Perhaps I should have thought twice about pouring a pitcher of watered down margaritas on some asshole’s head, because I was seriously out of money. I tossed and turned on my lumpy mattress. Worries jittered through my head like butterflies on crack. Around 3 a.m. I vowed to find a job the next day and finally fell asleep. 

Sitting at my hand-me-down Formica kitchen table, I sucked down coffee, opened up Daveslist on my computer. I hit the part-time jobs section. Surely there would be a worthwhile position tucked away in here somewhere.

I don’t think so…

I’d love a dog someday but I’m not sure this is the job for me.

I believed this translated to a Triple Slam meal at Denny’s after which I’d be begged to perform oral sex on married, middle-aged men who were in town for a trade show. Meh—I didn’t think this job was up my alley.

The phone rang and I picked up. “Miss Vivian DeRose?”

“You got her.” I examined my new acrylic nails. The glued-on crystals were sparkly and styling.

“My name is Mrs. Jaslene Aquino—”

“Hey Jas! Why so formal?”

She sighed. “You gotta let me do this official-like.”

“Um, Okay?”

“My name is Mrs. Jaslene Aquino.”

“Yes, Mrs. Aquino. Might I ask what this call is regarding?”

“I am calling from the billing department at The Winterpark Assisted Living Center in regards to your uncle, Mr. Florio DeRose.”

My breath caught in my throat and one hand flew to my chest. “Is he okay?” Uncle Florio was the ‘artist’ in our family, a painter, a scholar, and a writer. He was always sensitive, but suffered a nervous breakdown a few months after his brother, my dad, died. He never quite found his way back to his or society’s comfort zone.

“He is fine. We love your uncle. He’s dapper and a gentleman with the ladies. He moderates our monthly Poetry Slam Night and plays a mean game of blackjack.”

I smiled. “I know.”

“Which is why we would like to keep him here. Mr. Florio’s account is past due. Management insists we transfer him to County Psych if we do not receive payment within five working days.”

“Shit.” I grabbed my checkbook from my purse and looked at my balance: twenty dollars and forty-two cents.

“Could I put a little something down on his tab and pay you the rest in, say… two weeks?” I looked back at the part-time job listing for the escort service. Maybe it wasn’t Denny’s. Maybe it was Marie Callender’s and I could get some pie before a guy suggested a different kind of job.

“That is a splendid idea,” Mrs. Aquino said. “Send us six hundred dollars today and then an additional three thousand by the thirty-first, and his account will be current. For this month.”

“I was thinking of, like, twenty dollars today?” I wrung my hands. “Uncle Florio’s been at your place for three years. I’ve paid every month. This is really the first time I’m late.”

“Actually, it’s the thirteenth.”

“Look, Jaslene—”

“Mrs. Aquino.”

“Mrs. Aquino. Could you take twenty now? I could probably get you another hundred in a couple of days. And handle the balance in two weeks. What do you think?” I crossed my fingers on both hands, squeezed my eyes shut, and held my breath.

“Oh, Vivian,” Jaslene sighed. “You know I’m supposed to say no.”

“I know. But Uncle Florio is so awesome. And you do such a great job with him. I’ve fallen on tough times recently.”

“You mean tougher times.”

“Sorry.”

She whispered, “Mercury’s in Retrograde, a strange astrological time, where transactions and communications are constantly confused. Send me the twenty dollars now and it will be temporarily entered as two thousand. That will buy you a little time. But not much. And you can’t tell anyone that I—”

I crossed myself. “Not a soul, Jaslene!”

“Mrs. Aquino.”

“Mrs. Aquino. Thank you.”

“Pedal to the metal, Vivian,” she said. “Go find yourself a new job. I adore you and your uncle. Send us enough money so we can keep him in this over-priced, top-notch facility.”

“Thanks Jaslene. I’ll do my best. You’re a peach.”

I hung up the phone, sunk my head in my hands. I felt a little light-headed. Stress and low blood sugar always did that to me. I opened my small, sweaty fridge, grabbed a carton of orange juice and poured myself a glass. I sat back at my tiny kitchen table and continued to troll Daveslist.

When had the job market for struggling twenty-something women who were still working on a college education gotten so difficult? Ah yes, since forever. I know I said I wasn’t interested in any kind of shady job. But this wasn’t the story of fairies, unicorns, and animated talking puppies. I had real responsibilities. I had real bills. I had an uncle with a disability who needed his rent paid.

I dug through my purse and pulled out Max’s card. It was heavy. Embossed. Solid. It felt reputable in my hand. And yet there was no name, just “House of Bellèno” and a phone number with a country code. Who had a country code on their business card? If I rang him would my provider charge me extra? I doubted that I’d signed up for international minutes.

I hoped Max wasn’t running a sex slave ring, selling expensive time-shares for ski chalets in Europe, or operating a cold-calling bank for a sketchy politician. Give your head a shake Vivian, I’d take the time-share sales job in a heartbeat. How much did I have to lose? I gathered my courage and dialed the number.

“House of Bellèno,” a female operator said in a clipped voice. “How can I help you?”

“Max gave me this number. He said I should mention ‘The Crown Affair.’”

“Yes, the apocalypse begins. Stay on the line, love, and I’ll patch you through. There might be a brief moment of silence.”

“Thank you,” I said, heard a few clicks and then...

“Vivian,” Max said. “I’m so happy you called.”

“How’s the eye?”

“You were right, the hotel had ice.”

I smiled. “I’m taking you up on your offer. Job’s still available?” I crossed my fingers.

“To the best of my knowledge, yes.”

“Great. Can you tell me more? FYI, I’m not interested in anything illegal or immoral. No spying for oppressive governments, stealing secret documents, intellectual properties, or renditioning clerics out of the country.”

“There will be no cleric renditioning on my watch. Hey, can you send me your resume?”

“Of course.” I said, searching my computer for something that could pass as such.

“Perfect. I’m connected to a group looking to hire a girl like you for an exclusive part-time job.”

“‘A girl like me?’”

“Feisty. Thinks on her feet. Can handle difficult personalities. Plus, you fit the profile in the looks department.”

“I’m not an escort.”

“Sex isn’t a requirement for this job.”

“Tell me more.”

“The work will only last a few weeks. You’ll have to sign a confidentiality agreement. They’ll run a security check. On the flip side, the pay is lucrative. You won’t have to toil at a place like Mugshots for quite some time if you are picked for this position.”

“You don’t want a kidney, right? I’m attached to both.”

“No on the kidney. Can you meet us this afternoon?”

I looked at my online bank statement again. “I’ll clear my calendar.”

“Great. Forward your resume. I’ll text you the details. Also, I should warn you, the people I work with can be…”

“Assholes.”

“No.”

“Giant assholes?”

“No. Pearl clutchers. Wear something conservative.”

“But you burned my boots.”

“Ha!” he said. “See you soon.”

I texted Lola and left her House of Bellèno’s number.

she texted back.

Good question.

An hour later I stood on the sidewalk on the curve of Lake Shore Drive and headed north. I wore a pastel skirt and jacket suit from Cheswick’s of Boston. There wasn’t a pearl clutching interviewer on the planet that wouldn’t appreciate Cheswick’s. A blister erupted on my foot from the nasty high heels I’d been forced to wear at Mugshots, so I paired my pretty outfit with pastel sneakers.

Oak Street Beach was a narrow patch of pricey sand filled with tourists and posers and young families. Lapping onto its shores was the grand mama herself—Lake Michigan—a body of water so large she was called Great.

I gazed up at the Drake. It was approximately twenty stories tall, majestic and reeked of old school fancy. This hotel had been around forever and was practically a Chicago institution. Marilyn Monroe and Joe DiMaggio had carved their newly wed names into the booth at the Cape Cod Room, the in-house seafood restaurant. Princess Diana stayed here on her only visit to Chicago.

I examined the address on the printout. The interview wasn’t just taking place in the Drake, it was being conducted in a penthouse suite. Max’s associates had to be interesting, let alone have deep pockets to pay decent wages. I crossed my fingers as I jogged across the intersection.

Perhaps the part-time job people were millionaires? Or drug dealers? Maybe they were millionaire drug-dealers with a lucrative side business selling twenty-something women into sex-slavery? But that didn’t make sense. Didn’t sex-slaver types usually deal in skinny girls with big boobs? I was far from being a twizzle-stick. I was totally over-thinking this thing. I closed my eyes, gathered my courage, crossed myself, and entered the hotel’s front doors.