The Jezebel had its nights—loud, soaked in booze, crawling with bodies. On those nights, Jean slapped a wad of cash into a busser's hand and barked, "Run. Grab the good shit."
Desi leaned against the bar, watching Jean slick back his hair, square his lapels, and flash that cheap grin. His fake accent was thick tonight. He worked the room like one of the girls—only his job was getting the guys to laugh, hoping they'll spend more.
Ernie, the bartender, slid two beers toward her.
"How's your guy?" he asked.
She allowed herself a small smile. "Same."
"Haven't seen him around since that first night," he said.
She shrugged. "He's got better gigs."
A flicker of something crossed her face—regret, maybe—but she shook it off and headed toward the pit.
The place was packed. Every guy had a girl on his arm and a drink in hand. She weaved through the pit to a small round table near the stage and dropped two beers in front of a pair of young Italians. They took them without a word, eyes still on each other.
The men were locked in some argument about an upcoming fight at the casinos. Across from her, a new girl with bleached hair tried hiding a yawn behind her drink.
Desi had arrived late and was left with scraps. Her date was young and lanky, eyebrows like caterpillars. Promoted recently, probably. Wouldn't spend enough. She scanned the room.
Booths were for big spenders. Two men max, each with a girl, downing shots between sets. Most were familiar faces. One wasn't.
Black button-down, sleeves rolled to his elbows, cigarette in hand. Hair almost as black, streaked with gray. Beside him, the Vietnamese twins, each with blunt bobs and red lips. Experts at getting men drunk and spending. But they wore out their novelty fast.
She waited. When he looked her way, she gave a slow smile and turned back to the stage.
Jean stood at the mic.
"Ah, ze sounds of ze old Rat Pack, eh? Nossing better—and I 'ave a good Dean Martin for you tonight. Let's give it up for Monsieur Luca D'Agata!"
A few bars into the song, a man in a red button-down and gray blazer stepped up to the table. He leaned in, murmured something to her date. The guy glanced at Desi, then at the booth, and raised his beer in quiet acknowledgment.
The man turned to her. "The boss would like you to join him."
He was young, broad-shouldered with a square-faced. Looked more like a bouncer, but there was a discipline to him. How he stilled his tie before leaning in, how he gestured toward the booth with an open hand. Not a request. A polite command.
Desi turned, fingers brushing the back of her chair as she glanced over. The twins were already pouting.
She smiled, stood, and walked toward the booth.
The man watched her move. Poised and steady in a black backless dress and red heels. He leaned in to the twins and sent them off. She slid into the booth. The man in the red shirt stood close, still and alert.
"What's your name, my dear?"
"Desi. And yours?"
He smiled like she'd made a charming mistake. "You may call me Mr. Black."
He wasn't just older. He was other. The way he sipped his whiskey, the way his eyes lingered, even how he tapped ash into the brass tray.
It all felt smooth and measured. Like every motion belonged to a design.
His design.
"What brings you here?" she asked. "Can't be the music."
"Not a fan?"
"Anyone with a decent voice can sing these songs. But it takes something rare to make them feel new again."
"They don't have it, then?"
"Few do. Otherwise, we'd be drowning in talent."
He studied her. His gaze pressed into her skin.
"A lot of my men come here. I wondered why."
"Drinks and girls," Desi said. "Isn't that why most men go out?"
"Drinks and girls are everywhere."
"Not like here. You won't sit alone long."
"I heard. Clever business. Must be expensive keeping all of you."
"Drinks," Desi said. "We get a cut. High-end liquor justifies the tab."
"I take it the fellas don't know that."
She smirked. "Thieves don't call ahead, do they?"
His lip curled. Subtle. Almost not there. He drained his glass.
"I'll get you another," she offered.
"No need. Mino." He held up the glass. Red Shirt—Mino—collected it and turned.
"Wait." Mr. Black stopped him. Then looked at Desi. "What'll you have?"
"Martini. Dirty."
Mino disappeared.
"So," she said, "what is it you do, Mr. Black?"
"You already know."
"Pretend I don't."
"I don't pretend."
"What do you like, then?"
He looked at her again, slower this time. Less desire, more calculation.
"A woman who knows what she wants."
It was a challenge. She accepted.
Desi drew his cigarette from his fingers, took a drag. No thigh grazing. No cheap touches to his shirt. He was too sharp. Whispering filth might work—but she aimed higher. She wanted to snare him.
She took his hand—rough and firm—and pressed it to her cheek. He didn't trail downward. He tilted her chin. Brushed her lower lip with his thumb.
Her fingers slipped into his hair. Their mouths met—liquid-laced and passionate but controlled.
Then she bit his lip hard.
He pulled back. Not angry. Not shocked. Just…watching.
"Too much for you?" she said.
He studied her like he hadn't decided yet.
She took another drag, eyes steady. "Can't decide what you want?"
A faint grin flickered. It lingered a beat longer this time.
Mino returned with the drinks.
"Jake wants to pay his respects," he said, setting the glasses down.
Neither looked away.
Then Mr. Black sipped his whiskey. Mino took that as a nod and waved Jean over.
"Mr. Black, honor to have you here, sir," Jean said, accent gone.
His smile was tight, his tone careful. Desi had seen Jean work every kind of crowd, but this was the first time he looked uneasy.
"Jake. Nice place you've built."
"Flattered, sir," said Jean.
"We usually have a mix of performers," Jean continued as Mr. Black rose from the booth.
Eyes tracked him the moment he moved. She'd never seen the room react like that.
They talked openly in front of Desi—bars, old days, city changes. Some of it coded. She didn't flinch. Just waited.
Jean returned to the stage to introduce the next singer.
Desi took a slow sip of her drink, then noticed Mr. Black's hand extended toward her. She set her drink down and took it.
He studied her mouth, hair, and figure—measuring her worth.
Then he turned and walked. She followed, Mino trailing close, through the layers of perfume and cologne, out to the street where a black car idled.
Mino opened the door without a word.
Mr. Black stood aside, extended his hand again.
Desi hesitated. Looked back at The Jezebel's door.
He exhaled hard through his nose.
"I don't have time for second guesses."
She turned back to him. The shift was slight but clear. His tone sharpened and his jaw tightened. She'd have to reel him back in.
Desi leaned close enough to promise something. "I'll make you second-guess everything."
Then to Mino: "My coat and purse are inside."
He looked to Mr. Black.
"Go," he said, eyes on her.
She smiled—and slid into the car.