six quarters, three dimes, four nickels, and a handful of pennies. I counted the money: twelve dollars exactly.
Baby Carmine watched the exchange thoughtfully.
“Whassa matta wit’ you?” he yelled in their direction.
They looked up blankly at him.
“You didn’t tip your bartender,” he said.
Fascinated, I waited for their reaction.
“We’re sorry,” they mumbled sheepishly. “We don’t have any more money.”
“You shouldn’t be drinking in a fuckin’ bar then!” Baby Carmine bellowed. “Do me a favor—next time, grab a six-pack at the deli and drink alone in your apartment.”
I hid a smile, and Billy burst out laughing.
I glanced back and forth between Baby Carmine and Billy, wishing I could pull out my notebook and dissect the different ways they treated me. Baby Carmine seemed to want to protect me—probably because he thought I was a cute, defenseless “barmaid,” a babe in the woods, while Billy resented working with me for the same reason. I couldn’t decide the best way to move forward. If I “toughened up,” Billy would probably respect me more, but I suspected Baby Carmine preferred docile women, and he seemed to have already become an unlikely ally. I shot another engaging smile at Baby Carmine, lowering my lashes, while I effortlessly lifted the case of Budweiser that Billy had put on the bar and stocked it in the cooler.
Just then the door chimed ceremoniously. I turned around and watched, captivated, as an older gentleman inhaling a cigar strolled into the bar. He hummed “Fly Me to the Moon” as he approached my end, slipping off his Burberry trench coat and draping it majestically over a bar stool. He had a Napoleonic presence, as though he’d just come back from conquering half of Europe, and a thick head of white hair. His round belly caused his black Canali suit to pucker around the midsection. He wore a patterned Hermès tie and carried a cane with an ivory handle in one hand and a beige fedora in the other.
I stood at attention, cognizant of the tangible energy shift he engendered in the room, not unlike the one Baby Carmine had caused. He smiled at me, flashing nicotine-stained teeth.
“Hello, darling,” he said. His voice was gruff.
“Hi,” I said, scrupulously wiping down the area of the bar in front of him.
“Don’t believe I’ve ever seen you here before,” he said. Finton’s certainly had a team of loyal regulars, and it was rapidly becoming clear that I would have to memorize all of their names and respective drinks as soon as I mastered the fundamentals of bartending.
“It’s my first day,” I confessed.
“I’m Martin Pritchard. I’m a good friend of Dan’s.” He offered me his gnarled hand.
“Nice to meet you. I’m Cassie. Would you like something to drink?”
“I’d love a Maker’s Mark manhattan.”
I once again visualized the Martini Mike manual in my head, trying to conjure up a mental picture of the manhattan recipe. Manhattan. Manhattan . . . whiskey, sweet vermouth, dash of bitters . . . up or rocks?
“Would you like it up or on the rocks?” I ask
ed.
“Up, please,” he replied.
Grabbing the metal shakers once again, I filled the larger one with ice and poured in the Maker’s Mark and sweet vermouth, dashed it with bitters, placed the smaller one on top, and began to shake vigorously, confident that I wouldn’t repeat the night’s tragic earlier events and spray manhattan all over his striking tie.
“What are you doing?” Billy called out from his end of the bar, startling me.
“Making a manhattan?” I ventured.
“You don’t shake a manhattan,” he said, rushing over. “You never shake a manhattan. You stir a manhattan. If you shake it, it will bruise.”
“Bruise?” I asked. “What are you talking about?”
He rolled his eyes, grabbed my drink concoction, and threw the contents down the drain.
“Try again,” he commanded.
I focused on Martin’s cocktail for the second time. Finally I presented it to him grandly, sick with worry and frustration, while he brought the glass to his lips. He took a sip, savored the liquid for a moment, and put it down.
“A perfect manhattan,” he declared.
I couldn’t help myself—I beamed. At that moment, my small bartending victory felt like an accomplishment akin to getting Jude Law to star in my screenplay. I glanced over my shoulder, hoping Billy had heard. He caught my eye and gave an appreciative nod.
As the night finally drew to a close, Dan Finton breezed into the bar, and Laurel and several of the regulars flocked to greet him. I tried not to draw attention to myself as I mentally reviewed the night’s mistakes. I’d covered two customers in olive juice, assumed that a famous mobster wanted to make out with me, “bruised” Martin’s manhattan . . . It seemed like the chances of me actually getting put on the schedule were slim at best.
Unable to wait for the moment when Billy reported all the details of my incompetence to Dan, I decided to zip up my navy blue Puma backpack and prepare to bolt. Just as I slung the heavy sack over my right shoulder, I saw Dan making his way toward me.
“There’s my girl,” he said proudly as he looked me up and down. I could feel my cheeks turning red. There was something about the way he looked at me that definitely wasn’t innocent. I felt naked.
“What did I tell you?” He smiled. “I knew you’d look great behind my bar. So how’d it go tonight?”
Before I could answer, Billy appeared at my side. I felt a stab of trepidation and took a deep breath, bracing myself for his condemnation. “She was great,” he said. I looked up at him, surprised. “She didn’t run and cry when I told her what to do, like all those other girls you brought in.”
“Of course she was great. I knew that from the moment I saw her,” Dan enthused. Then he turned back to me. “Cassie, have you met Martin? He’s one of New York’s most esteemed art dealers and collectors, and a very close friend of mine.”
“We just met,” Martin answered for me.
“Are you in for dinner?” Dan asked him.
“I’m meeting a couple I know for some drinks.”
“Anyone I know?” Dan asked.
“No. Actually, I hardly know them myself. But it seems we have similar interests.” Martin shot Dan a sly smile.
“Cassie, I need to see you in the dining room,” Laurel snapped from the service end, which I’d finally learned was the end of the bar where the waitresses ordered drinks for their tables.
I wearily followed her to a deserted table where she’d spread out several documents.
“I need you to fill out this W-4 form and bring me a photocopy of your driver’s license and social security card,” she instructed.
“Does this mean I’m officially hired?” I gasped.
“We’re willing to try you out on the schedule. We had to fire someone last week and I need to fill shifts immediately. And Billy seems to tolerate you. You can work tomorrow night, right?”
I mentally canceled my dinner plans with Alexis at La Bottega at the Maritime Hotel. I couldn’t afford it anyway.
“Of course,” I said. I couldn’t help beaming.
“Great. The shift starts at seven, but I think you should come in a little earlier—maybe five-thirty or so—to reorient yourself. It looked like you were having a little trouble back there, and Thursdays can be busy. I want to be sure you know what you’re doing.”
I mentally canceled my five o’clock yoga class.
“I’ll be here at five-thirty,” I said.
“And another thing, all staff members have to memorize all of our menu selections. Here’s a lunch menu, a dinner menu, a bar menu, and a dessert menu. You should memorize the dessert menu first, before tomorrow’s shift, because it lists all of our after-dinner drinks including ports, cognac, Armagnac, and cordials.”
“No problem, I always prefer to start with dessert.” I smiled, but Laurel remained stone-faced. I opened the dessert menu, which listed five desserts. My stomach rumbled—I hadn’t eaten since lunch. Of course my eyes immediately gravitated toward the flourless chocolate cake, served with a scoop of Tahitian vanilla gelato and raspberry coulis. “Why is it called ‘Four Devils Chocolate Cake?” I asked.
“Well,” said Laurel, “I’m sure you’ve noticed our hand-carved ceiling.”
I nodded.
“There are three panels.” She gestured. “And the center panel is engraved with the faces of four devils.”
I looked upward at the menacing visages. In my boredom behind the bar I’d spent a lot of time gazing at the ceiling, but hadn’t noticed the devils.
Laurel got up and walked away without another word, her sturdy flats clicking on the hardwood floor. I sighed happily and glanced back at the bar one last time before slipping out the front door. I did it. I had the job.
As I headed down the sidewalk, passing the large glass window to the left of the entrance, I could see Dan engrossed in conversation with a young brunette who demurely sipped a red cocktail. Martin was lighting another cigar as Billy mixed him a second manhattan. I followed the tendrils of cigar smoke as they traveled heavenward and shrouded the faces of the devils watching over the bar.
Three
____________
THE “PERFECT”
MANHATTAN
Between bartending, setting up my new West Village apartment, and the occasional mango margarita at Dos Caminos with Alexis, work on Glass Slipper fell behind on my priority list. Of course I continued to scribble and jot ideas in my notebook—that was the easy part. I was sure that once my bills were paid—I planned to have all my debts settled in the next two months—my screenplay would come into focus. The problem was, by the time I woke up, exercised, came home, showered, blew out my hair, and got dressed, it was time to go right back to work.
With two weeks of bartending under my belt, I’d learned that Martini Mike’s ad in the Voice had grossly exaggerated the nightly income of a New York City bartender. I was working four shifts a week, and according to Martini Mike, that should’ve amounted to roughly $4,000 a week. But the truth was, I was euphoric if I pulled in $500 in any given week. Sure, there were high-rollers like Baby Carmine or the occasional Wall Street magnate who liked to throw money around, but most people left a dollar tip per drink, and I certainly wasn’t serving a thousand drinks per night. Wednesday nights were pretty steady. We always had a regular crowd, but it never got slammed, and Billy and I usually made anywhere from $80 to $100 apiece. We never made more than $250 on weekend nights. Even worse was the day shift I worked on Tuesday, where I was lucky if I could scrape together $10 in tips. No one ever came in for lunch, and the shift lasted nine painful hours.
I became obsessed with the financial spreadsheet in my head. My rent was $1,000 a month. Student loan payments would be kicking in shortly, and my lenders estimated I’d be paying $200 a month. My utilities totaled $250 a month. All this before I even factored in dinners and nights out, my YMCA gym membership, health insurance, new contacts and glasses every year, and the occasional new Fresh lip gloss from Sephor
a. Then there was the slippery slope of credit cards. My brain short-circuited whenever I tried to calculate the exact amount of debt I was in. I called Laurel and told her I was available day or night if she needed me to cover any shifts.
Time is money both for you and Dan Finton.” Billy repeated this mantra for the umpteenth time, as he showed me how to pour liquor out of a bottle and soda out of the gun at the same time. I’d also learned how to massage the foil seal off a bottle of wine with one quick hand motion, instead of taking the time to cut it off with the little knife attached to the corkscrew on what bartenders called a wine key. I’d mastered pouring two beers from the taps at once. I could even make a perfect bishop’s collar on a pint of Guinness (the phenomenon that occurred when the beer’s white head extends beyond the glass).
I quickly realized that Sean was right—bartending wasn’t brain surgery. With each shift another mystery would unravel. On my third night, I’d learned that Syrah and Shiraz came from the same grape and were actually the same wine with different names (Syrah in France and Shiraz in Australia). If someone ordered a scotch or whiskey “neat,” that meant it should come without ice, not chilled, just poured straight from the bottle. (I also learned that “scotch” is exactly the same liquor as whiskey, except that it’s made in Scotland.) I already knew from Martini Mike that a “dry” martini meant light on the vermouth, but I quickly learned that even when people didn’t specify “dry,” it was still best to add no vermouth at all (unless someone requested the very rare “wet” martini). “Common tastes have changed with the times, and dry vermouth is becoming a thing of the past,” Billy had explained.
Laurel left early much of the time (after dipping into too much red wine, which she liked to gulp as she pored over her paperwork), so Billy and I held the unofficial keys to the kingdom.
On Friday and Saturday nights Billy and I worked with a bar back (a bartender’s assistant) named José. José got a $35 shift pay and 10 percent of the bartenders’ tips. In return, he set up the bar, brought us ice all night, washed glasses, cut extra fruit, took out the huge trash bins two to four times a night, replenished the liquor supply, stocked beer, picked up dirty glasses and plates from the tables, and managed all the cleanup at the end of the night. When Billy went down to the basement to drop the money in the safe, I would always sneak José an extra $20.