Death Blow (2 page)

Soft rock was playing, familiar tunes from the playlist they
put on when nights were slowing down and the bar was close to closing. Lila
checked the records—she was missing a receipt: an order of wings and two pints
of Bud Light.

“Ugh, Arnold,” she sighed, hopping off her stool. She went
through the billets—no receipt. She walked over to where he’d been sitting—no
receipt. She checked the menus, the floor, the bar. Nothing. Sometimes, bits of
paper would get stuck against the far windows of the bar, dragged to that
border by the opening and closing of the door. Maybe it was over there. Lila
walked over and bent down to get on her hands and knees to search for one dumb,
white slip of paper—the tip, she’d sure, would be insulting, if present at
all—but as she did, the door opened.

“Y’all not closed yet, are you?” a delicate voice asked.

Lila looked up, and her eyes were immediately drawn to an
impeccable pair of Louboutins. She wasn’t much interested in fashion, but even
she knew what those were—and more importantly, she had a decent idea of how
much they cost. She followed the line of this person, up her smooth and shaven
legs, to the hem of a sleek, silver lamé dress, up the dress to the tanned
shoulders that peeked out of the sleeves, and finally, up to the face of a
woman who looked like she’d just stepped out of the pages of
Vogue
. She
had perfectly cut blonde hair and vibrant green eyes. Lila wouldn’t have been
surprised if she’d seen a photo of this woman in a magazine before.

Lila was dumbstruck for a moment. She swallowed hard and
found her voice again. “Uh, no ma’am, we’re open for about another—“ Lila
realized she wasn’t quite sure what time it was, but it didn’t matter. The
woman swept in and clicked her way up to the bar. Lila got up off the floor and
hurried over. “What can I get you, miss?”

The mystery lady sat down gracefully, laying her shiny black
leather purse beside her. “Hmmm,” she surveyed the place. “How y’all’s
cocktails ‘round here?” The other bartender scoffed a bit from the opposite end
of the bar.

“Well, we’re not a cocktail bar or anything, but I can make
you whatever you’d like. Old fashioned, martini, sidecar, you name it.”

“Well, look at you. Gimme a vodka martini, dirty, two
olives.”

“Yes ma’am.” Lila got to work.

“Don’t call me ma’am, Christ, girl. Call me Cassandra.”

“Cassandra,” Lila said as she strained the martini. “That’s
beautiful.”

“Ain’t you sweet. What’s your name?”

“Lila.” She dropped the two olives in effortlessly, splashed
the juice two or three times, and slid the drink over to Cassandra.

“You one to talk,” Cassandra smiled. She picked up the
martini and sipped it. Lila watched her. “Shoot, girl,” she slapped the bar,
“and you can make a cocktail too.” Cassandra looked at her more carefully.  “Worked
here long?”

Lila nodded, settling up against the bar. “Too long.” She
couldn’t imagine what brought a woman like Cassandra into a place like the
Dirty Pint. Cassandra looked like a million bucks, or more—and looked like she
was married to a billion bucks, judging by the enormous diamond that sat on her
ring finger.

Cassandra leaned in closer. “You real pretty, girl.” Her
eyes scanned Lila’s face, following her perfect bone structure. Lila averted
her eyes and pretended to clean a glass. Compliments always made her
self-conscious. “Ooh, and you don’t even know it.” Cassandra laughed, high and
musical. Lila couldn’t help but feel a touch more glamorous, being inspected by
a glamorous lady like Cassandra. “You grow up ‘round here?” she asked.

Lila nodded. “Born and raised.”

What time was it? She leaned over and grabbed her phone.
2:47AM. She could feel Cassandra watching her very, very closely. She had a thought—a
quick, bizarre one—that maybe Cassandra had been watching her from afar.

“And what do you think about it?” Cassandra had bright green
eyes that locked on Lila’s and caught her off guard for a second.

“Oh…well…” Lila fumbled. She didn’t want to talk bad about
Belle Chasse in front of a stranger. “I don’t know.”

Cassandra picked up the cocktail napkin and lightly dabbed
the corners of her mouth. “Drinkin’ these things is so hard with lipstick on,
don’t you find? I’m worried it’s all over my teeth.” She smiled something
pretty, and flicked her eyes just so. Lila imagined that a million men must’ve
fallen in love with Cassandra by now. “Don’t seem like you like it much here?
If I’m readin’ your face correctly.”

Lila was taken aback. People didn’t usually pay so much
attention to her, and she wasn’t sure how to handle it—in fact she answered
honestly, maybe for the first time ever. “No ma’am, Belle Chasse has been a bit
hard on me.”

Cassandra nodded sympathetically. “I can see that,” she
said, sadly. “Why’s that, if you don’t mind my askin’?” Lila shifted suddenly,
fumbling the glass she was cleaning. “If it’s too personal, girl, don’t you
worry about it.”

Lila wanted to tell Cassandra everything—but she was too
aware of where she was, of her coworker at the other end of the bar, of how it
might come off to tell a stranger her life story immediately.

“I—I shouldn’t say, you don’t want to hear my sad story,”
Lila had never felt so nervous in her whole life. However, Cassandra seemed to
know her, on a deeper level, and understand all the things that Lila wasn’t
saying, or couldn’t say.

“You know what, Lila, I like you,” Cassandra said. She
finished off her martini and reached for her purse. “I’m going to let you in on
a little secret of mine.” Lila leaned forward now, transfixed by Cassandra’s
fluid motions, by her confidence and ease. “I actually own a bar in town.”

“Really? Which one?”

“Well, that’s the thing about my bar,” Cassandra intimated.
She held one delicate hand up to her near-perfectly lipsticked lips. “My bar’s
kind of a secret,” she whispered.

“What’s that mean, secret?” Lila grinned.

“Well, you could find out, Lila,” Cassandra said, opening up
her clutch. “We’re looking for a new bartender at my place, and I stopped in
here tonight because I heard there was a prospect here that I might like to
meet.” Her hand came out with a bright, white business card, and she looked at
Lila intently. “Club Malevolence.” She set the card down on the bar, and slid
it over to Lila.

Lila picked it up and inspected it. Simple, black, elegant
lettering stated the name, and only the name. She looked back to Cassandra, who
was still watching her like a cat.

“Where is it?”

Ignoring her question, Cassandra reached to take the card
back. “If you’re really interested“—she pulled out a pen and wrote something on
the back—“and you should be interested, the pay’s $30 an hour and I think our
bartenders walk away with something like $300-400 in tips every night.”

Lila couldn’t breathe for a moment. That much money? She’d
never heard of anyone in any bar in any city making that much money. She
couldn’t even imagine how much money that was!

“You text this number on the back here, and I’ll arrange a
visit for you.”

“Arrange?”

“Yep,” Cassandra slid the card back to Lila. “Secret, remember?
Anyway, that’s my personal number there. Text me and I’ll set it up.” Lila
looked at the number on the back as Cassandra stood up off her stool. She
smoothed out her dress and grabbed her clutch. “I do hope to hear from you,
Lila. I’d love to get you into this place, give you a break.” Her green eyes
hit Lila’s blue and held them, steadily. “Well,” Cassandra flashed one last
mega-watt smile, “I’ll let y’all close up.” She winked at Lila, turned as if on
air, and clicked out of the door of the Dirty Pint.

Lila inhaled for what felt like the first time in an hour.
She looked at the clock. 3:01AM. Had all that really taken only 15 minutes? She
felt the card in her hands. Was she seriously considering texting Cassandra?
She’d be crazy not to! That much money, god, what Lila could do with it. What
kind of place in Belle Chasse paid their employees like that? She had so many
questions she couldn’t count them all.

“Oh, shit,” Lila realized she’d never charged her for the
drink. She looked over at the empty martini glass and there, sitting on top was
a crisp $100 bill.

Lila parked her car in the driveway of her rundown home. She
cut the engine and stared at the steering wheel. Her car had seemed shitty
before, but now Lila couldn’t stop thinking about the possibility of actually
replacing it with something nearly new.
That kind of money
, she kept
thinking to herself.
That kind of money
. On top of all that, she felt so
amped up that she didn’t know if she’d be able to sleep, the last thing she wanted
to do was go into her house and see what trouble her father’d gotten into
tonight.

She laid her forehead against the cracked pleather covering
of the steering wheel and sighed. She didn’t deserve to work at Club
Malevolence. A place that a lady like Cassandra owned, that was probably full
of other people like Cassandra—what business did Lila have at a club like that?
She looked down at her gnarly cut-off denim shorts, her food-stained t-shirt.
God.

“Stupid,” she said out loud to herself. “Stupid, stupid,
stupid.”

Lila got out of her car, now angry and sad and embarrassed
at ever even considering Club Malevolence. She slammed her car door and headed
up the stairs to the back door. The kitchen light wasn’t on, but she knew that
didn’t mean anything. She took a breath, braced herself, and unlocked the door.
A bottle of Jack Daniels sat on the dinner table, only about a quarter left.
Bad sign. She took a couple steps into the kitchen and shut the door behind
her. She moved to the right of the table—nothing. She moved around to the left
and—feet.

“Oh, Dad,” she sighed. She flipped the lights on and walked
over to the prone form on the floor. He was unconscious, apparently, and lying
facedown in a puddle of drool. She tapped him lightly with her foot. “Dad,” she
said, louder this time. He didn’t stir. She knelt down and shook him. “Dad,” he
snorted awake this time.

“What, hmm,” he mumbled. He looked at Lila like he’d never
seen her before.

“Come on, Dad, get up.” Lila grabbed him under the armpits
and heaved him up. His body weight had become her standard, her easily liftable
cut-off. She threw one of his arms around her shoulders as he muttered to
himself, and started to walk him down the hall to his bedroom.

“Get your mother,” he slurred.

“Mom’s dead, Dad.”

“Your fault.” He elicited some angry sounds, letting his
head sway side to side.

She was immune to his words now, the blame he shoved onto
her when he got too drunk. He’d started doing it when she was young, maybe 12,
and for a couple years, it had really fucked her up. Now, she barely batted an
eye when it happened. Maybe it was just that the sting had become a constant
one.
It was a car crash
, she could remember repeating to herself when
she was younger.
I couldn’t have caused a car crash.

Thankfully she’d made it to his bed. She dropped him into it
with only as much care as she needed. “Whatever, Dad,” she cut him off harshly
as he tried to keep babbling to her. “Sleep it off.” She flicked off the light
and shut the door behind her, locking it from the outside—a feature she’d
personally paid to have put on that door, when she was around 16. She got tired
of him getting out.

She picked up his cane where it had fallen and hung it on
the doorknob. She walked back to the kitchen and sat down at the table in the
dark.
Fuck this
, she thought. She pulled out her cell phone and the Club
Malevolence card, punching in the numbers Cassandra had written on the back.

-It’s Lila. When can I come by & check out CM?

She pressed send. Who cared if she was a fool for even trying—it
would be better to try and fail a million times than to let herself waste away
in the terrible hell that had built up around her.

Lila woke up to a text from Cassandra around 8AM.

-Hey hun. How bout 2nite?

She felt a moment of panic, but quickly stifled her anxiety
and made the most important text of her life:

-2nite is perfect.

She watched the bubbles on the screen as Cassandra typed a
response. Lila wasn’t sure what she expected, but she pictured a very quiet,
dark, fancy bar.
Christ,
she thought,
what am I going to wear?
Cassandra was taking a long time to respond, but she still appeared to be
typing. Lila couldn’t wait to see what all this was. She rolled out of bed,
threw her hair up into a messy bun, and tiptoed into the kitchen. No way her
dad would be up yet—he’d be out cold for another couple hours, at least—but she
quietly unlocked his door, so he could get out whenever he finally came to. She
put a pot of coffee on, trying to keep her mind off what novel Cassandra might be
texting her, when her text sound went off. She rushed back into the bedroom.

-523 Mystic Ave @ 11PM. Park ur car in the garage &
take the service elevator down 2 floor B3. Text me when u park & I’ll give
u the code. Tell the bouncers ur with me.

Lila read it a couple times. Park in a parking garage? Take
the service elevator? She felt her apprehensions bubble up again. This must be
a really elite bar—well, then again, Cassandra had said it was a secret.

-OK. What should I wear?

After she’d asked the question, Lila felt even more dread.
She walked over to her closet as Cassandra typed her response. What’d she have?
Shit,
she thought. One kind of fancy black dress—but it was old and
faded, and she was certain it wasn’t hip enough.  She had a couple mini skirts,
but she wasn’t sure if that would be dressed up enough. Her anxiety rose.
Thankfully, Cassandra’s response came in.

-Text me ur address & I’ll have something sent over.

Seriously,
thought Lila,
what kind of place is
this?

Around 11AM—house still silent, her father still passed
out—a knock came on her front door. Lila padded to it in bare feet, and peered
through the window. A huge, well-built, bald man was standing there, in a dark
suit and sunglasses, holding a long, white box—he looked like a hit man. Nonetheless,
she opened the door a crack, smiling politely.

“Yes?”

“Lila Collins?” He spoke very gruffly.

“Yes sir.” She opened the door completely now. Behind the
man, she saw a large, black Cadillac Escalade.

In response, he handed over the long white box, and an
accompanying bag as well. Lila took them from him and looked to him for any
kind of information.

“Compliments of Cassandra.”

“Uh, thank you,” Lila mumbled, trying to flash another
smile.

The man nodded curtly, turned, and got back into the passenger
seat of the Escalade. Lila shut the door as it drove off.

She rushed to her room excitedly and tossed the box and the
bag on her bed. She shut her door behind her—she felt like a five year old
who’d just gotten a new party dress. She opened the box first. Out of it, she
drew the sleekest, skimpiest, sexiest dress she’d ever laid eyes on. It was a
kind of dark bronze in color, and sequined just so that when the sunlight from
her windows hit it, it emblazoned the walls with specks of gold. Short-skirted
and tight, the dress had a braided halter-top that left all of her back and a
lot of her sides completely bare. Lila held it up, inspected its every inch,
amazed. This was, by far, the most expensive thing she’d ever seen, in her
whole life. She jumped up from the bed and held the dress to her in front of
the mirror.
Holy crap
, she thought. She was going to look smoking hot in
this dress.

She hung the dress up gingerly and returned to the bag. Out
of the bag she pulled another box, unmarked. She took the top off and her
breath caught in her throat. There, under thin tissue paper, was a pair of
matching, bronzed, snakeskin—no, they couldn’t be…but yes, they
were—Louboutins. She was almost afraid to touch them, afraid to breathe on
them. Hesitantly, she stuck a finger out, traced the high instep of the
platform. They were real, all right. They were real, and they were hers.

Like a bomb squad member, she took the shoes out of the box
and set them on the floor. How did anyone wear these? She was afraid to put her
feet in them. No, she’d put the dress on first. She stepped out of her shorts
and tank, took the dress off the hanger, and stepped into it. She tied the top
behind her neck, and looked at herself in the mirror.

“Holy. Shit.”

Lila didn’t recognize herself. Even with her hair up and
disheveled, she looked
amazing
. Maybe she just didn’t spend a lot of
time looking at herself in the mirror, but Lila had never realized how fit she
was. She could see most of the muscles in her back, and her shoulders were so
well defined and prominent in that dress, that she wanted to run her hands over
them nonstop. She looked touchable in this dress. She looked more than
touchable—she looked fuckable.

She tore herself away from the mirror and walked over to the
shoes. She felt like Dorothy. Holding her breath, she slid her toes into the
heels, and—whoops, she stumbled a bit, clunking over to the mirror to look at
herself. How was she going to walk in these and look like a normal person?
Whatever, she’d wear them all day if she had to. She turned to the sides,
turned around, looked at herself from every possible angle. Lila hadn’t before
realized she had such a figure before. Or maybe it was the dress? Her ass
looked amazing. The dress hit just the right spot on her lower back to make her
torso look long and lean. Her legs were out, and they were cut. Even if her
father never gave her another thing, and if her mother couldn’t, she guessed
they’d done well where genes were concerned.