Minx ran behind the bar to load the dishwasher, and Charla hand-washed the shakers in the sink because the dishwashing guy had apparently gone on strike with Frank.
They managed to keep it going for three hours when Prissy did a manager’s tour and saw them all frantically working behindthe bar. “Where the hell is Frank?”
Scotta shrugged and told the truth. “He said he quit and walked out.”
“Goddamn that asshole,” Prissy said, the wrinkles over her eyebrows wrinkling yet further. Her voice might be shaky with age, but her resolve wasn’t. “He’s fired for good this time.”
“We’ve been doing our best to keep everything going.”
Prissy scowled at the situation. “At least you girlshave been keeping up the bar, but it’s obviously not working. And I don’t know how many times I’ve told that jerk to not turn the news on. Nobody likes the news. The news just pisses everyone off. People can’t bet on the goddamn news.” She picked up a waitress’s tray that was sitting on the counter. “Can anyone here run a damn bar?”
Scotta pointed at Flicka. “Gretchen has been making all thedrinks, and they’re a heck of a lot better than Frank used to make. People are ordering more of them and gambling more because they’re drunk. Our tips are better because people don’t think we got their orders wrong and the drinks taste good. The dealers are raking in the tips because the guests are wasted and happy, and they’re making stupid bets because they’re having a great time.”
Prissy’slip rose in a sneer. “Gretchen—”
Oh.She meant Flicka. Flicka paid attention.
“—You just got a promotion for the day. If you can run this bar, you can keep it. I’ll get two goddamn dishwashers out here to support you. And somebody switch these televisions off of the goddamn news. People don’t come to a casino to watch the damned news.” Her wrinkled face pulled into a sarcastic, ghoulish smile.“I’ll take your station today, Gretchen.”
Flicka redoubled her efforts to make the drinks.
The other waitstaff scattered into the crowd, but Prissy was true to her word. Three minutes later, two kitchen staff whipped through the load of glasses and barware in the sinks, and the dishwashers hummed happily. As soon as a waitstaff set a glass on the bar, they whisked it away for cleaning.
Flickaasked for some fresh towels from housekeeping. An hour later, the bar smelled like lemon oil.
She also turned the televisions away from the awful shrieking heads on the newscasts and found sports.
Guests began to wander over to the bar area.
Prissy flitted around the bar, turning on the screens embedded in the tables so the patrons could wager on the sports playing on the televisions. She turnedon the Keno games, too.
Flicka poured drinks for people, relying on her prodigious memory of drinks she had consumed while being a princess at the very upper-class balls and events she had attended.
Brandy Alexander for the pretentious college kid? No problem. Flicka poured cognac, crème de cacao, and cream into the proper glass.
A svelte lady was saying that she was worried about carb gramsbut liked her margaritas a little too much? Flicka had just the answer. She blended tequila, lime juice, water, agave syrup, and avocado to make the woman a Copa Verde.
When a guy was getting tired of his Dark and Stormies but still sort of liked them, Flicka gave him a Bermuda Black, which was rum, ginger juice, lime juice, and stout. The ginger juice gave it more heat, and the guy was thrilled.
When people gravitated toward the bar, they left the poker tables, so spots opened up. Poker wait times decreased.
Prissy was very happy.
Bastien found a stool at the end of the bar and kept Flicka company while he bet on the sports. Flicka turned a television to the soccer channel just for him, which tickled him no end. He bet heavily on it and played some video poker games, too. He told Flicka,“You’re bad for my balance sheet.”
She grinned at him and poured him a Vancouver, a variation on a martini composed of gin, sweet vermouth, Benedictine, and orange bitters. “Casinos are bad for everyone’s balance sheet.”
Bastien loved the Vancouver and tossed another chip in her tip jar that sat on the end of the bar. “So where did you learn all these fascinating drinks?”
“I used to hang outwith a rough crowd.” It wasn’t a lie.
“Was this in Europe? In Germany?”
“Some of it.”
“Which one?”
“Oh, different parts of Europe. Do I really have a Swiss accent?” The boarding school that she had used to attend, Le Rosey, prided itself on its curriculum for a life of international jet-setting. One of the major points on its sell sheet was that students emerged with native accents for eachof the several languages that they would be fluent in.
