Her Silly Little Stalker
Flicka von Hannover
After two hours of looking, I had another job,
because I can take care of myself.
Indrani had been surprised to hear that Flicka was on the job search again so soon, so Flicka had told her that the hiring manager had wanted a little bonus prize for hiring her. Indrani blinked slowly, maybe deciding whether or not to believeher, and said, “We’ve lost three cocktail waitstaff in the last week. Apply at the Silver Horseshoe Casino, and tell them I sent you over.”
Flicka certainly took Indrani up on her offer, pinned Dieter’s alpine mountaineering pin into her bra for luck because it had worked the last time, showed the casino her resume, and had a job offer immediately. They even had a “costume” in her size.
Shecalled Dieter and told him that she would be starting that afternoon, so he could start his card sharking any time he liked. She could hear the smile in his voice as he told her he would be right over.
Not being helpless and hapless felt good. The vast wealth of the Hannover kingdom had given her many options—and she had been utilizing every single one of them—but it had also meant that everymoment of her life was defined.
Going out and pouncing on a job was liberating.
They settled into their new routine at the Silver Horseshoe casino, where Flicka’s costume had brown fringe trailing from the backs of her arms that she had to be careful not to dip in the drinks she served.
Dieter took up residence at a Texas Hold’em table near the middle of the room where he could see when shewas restocking her tray at the bar and survey at least half the room. If anyone noticed that the hulking blond poker player had appeared when she did, no one mentioned it.
Indrani did, indeed, deal blackjack at the Silver Horseshoe on weekends.
When Flicka worked her first weekend, she sought out Indrani in the changing room to thank her.
Indrani hugged her and whispered to her that the hiringmanager, Prissy, had been watching her and thought she was doing fine.
The other girls in the locker room eyed Indrani talking to Flicka, and a couple of them nodded to her. One—her nametag read Scotta—chatted with Flicka about the weather and customers while they were waiting for Frank Fissmin, the bartender, to get their drinks.
And Flicka and Scotta did have time to talk. They had time fora whole conversation while Frank dribbled beer into steins and looked up recipes for mixed drinks but still managed to make them wrong.
Flicka held a glass up to the light. A pale yellow layer floated on top of bright red gloop in the bottom of the glass.
She fretted because whatever he had made—pineapple juice, whiskey, and grenadine syrup—wasn’t even a particular drink. A Southern Belle shouldbe made with Tennessee or bourbon whiskey, not single malt Irish whiskey, and it needed orange juice in it, too. Plus, a Southern Belle took a splash of grenadine, not half the highball glass, and it should be served in a tall glass over ice. If Frank had been trying to make a No Man’s Land, then he would have needed to add orange bitters. If that had been an attempt at a Billionaire’s Cocktail,then it would have needed orange juice and bitters. A Tipsy Santa should have been topped with ginger ale.
She finally said, “I don’t think a pineapple whiskey sour is supposed to have grenadine syrup in it.”
“She’ll love it,” Frank said, slopping vodka over his knuckles as he poured a jigger that was somehow still half-empty.
“It should be four ounces of pineapple juice, one ounce of a singlemalt whiskey, and half an ounce of lemon juice, and that’s all. No grenadine. Grenadine is sweet. It’s supposed to be a sour drink.”
Beside her, Scotta was nodding along to Flicka’s ingredient list. “Frank, you have to make it right. What if the guy is allergic to grenadine, and that’s why he’s ordering sours?”
Frank rolled his bulging eyes, slammed the weird orange drink down his throat, andfinally made a drink that was closer to Flicka’s recipe.
Frank added a lot of lemon juice to the second one, though. That whiskey sour was going to make the customer pucker, all right.
Flicka took it anyway. As she walked off, Scotta told Frank to make her a Lemon Drop the right way, too.
The Silver Horseshoe Casino was more wild-wild West than the Monaco had been, predictably. Flicka triedto tone down her British accent, but everyone asked her if she was from London. Eventually, she said yes, because a British waitress might raise fewer flags than a German or Swiss one if Pierre’s guys were still looking for her.
She kept an eye out, looking for men wearing black suits who looked out of place in the more casual Silver Horseshoe casino, but none materialized.
Two days after Flickastarted working at the Horseshoe, Bastien showed up like the silver fox had sniffed out her trail, and he ordered his usual top-shelf martini andWeizenbier.
“Bastien,” she teased him, “I swear you are stalking me.”
He tapped his chest, a little too appalled at her suggestion.“Moi?Never. But I admit that the Monaco became desperately dull, so I moved on. Four other casinos were just as dull,also. Keep bringing me my martinis and German wheat beer, and I’ll take care of the casino’s electricity bill.”
