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AT THE
NIGHTSHADE
LOUNGE
CHAPTER ONE
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Bailey could believe they hadnt talked since, like, high school
because they hadnt talked that much in high school. But maybe Jess
was one of those people who had dramatically changed in college.
Besides, if Bailey landed the job, Jess would probably be her first
office friend. They could do business-lady things, like go out for
chopped salads. Or, even better, make an intern bring them chopped
salads, which they would eat in their spacious, window-filled corner
offices while planning total domination of their market sector. (And
maybe online-shopped for statement necklaces, because it was, after
all, their lunch break.)
Bailey smiled. If shed ever had a mental picture of success, that
was it: lunch delivery, ruthless business sense, and power jewelry.
Bailey?
Sorry, Jess, Im here. So do you have any time coming up this
week or
Bailey!
This time her name was not coming from the phone. Zane
Whelans shaggy-haired head appeared over the end of the bar, his
square eyeglasses gleaming. There you are!
Shit. Um, gotta go, Bailey chirped into her phone, but
callmebackwhenyougetach
Zane frowned. Are you . . . talking to someone?
Hydrangeas, Bailey said quickly.
Huh?
Hydrangeas, wisterias, oleander, rhododendron, and anthurium, Bailey said, nodding to the trivia emcee gamely grinning
down at a clipboard from behind her microphone. Five of, uh, the
most common poisonous plants.
Anthurium? Zane blinked. That sounds like something
from a B movie.
Bailey pocketed her phone. Well, its real.
The emcee paced the bar floor, shooting pleading glances at
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each team. Come on, guys, she said, with microphone-added reverb. I only need five.Youve still got twenty seconds left toyes!
You.
The captain of a team of yuppies had leapt to his feet.Oleander,
poinsettia, dandel
But just as he said dandelion, a buzzer drowned him out.
Duh, Bailey said under her breath. Dandelions are edible.
Really? Zane said.
Theyre good in salads.
Sorry. The emcee shook her head like a rueful gameshow
host. Dandelions may not taste great, but they are not poisonous.
Theyre actually
Bailey mouthed the rest of the sentence: edible and good
in salads.
Wow. Zane tapped out a few polite claps. Im impressed.
Oh, um, dont be, Bailey said, praying he wouldnt ask about
the phone call. Poinsettias arent toxic to humans unless you eat,
like, five hundred leaves. She should have called him on that one.
Hey, ease up. Not everyone in this bars an Ivy League
graduate.
Bailey flushed. I didnt mean
But Zane was grinning. Because that distinction is the exclusive territory of our smartest barback.
He patted her shoulder, and Bailey tried not to cringe.
Right, she said. Thanks.
And as the smartest barback at the Nightshade Lounge
Zane went onyou really should know better than to go sit on
the floor during a busy shift.
Im sorry, Im sorry, Bailey rushed to say. I just had to, uh,
the music
Music? Zane shook his head. Bailey, that jukebox has
probably been here since the sixties. It totally doesnt work. You
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know that.
Right, Bailey said. Sometimes it felt like nothing worked at
the Nightshade Lounge except Bailey. And Zane, of course.
Zane gave the jukebox a fond pat on its cracked glass. Anyway.
Dont slack on me, okay?
Im not, Bailey protested. If there was one thing she wasnt, it
was a slacker. Im just
Look, Bailey, I told my uncle you could do this job with no
experience, Zane said. And you can do it. But if you dont . . .
He cleared his throat and continued in a low voice. I dont want to
have to fire you the first week.
Bailey could only nod. She wanted to explainSorry, Zane, that
Im not only looking for the first opportunity to ditch the job you pulled
major strings to get me but also doing it while on the clockbut instead
gave him the truncated version: Sorry. Yup.
Good. Zane smiled. Hed shown up to work wearing what
he always wore: a slim old three-piece suit, complete with loosely knotted tie and rumpled dress shirt, which made him look like
a Swinging London modster about to zip off on a candy-colored
scooter. And in return, Ill continue to pay you and act as your
beneficent overlord.
More glasses! Trina, the redheaded bartender who was
Zanes counterweight that night, yelled at them from the other end.
Sometime this century, please? she added. Not those glasses, Zane.
You already made that joke, like, five minutes ago.
Zane crammed his spectacles back onto his face. I still think
its funny.
On it, Bailey said, glad for the abrupt end to the conversation. She scooted along in the narrow space behind them, calling
out, On your back! On your back! as she passed. After depositing
a freshly cleaned stack of old fashioned glasses by Trinas side, she
glanced at the garnish tray.
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Hey! Suit guy! yelled a Cubs fan. Were thirsty over here!
Zane nodded to him. Sorry, he said. Really, sorry. And then
he was off, grabbing a shaker and glass of ice as he went.
Bailey spent a half hour scrubbing the bathroom to a serviceable shine, though she knew full well someone would undo all her
work the second she put the mop and bucket away. She probably
couldve gotten to the bar faster by half-assing the job, but being
detail oriented was so entwined in her DNA that she couldnt leave
things unfinished, no matter how stupid or gross they were. By
the time she rejoined Zane on the line, that goddamn bathroom
sparkled.
The trivia game was winding down as Bailey slipped behind
the bar, and even though shed flitted in and out all night, she still
mentally answered more questions than most of the teams, faltering
only in classic literature. So I havent read every book, Bailey thought.
Trivia was just a test of fact retention, and her brain was as absorbent
as a sponge.
Also, she thought as she replenished the plastic straws without being asked, Im a self-starter. Think of what I could do in the right
environment.
With a bang that rattled the glasses on the shelves, Trina returned from her smoke break (decidedly not smelling of cigarettes,
Bailey noted), and more and people filtered out. By a half hour from
closing, only a few customers remained. Zane sent Trina home early,
leaving just him and Bailey to close up.
That was fun, he said, as if theyd just stepped off the best
roller coaster ever.
Bailey looked at him sidelong, estimating whether sufficient
distance separated her from his insanity.
Oh, come on, he said. You didnt have a fun night in the
trenches? He playfully dropped into a boxers crouch and swiped
at the air.
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They didnt box in the trenches, she said. They used longrange bombardment weapons. Can you mime a howitzer?
As soon as I learn what that is, he said. Youre telling me
you dont get anything out of the rush times? Not even a trickle of
adrenaline?
Zane, adrenalines something your body makes to stop you
from dying horribly. She plunked down a martini glass, which he
snatched right up and dried off. In tandem they worked with assembly-line efficiency. And no, she said, its not fun. Jobs arent
supposed to be. Thats why theyre jobs.
Theyre not supposed to be, but that doesnt mean they cant
be, right?
Bailey grunted.
Well, hey, he said. You wanna come out tonight? Me and
some of the other bartenders around town like to stop in at Neros
Griddleyou remember Neros, right?
Bailey barely had time to nod.
And youve gotta meet this buddy of mine who works down
in Boystown, and, more important, my girlf
At that Bailey snapped to attention, but Zane was frowning at
his phone. Whatever he was reading had snuffed out his smile.
What is it? she said, more curious about his trailed-off sentence than whatever was on his phone. Only one word started with
girlf, and it wasnt one shed ever heard Zane use about himself.
I have to go. Zane crammed his phone back into his pocket.
He looked serious, even grim, as if he were barely aware that Bailey
was still there, and then reached for supplies: lime juice, triple sec,
a bottle of tequila that he produced from under the counter.
Hey! Bailey cried. We just cleaned those
I need you to close up, Bailey. Zane slapped the lid on his
now-full shaker, which he started to shake with a weirdly exact
rhythm, rattling the ice cubes against the metal sides in a seven-point
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beat. He grabbed a margarita glass, dipped the rim in water, and then
jammed it into the salt dish and twisted. He strained the contents
of the shaker into the salt-rimmed glass, then dropped in one of the
last remaining lime wedges.The lime bobbed a bit against the cubes,
and in the low bar light, the glass seemed to be glowing green.
Zane snatched up the drink, took a few deep gulps, and
squeezed his eyes against what looked like a brain freeze. You
know the drill, he said. Set the dishwasher, clean out the trays, and
give the counters a good polish. The rest of it we can handle when
we open tomorrow night. Just lock up when youre done and get
home safe, okay?
Bailey frowned. Whats going on?
Dont worry about it. Well do breakfast another midnight.
But
Zane was already vaulting over the bar and headed for the
door. When he yanked it open, Bailey caught a glimpse of someone
standing outside, an angular woman with dreadlocks. The moment
the woman saw Zane, she took off running, and the two of them
sped off into the night.
The doors swung shut again, leaving Bailey alone in the quiet,
empty bar.
Angry, a little pissed off, and too late into the night to call Jess
to pin down an interview, she slammed the dishwasher shut, rattling
every glass and cup inside. She trudged back into the front to polish
off the counter, seriously ready to call it a night. Starting at Zanes
end, she moved her rag in small circles, systematically eliminating
any hint of grime or spillage. Everywhere her towel went, it stayed
until the surface beneath was a varnished brown mirror.
As she made her way to Trinas end, something caught her eye:
a small hole in the space beneath the counter. As she approached,
she realized it wasnt just a hole; it was a gap between panels that
looked like it could slide open. She pushed it wide openit must
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have been designed to stay flush with the wall when closedand
found a row of six small bottles: four clearish, two pale browny. All
the elementary liquorsvodka, tequila, gin, rum (light and dark),
and whiskeyand all with the same labelnot Jack Daniels or
Seagrams or anything she recognized, but one with no name and
a logo of two interlocked Cs.
She reached for one, popped the cork, and took a sniff: vodka.
The good stuff as far as she could tell. Her first instinct was to put
it right back; after all, it was Nightshade inventory, and hidden in
a secret compartment besides. Instead, she grabbed a spare glass,
some ice, and the carton of orange juice in the mini-fridge under
the sink. Zane had a strict no-drinking policy while on the job, but
this hardly counted. And after tonight shed fucking earned it.
Not ready yet, she thought as the ice cracked under her measured shot of vodka.What was to be ready for? Look at me now, Zane.
Im making a drink, and Im managing. Having filled the glass with
orange juice, she stuck in a straw, gave it a quick stir, and replaced
the bottle, shutting the secret compartment and promising herself
shed ask Zane or Trina tomorrow what the hell that was about.
Then she turned and admired the fruit of her labors: a freshly made
screwdriver.
The drink gleamed cheerfully on the counter, just as Zanes
margarita had. Bailey squinted upward. Maybe a bulb was out
or one of the neon signs was leaking (could they leak?), making
the tainted air cast everything in an extra-glittery glow. Whatever.
Drinks were for drinking, not for gawking at, and so thats exactly
what Bailey did.
Bailey had had screwdrivers before. Usually they were slapdash
concoctions, little more than orange juice and vodka splashed together inside a red Solo cup. But this one was no dorm room special; rather than clash, the vodka and orange juice harmonized. The
drink was sweet and tangy and cold, and the liquid burned just the
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right amount on the way down. Bailey had intended to take only
small sips, but when she pulled the glass away from her lips, she was
surprised to see shed already downed half.
Well, she thought as the delicious feeling spread from her stomach to her toes, Ill have to drink more screwdrivers.
When she swung out the front door ten minutes later, she
felt even warmer inside. Warm, but not tipsy or clumsy. Refreshed.
Curiously refreshed. Probably the best shed ever felt postshift. She
jammed her key into the door to lock up like the dutiful employee
she was. Except somehow she really jammed it because when she
turned the key, it stuck. Shed completely bent it.
Shit.
Bailey stared at her hand, wondering how shed manage to
warp a solid piece of metal when she had trouble opening twist-off
beers. Prepared to struggle, she dug in her heels and yanked, but the
key came out so easily she stumbled backward. Stunned and a little
woozy, she stared at the crooked key in her palm, then daintily took
it in her fingertips and slowly, tentatively, bent it upward. The metal
yielded to her hands. The key was utterly straight and good as new.
No harm done, Bailey told herself. She dropped her keys into
a jacket pocket and started to stroll home, wishing she knew how to
whistle so she could complete the picture.
Ravenswood had been a rough little neighborhood on the
North Side when her parents moved in, but gentrification set in
during the twenty-odd years since. Now it felt like a suburb that had
been swallowed, whole and unchewed, by a big city. Damen Avenue,
where the Nightshade Lounge sat on the corner of Leland, was as
business district-y as the neighborhood got, lined with closed-forthe-night shops, a few parked cars, and the occasional tree. In the
distance a late-night Brown Line train trundled along its elevated
track. Sunnyside Avenue, where she was headed and where she now
livedagainwith her parents, was quiet, with squat houses set
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air filled with a thick chemical stench. Bailey coughed, shielding her
eyes, and before she even had time to worry about how to scrape
the nasty mess off the pavement, the things body collapsed with an
abrupt squelch.
Bailey jumped back from the puddle, out of the street, and cast
around wildly for something else: A pack? A flock? Another pair of
yellow eyes? But she saw nothing. Just a quiet street and a fizzing
pool of dead-smelling . . . something.
She clamped her bloodstained hands over her mouth and
smothered a scream. The screwdriver roiled inside her. Her arms
and legs shook like it was below freezing, and her heart squeezed
painfully with every breath.
She wasnt safe. She wasnt safe, and she was going to be sick.
Terrified and trembling, Bailey did what she apparently did
best: she fled back home.
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74
THE
DEV IL S
WAT ER
The Screwdriver
74
THE
DEV IL S
WAT ER
OR ANGE JUICE.
The logistical difficulty of producing mass quantities of orange juice sidelined its use for many years as a bartending
curiosity and little else. It wasnt until the mid-twentieth
century and the advent of widespread refrigerated trucking
systems that bartenders were able to incorporate it regularly
into their repertoires. For best results, fresh-squeezed juice is
recommended; if none is available, canned orange juice, with
its higher vitamin C content, is preferable to standard grocery bottles or cartons. It is unknown who created this particular combination, but the name screwdriver was coined by
Frederick Leeds, a Florida bartender who claimed that he used
the drink to help him remove from his boat hitch a screw that
had rusted into place.