wiggled out of my clothes and changed into what was basically a skimpy faux–animal pelt with faux-fur trim. Back when I had taken the LSATs, I had never in a million years imagined that instead of power suits I would wear this getup. “Uh, guys, I think I need more material,” I pleaded, too self-conscious to open the door.
“Don’t be crazzzzy,” the designer and his assistants called from the couches where they were lounging and sipping their wine. “You look amazzzzzzing.”
To top it off, they handed me a clip-on Mohawk made from the same fake fur. I thanked them and they air-kissed me out the door.
One part of my brain said, “You’re going to look like a slutty rooster.” The other part said, “Suck it up. The bottle service girls at Shelter make more in a night than you make in a week.”
THE MONEY AT SHELTER WAS GREAT. The success of the night was due to promoters, and the top club promoters had a loyal following of celebrities, billionaires, and models. On the biggest nights, people would wait outside the velvet ropes for hours begging to be let in. I got to know the promoters and eventually I was working the best nights at all the hottest clubs in town. A lot of the managers and promoters were sleazy alcoholics or drug addicts who leveraged their power over who got past the velvet ropes in order to hook up with the pretty young girls. The pretty young girls were almost all aspiring actresses or models, and they believed, truly believed, that getting into the club on the hot night would lead to their being discovered. The whole thing seemed silly, but I minded my business. I was punctual, responsible, and professional. While the other servers were doing shots and hanging out, I was making sure my tables were taken care of. My tips were always above 20 percent and I usually sold more than everyone else. I was there to make money, not friends.
Unexpectedly, my nights at this club furthered my L.A. education. Every night, I was dead sober, watching drunken Hollywood politick, hook up, and hang out. The money I made as a cocktail waitress allowed me to have a little extra, not enough to buy designer shoes but enough to upgrade my Colorado wardrobe. I also loved the way it felt to carry a rolled-up wad of cash home at the end of the night.
I was working long hours during the day, and at a different club every night. I was completely exhausted. But I discovered that I had endless stamina when it came to making money.
No matter how busy or tired I was, I never said no to a job.
I had heard Reardon mention a place called the Viper Room over the last couple of weeks. Since I wasn’t really allowed to ask questions, especially during the initial negotiations, I did my own research. I learned that the Viper Room was one of the most iconic bars in Los Angeles. Painted a matte black, tucked onto a seedy strip of Sunset in between liquor stores and a cigar shop, the venue had a rich history of celebrity and debauchery. I read that in the ’forties, Bugsy Siegel owned it, and it was called the Melody Room. When Johnny Depp and Anthony Fox took it over in 1993, Tom Petty played opening night, and River Phoenix had died of an overdose there on Halloween in 1994, while Depp and Flea played onstage.
I also knew that in 2000, Depp’s partner, Anthony Fox, sued Johnny over profits, and while the suit was in progress, Fox disappeared. During the resultant confusion, the Viper Room was placed in the hands of a court-appointed receiver, who happened to be a family friend of Reardon’s, and thus his company was given the opportunity to take over the Viper Room, which was then losing a ton of money, and to try to make it profitable again. I guess the deal was going through because one day, after Reardon yelled at people for his usual hour or so, he ordered me to get the car and directed me to the parking lot of the club.
As we pulled in, Reardon turned to me with a serious look on his face. “According to ticket sales and used inventory, the place should be profitable, but it’s been losing money hand over fist for the past five years. The staff here is a bunch of scumbags; they’ve all worked here forever, and rumor has it there’s been a lot of stealing going on. I’m probably going to fire them all, but I need you to get information from them, find out how the place works.”
With that, he got out of the car and slammed the door so hard that I thought it would break. By the time I got out, he was halfway across the parking lot, and as usual, I found myself running to keep up.
We entered the black building through the side door. Suddenly sunny Los Angeles disappeared and we were in a sinister, dank cave, being greeted by a man with long hair, black eyeliner, and a top hat.
“Hi, Mr. Green. I’m Barnaby,” he said, holding out his hand
Reardon ignored him and walked toward the stairs.
“I’m Molly,” I said, taking the hand that was meant for Reardon and smiling warmly to compensate for Reardon’s rudeness.
“Barnaby,” he repeated, and smiled back. I followed Reardon up a dark staircase. The staff was seated around a table, and none of them looked happy.
“I’m Reardon Green. I’m running this place now. There are going to be a lot of changes around here. If you don’t like it you can leave. If you want to keep your job you need to be cooperative and help make the transition smooth. If you guys can handle that, your job is safe.
“This is my assistant, Molly, she is going to spend some time with you today. I need you to show her how things work around here.”
And he turned to leave. I smiled nervously.
“I’ll be back in a sec,” I said to the angry-looking mob.
“Reardon, seriously? You’re leaving me here—what do you want me to do?”
“Just don’t fuck up,” he said, and he was gone.
I was suddenly hyperaware of my dumb sundress and cheesy cardigan.
I surveyed the angry faces in front of me. The staff members were speaking heatedly among themselves. They all wore black, most had tattoos and piercings, combat boots, Mohawks. They were rough, they were rock-and-roll, and I didn’t know how to speak to them. I wanted to run out into the sunshine of Sunset Boulevard, but I took a deep breath and walked over to the angry crowd. The most important thing was to somehow figure out how to make myself relatable.
“Hey, guys,” I said quietly. “I’m Molly. I don’t know exactly what is going on. I wasn’t given any information before Reardon left me here. But what I do know is that I can be an advocate for you. I work in the service industry too, at night, and during the day I try not to get screamed at or fired by the crazy man you just met. I usually fail at the getting-screamed-at part, by the way.”
I heard a couple snorts, and even a little laugh.
“Anyway, if we can work together and give Reardon what he wants, I think we can all keep our jobs.”
A woman in dark eyeliner and combat boots gave me a nasty look.
“You think you’re gonna get what you need and then fire us all. I don’t trust you one little bit,” she said, jabbing a black fingernail scarily close to my face.”
“Is that true?” asked an older guy with a goatee.
“I don’t know,” I answered honestly. “I can’t give you a guarantee, but I can tell you that this is your best shot at keeping your job, and I give you my word that I will fight on your behalf.”
“Give us a minute,” said a pretty blonde in a short plaid skirt.
I walked across the room and sat down in a grimy booth, pretending to check my phone.
There was a heated discussion and two people walked out.
The rest came over to where I was sitting.
“I’m Rex. I’m the manager. Well, I was,” he said, and held out his hand. The others introduced themselves.
I