The owner, Luther, is behind the bar, and I can only assume his parents were obsessed with Superman. Batman. One of the hero men. He gives me an upnod as I approach and pours me out my usual glass of Coke before popping a lime wedge into it. It doesn’t do anything for the taste, obviously, but while I might not be a big drinker, I like to pretend to be fancy. Plus, no one asks questions about why you’re in a bar if it looks like you’re here to get drunk.

Luther hands over my drink, but before he can let go, I close my hand over his and lean in.

“I saw your sign,” I tell him, raising my eyebrows in a way that lets him know I know. “Good help is hard to find.”

“Sure is.” Luther tugs his hand back. “Know of anyone with a bar license?”

I squint, trying to figure out what bar license might translate to in bad-guy speak. A gun license, maybe? Do contract killers need one of those? Seems a bit discriminatory; what if a gun isn’t their weapon of choice?

“It’s easy enough to get.” I think.

“Well, come see me when you have one.” He walks down the bar, but I quickly follow him.

“The problem is that kind of thing costs money, and I’m a bit low on funds right now.”

“Not my problem.”

“If you could give me something—anything—and maybe ignore the little details of licensing until after my first job, then I can go and get anything you need.”

“I’m not in a hurry to get shut down, Perry.”

“With everything else you’re running from here”—I send a pointed look around the bar—“I find that hard to believe.”

Luther gets this hard look on his face. “What are you talking about?”

“All I’m saying is that you’d really be helping me out by letting me help you out.”

“Yeah, but it’s not about me ignoring the licensing; it’s about the fire marshal. Do you even know how to make a dirty martini?”

Again, it takes me a second to try and figure out what that could be in bad-guy speech. A dirty … robbery? What would make it dirty though? Going Rambo and covering myself in mud first? “I’m a fast learner.”

“I don’t have time to teach right now.”

“Then throw me into the deep end.”

“I’m not risking my loyal customers going somewhere else.”

I huff and plant my elbows on the bar, which gets me an unimpressed look from Luther. “I really need this. I’ll do whatever”—I stress the word—“I have to in order to make them happy.”

“I’m not a pimp.”

“Really?” I throw a look toward a guy I’d—apparently wrongly—assumed was trading sex for money last week.