Chum

It's not hard to look embarrassed in front of a bunch of glancing waiters and waitresses and other employees and possible people with guns when you are getting dragged along like a toddler that just ate too many crayons. I'm extremely good at looking embarrassed because I'm embarrassed basically 24/7, it's my default state of being. In a situation like this, that means embarrassment and I are good friends, and I can call on her in my time of need. It's useful like that.

My feet slide along the metal beneath me, making uncomfortable clanging noises as I shuffle along morosely, looking at the ground. Jordan gently pokes the earlier guard on the arm, and he twists around to face us. "Something up, ladies?" He asks, his face immediately jerking tight into serious mode.

Jordan sighs - I know it's because of being called a lady, but the annoyance on their face very easily channels over to being annoyed at me, which only enhances the effect I'm going for. "My protege here has a question for you, John."

For a second, I consider Jordan's ability to consistently make lucky guesses its own sort of minor superpower, but then I realize that he's wearing a nametag, and that Jordan probably just read it from earlier. I look small, curl my lips down, and try to speak without revealing too much of my teeth. "Sorry to bother you, John, I just... um... I don't know which one of these has our VIVIPs here? You know, like... the owner's friends?"

John looks down at me with an expression I do not know how to parse. A bead of sweat rolls across my forehead. I half expect him to blow my face off any second, just whip that ginormous pistol out and blow my head into two separate chunks. I wonder, idly, if that would even kill me, or if I would heal from even something like that. "Huh?" He asks, folding his arms inward.

"Sorry, I forgot the words... It's... It's a lot louder than I thought it'd be. You know, the really important peoples? Very important very important people?" I ask, not able to make eye contact with John the Security Guard. I mean, I'm barely able to make eye contact with anyone on a good day, but it really, in my eyes, sells the effect.

Jordan sighs in only the way a beleaguered manager could accomplish. "She forgot what booth they're in and they ordered a bunch of cigars from the storeroom. I'm not going to walk her there, she has to learn how to ask for help instead of letting me babysit her all day."

John looks between the two of us, and I feel static electricity in the air, getting ready to explode. I have no idea if I'm selling this or not. This performance would fool me, if I'd seen it, but this man is presumably, like, a trained security guard. Clearly, obviously, I'm not the only person who's tried to sneak in up here, am I? I keep expecting any second now that the shoe is going to drop, and the lid will pop off, and everything will go to hell, but the moment never comes.

He sighs, and bends down to get closer to eye-level with me. "Back left, booth 12, all the way in the corner. You can remember because it's the quietest seat in the house. You know where the storerooms are, right?"

I cannot believe this is working. I nod my head, shaking like an easily-scared leaf. "She doesn't have her ID card yet, so I'm gonna take her down in a hot second. Thanks for everything, John, I'll make sure to tell the big guy about you," they quip, patting me on the back and then giving me a forceful little thump so I stand up straight. "At ease, soldier,"

My entire body stiffens like a log, about the opposite of at ease. John smiles and steps back to let us back through, since he's big enough to almost take up the entire catwalk, and we squeeze past him, back into the line of workers ferrying goods around.

"Nice guy. Shame he's getting got by two sixteen year olds," Jordan whispers to me as we round the corner.

"Shame," I mirror, while we make our way to booth number 12, counting the little signs along the walls. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven...

Twelve. Back left corner. Jordan bends over and snatches one of the platters from its place set down, on one of those... you know, the little fold-out table things you put a waiter's tray on. They take it, just lift it up so casually it's almost impressive, and keep walking like it's nobody's business.

Our earpieces buzz to life. "Whatever you are doing, you need to be extremely careful. I'm getting firefights now in some of my visual branches. That's new. Any issues?" Crossroads asks.

I watch Jordan's fingers tap twice, hear their two chimes in on the earpiece. Then, I follow. No problems here. I reach out for the curtain of booth number twelve, but Jordan beats me to the punch, and pulls it open first.

I'm greeted with three people that, should I have been able to see them openly, I probably would've guessed that they were the people we were looking for. Compared to all the professional looking scumbags surrounding us, these individuals look surprisingly normal, but also supremely weird, and the presence of a gigantic dog that stands up to my chest probably would've been a bigger tip-off.

"Someone call for some cigars?" Jordan asks, setting down the platter on the table in front of them - lucky for our bluff, it's indeed presenting a small ornate box that does indeed appear to be full of cigars. The little silver tray glints in the low reddish light, and Jordan's face is stern and unflappable, looking so much like that they're supposed to be there.

The dog opens an eye and looks at us warily. I can tell now that it's probably a greyhound, but it's easily twice if not three times as large as any greyhound I've ever seen, with an eerie bluish tint to its fur that I think isn't from the lighting. The booth itself is simple, consisting of a long, round couch-like seat, you know, like a booth at a diner, with a table in the middle, a little old-style phone that I assume is for ringing for service, and that same sound-dampening cushioning along the walls.

It's indeed really quiet here, and I like that. I look around nervously, the wimpy cop to Jordan's manager cop, or whatever.

"No, nobody ordered any cigars. But I'll take 'em if you're givin' em," The man in between the two women says, his voice gruff, rough, and low like an excavator motor rumbling. His build is distinctly geometric, with broad, square shoulders and a cylindrical head that reminds me far too much of a pencil eraser, a flat cut of black hair framing his face. His jacket is olive green, his vest and pants leopard print, and his gloves I have to assume from the texture are gator leather. He reaches out, snatches a cigar, and reaches a hand out to the woman to the right of him, expectantly.

She puts a heavy metal lighter in his hand. He flicks it 'til the flame comes out, lights the end of the cigar, and passes it back. Then, he takes a long, languid hit and ashes it in the ashtray. "Yeah, that's good. How much?"

Jordan nudges me in the arm, and I straighten myself up, coughing twice - once from nervousness, second from the smoke. "Compliments of the house, of course. Any friend of the owner is a friend of the establishment." I pipe up, my voice a little lispy and light from having to curl my lips over my teeth.

The man leans back in the couch, throwing his arms out to take up more space, cigar hanging from between his fingers. "'Attagirl, right answer! Now skedaddle. We were having an important conversation."

"No we weren't," the woman to his left says, adjusting her glasses. "You were talking about strip clubs."

"'Ay! Shut up," the big man says, making an angry gesticulation with his free hand. "That's important business. A lot of money flows through those jawns, X."

X. Like Mrs. X? It sticks in my head. Jordan and I both share a sideways glance. "Excuse me, but what did you say your name was?" Jordan asks for me, leaning towards the other woman. She tries to lean away from both Jordan and, evidently, the larger man's cigar, waving her hand in front of her face before pinching her nose.

"What, you don't know the baddest bitch-breeder on the east coast?" the big man says, waving his cigar dangerously close to Jordan's face, thrusting it in her general direction. "Our Mrs. Xeno--"

"You really need to be quiet," the other woman says, pocketing her lighter - at some point, she grabbed and lit up her own cigar, but I wasn't paying close enough attention to notice the exact moment. Her fingerless gloves rest on the big man's face, fingertips against skin, and he looks totally blanched, all the color draining from him in an instant. "Remember, letters only, new guy. We can't speak openly with the curtain open."

She turns to us, examining us, her reddish-brown eyes reminding me of my own. Her body is just as squared up as the big man's, but pressed and squeezed into a more feminine frame - hips, a chest, slenderer shoulders, the whole nine yards. A white blouse under a black vest under a red jacket and pants shape her figure, with a dark red tie loosely draped over her front, not tied quite properly, her tan skin accentuated with marks of red makeup. "Apologies, you two. There must've been a mix-up - we have our people for waiter service. And he's a bit of a lout so... please, just forget anything you've overheard. Alright, darlings?"

She reaches into her pocket, grabs a wad of hundred dollar bills, wrapped up in loose bands, and passes it over the table. "I don't recognize you, so I'll assume you're new, just like the big guy over here. Take this, shut our curtain, and go wait on someone else, okay, darlings?" she asks, dangerously politely, her voice low and cigarette-burnt. Her gold hoop earrings, almost comically big, dangle with every movement, and when her fingertips scrape against mine against the wad of cash, I feel my heart skipping a beat or two.

"Wait, I wasn't paying attention, what did you call me, T?" Mrs. Xeno-something - let's just say Mrs. X - says. As if picking up on her tone, her massive greyhound begins to get up from its position curled up at her feet, leering at Jordan and I. I notice that Jordan has taken a couple of steps back, as if expecting the situation to get volatile, and I do the same. "First off, I'm a doctor, not a missus, you lummox, secondly, I don't breed bitches, I conduct scientific experiments, which I will gladly turn you into if you really want to get snippy with me, young man."

"You said yourself that don't work on people, X!" Mr. T, I assume, says, flicking his cigar about, sending ashes every which way. Mrs. X's greyhound begins to growl, and it's all Jordan and I can do to stare.

"You're not people approximately 20% of the day. I'm sure we can find out if my powers work on Tyrannosaurus Rex specimens, if you'd care to donate yourself to science," she replies, looming over him. She's easily the smallest, and least professional, of the three, with a green turtleneck sweater over a labcoat over some black slacks, but Mr. T still shrinks away from her.

"Leave, you two. This isn't any of your business. We'll call someone if we need them," the red-dressed woman says.

"We should go, boss," I say, grabbing for Jordan's sleeve. They turn around, shoot me a look that just screams 'we need to stay', and for once, I see sweat beading on their pores. "Really, we need to bounce. Let's not get in their way."

"Down, Scylla," Mrs. X says, her pet mega-greyhound standing up to its full height and beginning to growl at us. I watch its nose twitch, sniffing the air, its harness held back by what looks like a fancy braided leather leash that terminates somewhere in the vicinity of Mrs. X's hand. "No civvies, girl. No civvies."

"Sorry about that, we'll get going now. You three have a nice day," Jordan speed-talks out, wheeling around a hundred eighty degrees and looking for all the courage in the world that they pissed themselves. I spin around with them, extremely prepared to leave. We have a visual confirmation on who we can reasonably assume two, maybe even three of our capos or underbosses or whatever they're called.

The growling continues behind us as we take two steps forward, not really in sync. Then, the woman in red, the kind that handed me the big wad of cash I'm carrying, calls out. "Stop," she orders, and I cannot help but stop, mostly out of fear. "We have a dress code. Why are you wearing sneakers?"

There's an uncomfortable, painful silence. My ears are ringing and it's not just from the music. I feel blood creeping in at the edge of my vision, metaphorically speaking, I feel it pulsing. I turn around sideways. "M-me?" I stammer.

"Yes, you. We have a dress code. Your... partner is dressed adequately. You are wearing sneakers. Do you know what the owner would do if he caught you wearing sneakers?" She asks, her voice having a hint of an accent that I can't quite place. I've tuned out Mrs. X and Mr. T's argument by now entirely, even though it is continuing - up until the red-clothed woman swings an arm out in front of the two of them, shutting them both up instantly.

"I, um... I didn't... This is my first day and, um, I didn't... I don't have... enough to get the shoes yet? I'm sorry, ma'am. It won't happen again, I promise," I lie. Now I'm the one that's about to piss myself.

Her eyes narrow. "You couldn't get a good pair of dress shoes with your advance?"

"No, I, um, I mean I could, it just... I just forgot until it was too late, I'm sorry. I'm really sorry, miss. It won't happen again. I can... I can start my break early and go out and get a pair right now, if you want," I mumble, my heartbeat rising. Jordan turns a couple of degrees, and I peek them making hand motions, pointing the way we'll need to run. I can feel the catwalk stretching out, watching it lengthen and elongate in the corner of my eye, just by a couple of feet or so. "Sorry, I just forgot."

She smiles. "That's okay. We don't give you an advance anyway, I lied to catch you off guard."

I fake a laugh. "Good one, ma'am. We'll be on our way now, if that's alright?" I ask, turning back around, facing away from her.

"No, it won't be alright. I didn't notice until you stepped out past the curtains, but both of you have the 'minor' stamps on your hands. Why would you have those if you are employees? We don't hire anyone under 18 here," she asks, and my entire body goes cold. My gums clench up. Where is my purse?

My purse. The one with all my stuff, including phones, including support gadgets. It's still at the bar.

Crossroads' voice is loud and immediate. "Get out of there, now."

"Who are you two? You're not waitresses," the woman asks. "Answer honestly and I won't kill you."

Crossroads' voice clicks in again. "Now!"

Scylla's growls, quiet and panting, turn into barks. Each one echoes through the second floor balcony, curdling my blood in my veins.

"Scylla! Get 'em!" Mrs. X orders, and I hear the sound of leather slipping against skin, a metal buckle hitting the table.