“You’re late” is all Arlie answers. I’d be offended if she hadn’t visited me a thousand times while I was recovering, all under the guise of making sure I “stayed quiet” about what happened while she reacted to every little grunt or cringe I made.

I might have even put it on a little bit. Felt nice to see her care.

But her presence also meant that poor Lars was in a constant state of the stutters.

“Maybe you didn’t hear,” I reply, hands up in surrender. “I was shot, very bad. Might never be the same again. I can’t overdo it.”

Arlie rolls her eyes. “I swear to fucking god, if you’re late for a shift, I’m going to add your name to my own list.”

I look from Tommy to her again, lost. “Ah, what?”

“My list. You’ll be dead.”

I wave away the threat. “I got that part. What do you mean shift? I don’t know if you heard, but I’m a terrible hitman. You don’t want to hire me, and I’m pretty sure I’m going to take that part out of my resume. Probably.”

Tommy cackles. “You weren’t a terrible hitman, Perry.”

At first, I think he’s being sweet.

“You weren’t a hitman—period. You couldn’t even kill the bad guy.”

“I was gonna.” And I’m seventy-three percent sure that’s the truth. “But Arlie got there first.”

“You were already close to dead when I took him out.”

Everett grunts. “Thanks for that. The one thing I had to look forward to.”

“There will be a lot more bad guys out there for you to play with,” she says, patting him on the shoulder like she’s comforting a child. Then she turns her attention suddenly on me. “You start Monday.”

Did I hallucinate half of this conversation? I point at my face. “Not a hitman. Remember?”

“On the bar,” she finally clarifies. “You know, the job Luther should have given you in the first place.”

My mouth drops. “You want me to work for you?”

“Don’t get too excited. It’s impossible to staff the bar for a place like this.”

“Wait, you want me to be manager?”

“I don’t think I said that.”

“If it’s impossible to staff, then apparently, a guy like me is in short supply. This is called negotiating.”

Everett leans back in his chair, lips pulling upward. “You’ve got balls negotiating with us.”

“Gotta shoot my shot.” I mime firing pistols with my fingers. “Get it?”

“What have I done?” Arlie mutters, burying her face back in her computer.

“I like your spunk,” Tommy says. “I bet there’s a course you can take to become bar manager. Arlie?”