This is kind of a departure for me. I wasn't intending to write a noir sort of story, but that's almost what this came out as. I hope you like it. It includes characters from my stories "Clean Slate" and "Playing It By Ear," in case you wish to go read some more about these people. But they're all such assholes, you might not want to bother, lol!
Enjoy!
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1: Julie's new partner is a dick.
"Cool. Anything else?"
"Yeah." Ben frowned down at his clipboard. "Traci is asking again if you'll authorize access to the party budget."
"Doesn't Kel-Q usually do the party shit?" I yawned. It had been a long day already, and I still needed to get to Profft Street by four. That was just a half-hour!
"Yeah, but this time it's Traci." An occupational hazard of running the kind of restaurant I ran was that most of the waitresses were called things like Traci. Or Meghan. Or Brittni. Or Linzee. Or whatever. I wondered where the hell all the Marys and Ediths had gone. "She told me you should just give her access to the party credit card if you're just going to keep dragging your feet on this bullshit. Her words, boss, not mine."
"Goddammit." I leaned way back in my chair. "She's so annoying."
"She says you put her in charge of the crepe paper for the Christmas thing," Ben shrugged, glancing over at Amy Bishop. She sat, a statue in the corner like always, completely relaxed. But then, when you're representing Corporate, you've got no pressure.
"No, she said she'd
take charge
of the crepe paper for the Christmas thing," I snapped. I waved a hand. "I never said one thing or the other."
"Well whatever, Tony," Ben shrugged, "either sign the order, or give me the card number and she can do it. At this point, why not?"
"What's she going to do," Amy pointed out softly, "steal the party budget out from under your nose?" It was almost a joke, from a woman not known for joking, and I stared at her. It was so hard to figure out what to say at times like this, but the clock was ticking and Profft Street was waiting.
"Fine. Give her the fucking card number, Ben."
"Cool. One more thing." His eyes glittered as he glanced over at Amy. "We're going to need to advertise for a new hire."
"What?" I had nowhere near enough money for an extra waitress. "Says who?"
"Says the little stick Meghan peed on the other day," Ben snorted.
Fuck! "Meghan's pregnant?"
"We'll have to get rid of her as soon as she starts showing," Amy agreed. "I'll find out whether any of the girls from Southside wants to switch to here."
"Or," Ben wheedled, "we could just do our own hiring..." I traded a sour glance with Amy. Ben doubled as the hiring manager here at Cheeks & Company, and he loved interviewing. Cheeks is an "asstaurant," catering to a certain kind of diner who does not mind if his waitstaff wears almost nothing, and that creep Ben took advantage of the interview process to get an eyeful. Or, according to rumors, a lapful.
"How the fuck is Meghan pregnant?" I moaned. Meghan had the best butt in the whole restaurant, and at 27 she had a sense of maturity a lot of the other girls lacked. I'd been thinking about making her a manager. Now I'd have to go with Lisa...
"Pretty sure she let some guy cum in her vagina," Amy put in, acerbic. She was already making notes. "That's how it usually happens. I'll ask at Southside," she added, with a pointed glance at Ben. "Don't post the job until I tell you to."
"Fuck," I sighed. The clock pulled at me. "Listen, I've got to go. I'll be back in time to supervise the mise en place, but only if I leave now."
"Cool." Ben was finishing up for the day, and Amy was off to do... hell, whatever it was she did down in the mysterious offices of Southside Chiropractic and Wellness. I'd heard rumors of the kinds of things the girls down there did, but I didn't want to know. I had enough problems running Cheeks. "See you tomorrow, boss."
"Yeah." I stared moodily at the schedule. Right now was the slackest time of the whole day, the yawning valley between lunch and dinner, and the schedule said Tori was the manager right now. She could handle it, along with Bar Guy Keith. "Thanks, guys. Next week, Amy?"
"Unless something gets fucked up, Tony," she replied sweetly. I scowled. I did not like Amy. I didn't approve of what she and her partners did down there at the massage place, if half the rumors were true, but what could I do? They paid well, and they'd hired me when nobody else would. She stood now, a rail-thin cadaver with that short hair you see in memes. "Bye."
I stalked out, giving Tori terse instructions. "Hold the fort, okay?"
"Sure thing." Despite her annoying Valley Girl voice, Tori Nguyen gave off an air of ironclad competence and control that belied the bubblegum smacking off her teeth and the skirt that only came about a third of the way down her ass. "I won't let anyone fuck with us."
"Hm. Yeah." We had a total of three covers at the moment, plus a couple of salesmen at the bar, but she was right to be worried. Diners occasionally got handsy, which was another occupational hazard at Cheeks. I nodded as I nudged aside the revolving door, treating myself to a parting glimpse of the bottom of Tori's smooth, tight cheeks as I left.
There are definite perks to working at an asstaurant. My colleagues in the world of breastaurants, I knew, enjoyed their gigs too, but the honest truth was that there wasn't much stopping our girls from going pretty minimal up top too, if they wanted. A trip to Cheeks & Co might show you some tit, too, but a trip to Hooters won't show you very much ass.
Say what you like about Southside Wellness; in building out two restaurants centered on sight of naked female asses, and then getting that past the Health Commission somehow, they'd figured out a way to print their own money.
I swerved my Mustang around some old bitch on the Inland Highway so that I could get to Profft in time, and sure enough, it was 4:01 when I made the turn onto the 1300 block and slowed down among the warehouses there. On cue, the light whoop of a siren split the afternoon, my window glinting blue as the police SUV swung into place behind me. "Right on time," I muttered to myself, glancing into the rearview. I sought some curb space ahead and pulled in.
Without signaling. Because fuck the police.
Two cops emerged from the big black rig, which was one more than I expected. I tilted my rearview as they approached, all cop-nonchalant, the bright sun of early winter reflecting off their aviator shades. Lindberg was wearing her blue uniform today, complete with badge, which surprised me; her buddy, who sauntered up to my passenger side, was a brutal-looking man of maybe thirty or so. I heard his handcuffs scrape against my quarter panel as he sidled up to my window, the inconsiderate motherfucker.
Making sure to keep both hands on the wheel (even though it hardly mattered these days), I smiled blandly up at Lindberg as she leaned down into my window. "Look at you in that uniform, Julie! Been awhile since you've been out of plainclothes." I looked down at where her necktie hid her chest. "Your ass looks great in that outfit."
"Shut the fuck up," her partner grated from the other side of my car, but Lindberg just smiled. She was a cool customer, that was for sure: the youngest and, unfortunately, sharpest detective on the force, she'd had me by the balls for a few years now.
"I know my ass looks great, Tony," she sighed. I could smell her auburn hair, bound tightly under the goofy little police hat. "I figured I should give you a little thrill. You armed, babe?"
"Always." I had a Glock under my jacket, which I knew she knew. Hence, the hands on the wheel.
"Want to pull it out and place it on the passenger seat, buddy?" She smiled. "Carefully?"
