Chapter Thirteen
Max arrived two hours after Rachel had her melt-down in Trick's office with bad news. He'd found the apartment where Jay had been living but did not find him. A woman with track marks up her arm had opened the door, and while she confirmed Jay “once lived there,” she refused to say much else. Within an hour, Max traced Jay's cell phone to a dumpster a mile from the apartment. Rachel’s last conversation with Jay must have spooked him and he fled.
Two weeks crept by with no news from or about Jay. Max reported in regularly—the man was a dog with a steak bone—but as each day passed, Rachel's faith her wayward brother would be found diminished. To keep her mind occupied, she took on more duties at Shakedown. She revamped their drink menu and remapped the table set-up so they could put in three more cocktail rounds that also created more room for servers to traverse the expansive floor. She also got to know her co-workers and learned she wasn't the one with the saddest story at the club.
Georgette, a waitress she often worked with, was a mom left to raise two children alone Her husband was doing time in Lorton Prison for robbery. Nathan hinted he had a son in California but never saw him, and Vivi continued to show up every night and sit at the bar staring out at the show with a glazed look in her eyes. Soon Rachel stopped asking questions altogether as their tragedies reminded her of her own.
The dancers still ignored her, which was fine as they seemed to live in their own world, but she couldn't help wondering what impetus pushed those beautiful women into choosing that particular career path, and why had they followed it to a club in Baltimore, Maryland? While there was nothing wrong with Baltimore, it was not exactly the burlesque mecca of the world.
Word got around, as it did in the restaurant and entertainment business, that something significant had gone down between Trick and Rachel, and they were now officially a couple. No one questioned this sudden “coupling”, and Trick remained infuriatingly calm for someone who'd spent time in prison for a crime he didn't commit.
Her therapist said she should take things slowly with Trick. However, if anything, “things” had sped up. She'd always had an overactive libido and Trick did nothing to slow it down. She refused to go home with him, or have him go home with her, so they had sex everywhere else. She'd learned that they could, indeed, move that mechanical bull an inch or two, that the couch in Trick's office creaked noisily, and that the surface of his desk, once cleared of papers and files, was wide enough to hold them both.
Barring the stop sign exercise, she had never been good at taking her therapist's advice.
She hoped her choice to continue working at Shakedown was wise. She didn't know what else to do. Acclimating to her new life was harder than she'd thought. How does one adjust to no longer being the ex-fiancé of a convicted embezzler but rather being an ex-sister of a drug abuser who was also a missing, probable embezzler? Rachel still had no substantial evidence, but it was becoming increasingly difficult to hang on to the thought that Jay was innocent. Regardless of where she assigned blame, someone she loved had betrayed her, and she still waited tables—at least until day eighteen of living the Second Betrayal.
“But, Mr. Phillips—” she began.
“Declan, please.”
She stood in front of Declan's desk in disbelief. Trick stood to the side with a huge grin plastered on his face.
“If you feel sorry for me, please, don't,” she said.
“I assure you, offering you an assistant manager position is purely selfish on my behalf.” Declan smiled. “You've made me more money since you've started than anyone—no offense, Trick . . .”
Trick raised his hand, seemingly unbothered by the man's compliment to Rachel.
“But I never finished my degree.”
“I don't hold much stock in fancy college degrees. Most people who work here didn't finish high school.”
“Rachel,” Trick interrupted. “Declan started this club to give people a second chance. It seems you and I both could use one of those right now.”
Declan stood up. “I'd like you to start by launching a full-scale customer and services inventory.”
“Inventory,” she repeated.
“Assess our wait staff, bar staff, inventory selections, menu choices. Assess our customers. See what they like, don't like. Then tell me what's missing in our service.”
“Missing?”
“She can speak in complex sentences, Declan,” Trick chuckled.
“Details matter.” She glared at Trick.
Declan laughed. “Yes, Rachel, details are everything. I've observed you have a talent for hospitality, specifically anticipating people's needs.”
“She's great at that.” Trick was acting like a proud mother.
She shrugged. “Customers want to know they matter. It's pretty easy to make them feel special if you're paying attention.”
“You're hired,” Declan said. “Now, let's talk money. Most people don't like to, but, good or bad, it matters.” He rounded the desk, sat on the corner, and put an unlit cigarette between his lips. “Let's say $50,000 to start.”
“Fifty?” His offer was too good to be true. She tabled a little more grief each day. Her mental faculties, including a healthy dose of wariness, had begun to return. First, she didn't trust that things were going to return to the way they had been before despite Trick's apparent enthusiasm for their future. Second, Shakedown held secrets.
She glanced around and took in the ornate surroundings. “Trick tells me you used to sell antiques.” The office smelled of leather, wood, and pipe smoke. Gilded-edged hardcover books lined shelves along one side, and two 19th-century Gillows leather library chairs sat in a little seating area off to the other side. The room looked like it belonged in a master's manor, not a burlesque club.
“Yes, I'm good at identifying diamonds in the rough,” Declan said.
“I've meant to ask . . .” She looked at Trick and then back at Declan. “Well, please tell me you're not a front for the mob or something.” She didn't hide the desperation behind that statement.
“Rachel.” Trick sounded aghast, but she had to know who she was dealing with—no more cover-ups. Her investigation yielded no information about how this club paid for expensive antiques like real silver, tussy-mussy holders on every table, genuine Swarovski crystals on costumes, the latest in sound and lighting equipment, and the myriad of other clues that Declan had money—a lot of it.
She sighed. “I'm sorry, it's just. . .”
Declan raised his hand. “It's okay. It's an honest question, especially given what you've been through. You don't know who to trust anymore.”
“I've been trying, I have. It's just . . . how did you and Trick meet?” she asked.
Declan smiled. “We met in prison, Rachel. I have no mob connections or dealings with anything illegal. However, I do employ a great many ex-cons. When I got out, I started Shakedown to provide something not places are willing to give—a second chance. You'd be amazed at how many people need a fresh start, a clean new beginning.”
“This place is as straight up as they come, Rachel,” Trick said with annoyance.
Declan's face turned stony. “You won't find anything illegal here. If you do, I will end it.”
“Then how is all this possible?” She wafted her hand through the air.
“I was an excellent antique dealer.” Declan winked.
Was she crazy to take this job—a place full of people with criminal pasts? She'd be mad to leave fifty grand on the table. With benefits, she mentally added. She could go back to school on that kind of money plus loans. She also might have resources to hire a private investigator to find her brother since Max had failed to find him—and not for lack of trying. Max sounded more pissed at losing track of Jay than anyone else.
“When do you want me to start?” she asked.