The Perfect Manhattan

by Leanne Shear

  “You mean that little girl?” I asked incredulously. “She’s only about four years old!”

  “I can tell a good ass when I see one.” He chuckled. “I’ve noticed from my vantage point at Finton’s that you have a nice one yourself.”

  “Marty!” Lily said, feigning astonishment. “Behave yourself, darling.”

  I was now feeling downright disgusted. Martin’s behavior toward Lily was one thing—many older men coveted the bodies of younger women. It might not have been pleasant to think about what Lily and Martin did behind closed doors, but they were both consenting adults. But a four-year-old girl? Was he a child molester? At the very least he was a pervert, which made me even less thrilled at the revelation that he’d been secretly eyeing me. At Finton’s there was always a bar between us, but in this sort of social setting I felt uncomfortable and exposed. I looked at Lily, who was so drunk at this point that I wondered if Martin’s comment had really registered. She was smart, I reflected. If she had to deal with Martin’s company in exchange for a lavish lifestyle, she might as well spend her time with him drunk and clueless.

  I was weak with relief when Martin asked for the check and we prepared to leave. When the waitress brought the bill, I started leafing through my credit cards to find the only one that wasn’t maxed out. I hoped they took Discover. Even though I had no money, I wanted to pay for my own lunch. I didn’t want anything else from Martin.

  “Cassie, what are you doing, dear?” Martin asked.

  “I just wanted to give you some money toward my lunch . . .” I began.

  “Darling, here at the club, no cash is exchanged. Every member has a standing account, so each time I eat here, I just sign for it and then pay one bill at the end of the year.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t realize. Well, thank you very much,” I said. Lily smiled indulgently as I quickly stuffed my wallet back into my bag.

  The three of us piled into the Bentley again, and before Martin had even started the car, he lit a cigarette. Lily did the same, and clouds of smoke formed circles around my head. I wondered how Martin could even see out the windows of the car. The two of them smoked so much that I was surprised everything around them wasn’t fogged by a sticky, grayish glaze of tar and nicotine.

  “Shall we head over to Saracen?” Martin asked. “Joseph said I should bring you by any time after four.”

  “Sure. That’d be great.” I was starting to question whether I could stomach spending my summer working out here. What if everyone was like Martin and Lily? Then again, James Edmonton had seemed like a great guy in addition to being unbelievably attractive. I’d just have to make sure I found a share house with normal people my own age. Besides, I was determined to get out of debt—and from everything I kept hearing—and from everything I’d already witnessed—money flowed freely in the Hamptons. “Do you really think I could get the job?”

  “I don’t see why not. I spoke at length with Joseph about you. He was the one that suggested you come in for an interview.”

  Give us a call when you’re done and we’ll come pick you up,” Martin called as I climbed out of the Bentley. It was a quarter to five when we arrived at Saracen, and the temperature had already dropped another five degrees. “Lily needs a few items from Henry Lehr in East Hampton, so we’ll be nearby. Call my cell.”

  Martin had explained earlier that Saracen was one of his favorite watering holes in the Hamptons. It was an upscale Italian restaurant that let its hair down after the dinner crowd faded and transformed to a disco of sorts for the older Hamptons set who still liked to swing, but wanted to avoid the official velvet-rope-madness of the club scene. Typical of the Hamptons, it was an old estate house on Georgica Pond converted to a restaurant. It had whitewashed shingles and a grand doorway that in its heyday could have been the reception hall for a debutante ball.

  “Hello?” I called as I entered the empty restaurant. Tables and chairs were stacked haphazardly in the entranceway, and the place looked nowhere near ready for the upcoming Memorial Day weekend.

  “What do you want?” an irritated voice shouted from somewhere in the back.

  “Hi . . . I’m Cassie Ellis . . . Martin Pritchard recommended that I meet Joseph about a possible bartending job and—”

  “Hold on, I’ll be right there,” the voice yelled.

  Moments later a squat, portly guy of about thirty-five strolled out of what I assumed was the kitchen. His black hair was slick-backed like the Fonz, and he was wearing a turquoise silk shirt tucked into black Cavariccis and a thick black leather belt with a shiny silver buckle. He reeked of Drakkar Noir, and he was the kind of guy who gave Long Island a bad rap. I was sure he had a can of Binaca in his back pocket.

  “Hi,” I said, “Are you Joseph?”

  “No, I’m Tony, Joey’s better-looking younger brother,” he chortled. “Joey couldn’t make it today because he’s stuck at our other restaurant in Brooklyn.”

  “Oh,” I said. “Well, Martin Pritchard said I should stop by because I’m looking for a bartending job. I brought along my résumé and . . .”

  “I wish I could help you out, sweetheart,” he said, his eyes lingering on my breasts. “We definitely owe Martin a favor or two, but we’re overstaffed as it is. Joey and I usually have our staff all set by late February. It’s going to be tough to find a job this late in the game.”

  “Oh. I had no idea,” I said hollowly. “Thanks.”

  “Sorry, sweetheart,” he said. “Good luck, and tell Martin we’re sorry we couldn’t come through.”

  Trying to shrug off my disappointment, I walked outside and hovered in the empty parking lot, watching the evening traffic on Montauk Highway. I took out my cell phone and dialed Martin’s number, but the call wasn’t going through. I looked down at my phone and saw the ominous message, “No Service,” blinking on the tiny charcoal screen.

  “Cell service in the Hamptons sucks,” Alexis had warned. I took a deep breath and tried the call again. No luck.

  I kept on trying, but the call wouldn’t connect. As I shifted from one foot to the other, I looked across the road and saw a sign for a place called Spark about a hundred yards down the street. Rather than bother Tony again, I decided to go there, sit down, regroup, use their phone, and maybe have a drink.

  The neon lights emblazoning the bar’s sign were incongruous with its weatherbeaten paint-chipped exterior. It looked like a large dingy shore house. But despite its tacky facade, the inside was bright and tasteful. The main room had been converted from an old barn, so the ceilings were lofted and gaping windows had been installed on all of the walls. In contrast with the dusty emptiness of Saracen, there were at least a dozen people running around frantically trying to get the place ready for the holiday weekend that would kick off the summer season.

  “Can I help you?” a man behind the bar asked. He wore a grungy red bandanna knotted around his sweating head and an oversized T-shirt with the sleeves ripped off. On his arms were thick Pony sweatbands. His bloodshot eyes were deeply set, highlighted by his pasty skin. He held nine wineglasses in one hand and four liquor bottles in the other as he swiftly stocked the desolate bar.

  “Uh . . . yeah,” I ventured. “I just came out from the city for the day, and I was wondering if you guys were hiring.”

  “Cocktail waitress?” he said, as he blatantly checked out my body. I suddenly wished I hadn’t eaten that chocolate soufflé. But on some level, it was a flattering question. Cocktail waitresses in Manhattan and the Hamptons were usually aspiring models, dancers, and actresses—incredibly tall, thin, and attractive. It was a compliment to be mistaken for one.

  “No—bartender.”

  “Our bar staff is full,” he said. “You want a drink?”

  I accepted and sat on a bar stool sipping a Bud Light and watching him prepare the bar.

  “Where’d you go to school?” I asked, after we’d introduced ourselves.

  “Deer Park High School,” he replied.

  “Is
that in Long Island?” I asked.

  “Yup. How about you?” he asked.

  “I grew up in Albany and went to high school up there, and then moved to the city and went to Columbia.”

  “That’s cool. I went to Southampton College for a year, but all I did was smoke pot, so my parents were like ‘I’m not paying thousands of dollars for you to get stoned all day,’ so I just dropped out. I started bartending at Blue Collar Bar when I was nineteen. I’ve worked at just about every single bar in the Hamptons,” he explained as he expertly layered bottles of triple sec in a storage cabinet. “It’s crazy out here—you start work at one place, then you pick up some shifts somewhere else, and the next thing you know, you’re all over the place. If you meet the right people, you can start working at the nicer clubs where people really drop money. Last summer I worked at NV on Thursday, Jet East on Friday and Saturdays, Sunset Beach on Sundays. It was insane.”

  “Do you have another job besides bartending?” I asked.

  “What do you mean?” he asked.

  “Like a day job or something,” I said, regretting the question. I was learning that even in a city like New York, where a lot of the bartenders were doing other things like acting or writing, there were still a lot of career bartenders like Billy. If the money was good, it was easy to get sucked in.

  “Nope, I make enough money bartending out here in the summers to take the winters off. I usually head down to Miami, and if I run out of cash I can always bartend in South Beach. I’ve been thinking about going to Hawaii this coming fall after the season’s over. I hear they got a bartender’s union down there, where you get health insurance and something like twenty bucks an hour plus you make sick tips.”

  “God, I wish they had that here. I could really use it,” I said, thinking that I could probably finish my screenplay in one winter in Hawaii.

  “Are you a good bartender?” he asked suddenly.

  “Yeah,” I said with bravado I wasn’t sure I deserved to use. I guessed I was a good bartender. I seemed to be holding my own at Finton’s. But I didn’t really know.

  “Can you handle volume? Because this is gonna be slammed this summer. I’m talking twenty deep at the bar.”

  “I can handle anything,” I said, more firmly than I felt.

  “Hold on a sec.” He climbed over the bar and vanished out the front door.

  Moments later he returned with a six-foot-five man in a flashy double-breasted white suit.

  “This is Teddy,” Jake said. “He’s one of the promoters here, and he’s in charge of hiring.”

  Promoters, like publicists, were minor celebrities who jockeyed for fame and publicity and were yet another notch to contend with in the hierarchy of a bar or club. At smaller bars and restaurants like Finton’s, the general manager ran the show with occasional help or input from the owner. At big clubs in the Hamptons, owners hired a team of promoters to make their place “the” spot for that summer. Often promoters have Rolodexes containing numbers of celebrities and other beautiful people they can always count on to decorate their club, and get mentions in Page Six, DailyCandy, and on Access Hollywood. Promoters have a lot of power, and are often put in charge of a lot of operational duties like the hiring and firing of the bar staff.

  “Hey. I’m Cassie,” I said, straightening up on my bar stool.

  “So I hear you’re fast,” he said.

  “What?” I asked, alarmed.

  “Jake said you’re a fast bartender . . . you can handle heavy volume,” he said. “Because this is going to be the spot out here this summer, and we need bartenders who can really bang it out. I’m talking tons of celebrities—everyone from Donald Trump to P. Diddy, and we already have parties booked for thousand of people. You need to make them want to stay and make them want to pay.”

  “Of course,” I said, wondering exactly what he meant by “heavy volume.”

  “What’s your highest ring?” he asked. A “ring” is bartender jargon for sales.

  “Ah, well, um . . .” I stammered, trying to think of a number. I had no idea how much I rang at Finton’s, because we did what’s called a “blind drop.” Laurel always did our register reports the day after we worked, so we never saw how much money exchanged hands or went into our register. I took a stab in the dark. “Probably about eight thousand?”

  “Wow,” he said, visibly impressed. “We’ll definitely try you out.”

  “Great!” I said, letting out the breath I’d been holding and breaking into a smile.

  “You talk a lot of shit, sweetie,” he said. “I like that. Be here nine-thirty on Friday night.”

  I was both thrilled and relieved. This bizarre day and all the awkwardness with Martin and Lily had very nearly amounted to nothing. Now I suddenly had a job at what promised to be the hottest spot in the Hamptons. I shook Teddy’s hand and thanked both him and Jake profusely. I could hardly wait to tell Alexis.

  As I walked out the door, Teddy called after me, “And remember—dress sexy, but not slutty. This is a classy place, but they still want to see some skin.”

  Outside, I pulled out my cell phone to check the time: 7:18. I’d forgotten to ask Jake if I could use the phone, and I felt funny going back inside. Teddy’s parting comment had left me with a vague sense of sleaziness that I tried hard to let roll off my back. Clearly I was going to have to let go of a lot of my more feminist notions if I wanted to be successful in this industry. I wasn’t sure whose yardstick of success I was measuring myself against these days—certainly not my mother’s! I looked at my cell: still no signal. But a cab idled in the parking lot.

  “How much to Southampton?” I asked the driver.

  “Just you?” he asked.

  I nodded.

  “Twenty.”

  “I only have ten,” I said, which wasn’t a lie.

  “All right, get in. It’s been a really slow night anyway. Where you going?”

  “The Pritchard estate on Mecox Lane.”

  I climbed in the car, and we careened west on Montauk Highway. Twenty minutes later I saw the familiar PRIVATE sign emerge from the wall of impeccably manicured hedges. The driver let me off right in front of Martin’s security apparatus. I wondered if someone inside was watching me on a television screen.

  “Here’s my card,” the cabdriver said as I slid across the cracked black leather seat, opened the door, and slung my backpack over my tired right shoulder. “Call me if you ever need a ride.”

  “Thanks,” I said, handing him the battered $10 bill and stowing the card safely in my wallet.

  By now it was almost eight o’clock and the sun had set, dipping below the weeping willow trees on the horizon and leaving an unnatural purple glow in its wake. I pulled on my jean jacket and fastened the buttons as a cool breeze wafted off the water and across the grounds of Martin’s estate. I wasn’t sure how I should deal with the security system. After studying the device more closely, I realized there was a tiny red call button. I pushed it.

  “Yes? Who is it?” A woman’s voice crackled like a rifle shot out of the speaker box. I jumped, startled. From her thick Spanish accent, I assumed it was one of the maids.

  “Hi, it’s Cassie, Martin’s friend. I’m outside,” I said, my voice echoing throughout the empty grounds. A buzzing sound followed and the gates slowly opened. Passing by the servants’ cottage, I tried to get my bearings as sensor lights eerily illuminated my path. I broke into a run, sprinting the quarter mile to the Manor House.

  I knocked on the massive door, but there was no answer. I had expected at least the maid to be waiting for me, but the house appeared vacant. With trepidation, I pushed open the door and walked inside.

  “Cassie, dear?” Martin’s voice echoed somewhere off to my left.

  I relaxed. “Hi, Martin,” I called. “I’m back.”

  “We’d all but given up on you. Come join us. We’re in the sitting room.”

  I followed his voice down the hall to find him and Lily sitting next to another couple
on a gold-upholstered couch in a candlelit room. They were murmuring softly, and I noticed two open bottles of red wine and half-filled, lipstick-smudged glasses spread out before them, along with a half-empty bottle of Ketel One, more used glasses, plates with remnants of food, and four ashtrays overflowing with still-smoking cigarette butts and cigars. In his red velvet bathrobe, Martin gave the appearance of a stubbier Hugh Hefner. Lily wore a lacy, very short white negligee. I stopped in the doorway.

  “Hello, Cassie, darling,” Lily said with a graceful tilt of her head. “Come meet Denise and Bill.”

  “Hi,” I said cautiously, moving slowly toward them, not wanting to seem rude. Denise was a striking Asian woman no older than thirty. Dressed in a black bustier and a Russian sable coat, seductively sucking on her long cigarette, she looked like one of the women you saw advertised as escorts in the back of the Village Voice. Bill, on the other hand, was a mirror image of Martin—short and plump, with an expensive robe and a hand that groped at Denise’s inner thigh.

  They all sat there smiling mutely at me. What the hell was going on here? My mind raced, and I felt a surge of fight-or-flight adrenaline hit my nervous system, urging me to turn around and bolt. Martin in his bathrobe, Lily in lingerie, both of them sitting there with another scantily dressed couple. This can’t be what it looks like, I thought.

  “Well,” I fumbled, “I guess I should start getting my things together if I’m going to make the nine o’clock train.” There was no way I’d feel comfortable staying there overnight.

  “You can’t just scurry away without telling us how it went at Saracen,” Martin slurred, his eyes half-mast. As a bartender, I’d already become highly sensitive to the nuances of drunken behavior, but any idiot could tell that Martin was wasted out of his skull. My eyes fell to rest on several prescription pill bottles spilling their contents onto the glass table, jumbled in between the liquor bottles and cigarettes. “Sit down and have a glass of wine,” he urged.