Lights. Action. Bass drum. Mind-numbing. One-hundred twenty-four beats per. Twice the speed of a beating heart. Goodness, they all looked so good. The girls in their skirts, batting eyes, the beads of sweat.
Everyone was so beautiful in those flashing lights.
But the shine of the city had faded.
Desmond blinked away his dizziness from hanging at a club earlier, and his bartending partner, Mary, nudged him to stand up straight. "Hangover from this morning, Dev? I didn't know you drank so early." Desmond waved her away, and she laughed. "I'm not drunk, just dizzy from an hour of seizure-inducing lights. Besides, I can only do fun stuff during the day; the boss gave me the late hours to tend the bar." "He gave us the late hours," Mary corrected, "and the busiest ones, too, so you better gather yourself up and serve the customers their drinks properly."
Desmond watched as Mary moved down the bar to greet a customer. The female bartender was undeniably pretty, but she had a fiancé across the city working morning and night so that they could get married. She wasn't Desmond's type, anyway; Desmond didn't have a type. Growing up among Assassins, coming across too many women willing to wear less and less to go to bed with him — Desmond couldn't look at a girl straight without comparing her to one or the other. Mary was one of the few who didn't fall to either category — instead, she reminded Desmond of the two girls who had driven him around after having found him tired, hungry, and alone walking down a dirt road. The two girls were killed in the crossfire of a gang fight. That was the first experience of death he had.
A customer ordered a Horse's Neck, and Desmond smiled before getting to work. With deft hands, he cut a spring out of a lemon peel and lined it against the inside of a glass. The feel of a knife in his hand always felt comforting in its familiarity, despite William Miles having refused his son access to anything past throwing knives — which were only sharp at the very tip and harmless otherwise — until Desmond could hit any target at any distance demanded of him to William's satisfaction. Needless to say, Desmond never got to learn anything past throwing knives.
Next, Desmond used tongs to put choice ice in the glass, then poured 45 mL of brandy. He filled the glass up with ginger ale and slid the finished drink to the customer before him with a smile. The customer thanked him, and Desmond nodded back as he set about returning the bottles and items he used.
"Bartender! Gimme something sharp."
Desmond looked at Mary's direction, where a bald man in a suit sat down before her after ordering quite loudly, as if he owned the place. "What do you think this time, Dev?" Desmond glanced over his shoulder where a curly-haired Hispanic stood and watched on in interest. Desmond made an amused noise in his throat. "Don't you have tables to wait, Hernandez?" "Come on, Dev — isn't observing customers part of a bartender's job?" "To connect with them," Desmond clarified, "and why don't you ever ask Mary for descriptions?" "'Cause you're the best," Hernandez replied honestly. Desmond huffed, torn between exasperation at Hernandez's daily requests, and pride at his observational abilities being recognised, unlike back at the Farm. Hernandez looked at Desmond expectantly. Desmond looked at Mary's customer.
"He's partly drunk already — see how he hasn't looked at Mary yet despite having ordered already? He's been gazing around and moving a bit tipsy since he walked in. The guy's also right-handed…" Desmond drifted off suddenly. Rubbed marks on the left hand's thumb and forefinger. The reloading of a gun. "Dev?" Hernandez's voice broke him out of his thoughts. "The guy's a mafioso," Desmond shared.
Bad Weather, due to its location and its roughness gained from exposure to the mafia, was visited by mafiosi from all five Families, though never at the same time. Desmond's coworkers relied on Bad Weather for jobs, and thus most of them acted as the place's bouncers, so with mafiosi as common customers, the employees of Bad Weather had to be tough in their own right.
Desmond never admitted to anyone that working at a place where everyone could hold his or her own in a scuffle felt a little like home.
So, while it was unusual for a mafioso to come to the bar alone, Desmond and Hernandez weren't alarmed by it. The only detail that made Desmond keep an eye out on the mafioso anyway was because — of Bad Weather's staff — only Mary and Hernandez couldn't defend themselves. They were the more "civilian-like" people of the area, and civilian-like in that they couldn't win at least a scuffle. Violence was sort of a common thing in the area. At least, it looked like it when one worked at a bar.
"Would Sapporo Dry beer be fine?" Mary offered her customer. The bald man looked at her when he realised his bartender was a woman. He examined her in appreciation, and Desmond slowly put down the towel he was using to wipe his knife just in case; the less-than-law-abiding patrons of Bad Weather were generally more forceful than other customers, especially when drunk. Desmond's suspicions were confirmed when the bald man gave a sleazy grin and snaked his hand across the countertop too fast for Desmond's comfort. A knife to the sleeve halted its progress. The bald man glared at Desmond.
"Do ya know who I work for!" he raised his voice with a bit of a slur, before taking out a gun and raising it to Desmond's face. Desmond grabbed it and twisted it to the side where the gun pointed at a harmless direction, and the bald man gave a cry of pain at his finger caught in the trigger guard.
"You can be here for drinks or a place to sit, but not for any of our employees. Is that understood?"
"Gah! Fool! You're gonna break my hand!"
"I said, is that understood?" Desmond twisted the gun back some more, and the crack of a bone popping was heard. The bald man made a small sound in the back of his throat at the sudden pain.
"Yes, yes! For Pete's sake, gimme back my hand, already!"
Desmond loosened his grip and took the gun out of the patron's hand. Hernandez and Mary watched as Desmond pressed a button on the side of the gun for its clip to fall out and cocked the muzzle for a bullet to pop out harmlessly from the barrel. Desmond laid the now emptied gun on the counter behind him, before removing the knife that was pinning the patron's sleeve down.
"If you want your gun back, it will be in Lost and Found."
The bald man grumbled and, giving up on a drink, left the bar. "Hernandez," Desmond called over, and the Hispanic came with a whistle at the mark the knife had left on the counter. Desmond rolled his eyes, aware the boss wouldn't like it. "Mind tossing that in the storage closet?" Hernandez hesitatingly picked up the gun from the grip with two fingers — as he was not used to nor comfortable with handling any form of weaponry — and disappeared around the corner for the Lost and Found box in the storage closet. Mary elbowed Desmond.
"Taking the gun from the mafioso was kind of unnecessary," she said. Desmond gave her a look. "A gun should not be in the hands of someone who will kill for a Sapporo Dry." Mary laughed.
When the bar closed, the manager bartender — a Mr. Hall, but everyone always referred to him as "boss" — examined the place as he always would before locking it up. Hernandez and Mary watched in amusement as the boss traced a certain indent marring the countertop. Hall looked at Desmond.
"Tsk. Again, Miceli? I should be taking the repairs off of your tab!"
"Except that customers have been more agreeable ever since he's come here," Hernandez coughed into his hand, purposefully loud.
Desmond lifted his chin a degree in defence. "I am simply doing what a bartender should."
Hall felt his patience thinning. "A bartender meets the customer's order!"
"He asked for something sharp," Desmond said innocently.
Mary snickered.