JESSICA
Maybe I should have thought my plan through. There I was, sitting at the bar with Marybeth and Darlene, eating a shrimp cocktail and cursing the day Vincenzo San Giovanni was born, when I saw the bastard lean closer to his date with the intention of affixing himself to her face like a lamprey eel.
"She's not even pretty," says Darlene around a mouthful of shrimp. "She looks like an ugly Jessica Chastain. Her IMDb page says she's twenty-two. Yeah, right. Maybe in 1997."
"Dang, girl, you're vicious." I dunk my shrimp in a big bowl of red stuff and shove it in my mouth. "Hey, barkeep, give me something strong and make it snappy."
The bartender, a skinny hipster named Manolo, who has pencil-thin eyebrows, looks at me in disgust. "Ma'am, this isn't a Red Lobster."
"Hey, Mr. Attitude." I stab my index finger in his direction. "The owner of this restaurant is that guy over there, about to suck face with his anorexic ginger date. He owns this hotel, too. I happen to be his executive assistant, so if you want to keep your job--"
Marybeth slaps the back of my head. "How many drinks have you had, lightweight? Don't talk to Manolo like that." She turns to the bitchy bartender and bats her eyelashes at him. "Don't mind this poor woman. She's heartbroken because the man of her dreams is on a date with Ursula the sea-bitch."
"Shut up," I growl before shoving another shrimp in my mouth.
"Oh, is that why she's eating her weight in shellfish?" Manolo, the barkeep sneers. "Poor sweetie. I'll make you a drink that'll make you feel all better."
I glance at the kid, who's giving me an evil smile. "Thanks, fam. Easy on the Tabasco sauce. It makes me gassy."
"Jessica, I've decided that what we're doing is sad," Darlene announces. "Let's go to the honky-tonk bar near here. They have three-dollar-tequila shots on Wednesday nights."
"Yeah, that's the same stuff they clean the toilet with," Manolo sasses. "Why don't you hags stay on and keep me company because you're making my night? You're charging it all on the corporate credit card anyway, right?"
I look at Marybeth, who laughs, then squint at the bartender. "Did your skinny bitch-ass just call us hags? Where's my drink, Silver Lake? Hurry up." I wasn't planning on paying the bill with the company credit card, but now I am.
"I don't know, I like him," Darlene says about Manolo. "He reminds me of my gay uncle."
"I remind everyone of their gay uncle." Manolo slams a glass of blue liquid in front of me. "Drink it. Maybe it'll make you pretty, and your boss over there might actually pay attention to you."
"Ugh, he's touching her hair," I wail into my shrimp-smelling hand. "Give me that drink." At this point, I've had a couple more than I usually do, so I'm feeling a little reckless. I grab the blue cocktail and immediately down it.
Then subsequently choke and cough all over my friends.
"Oh shit, ho, bossman is looking over here!" Darlene whisper-yells.
I screech, "Excuse me!" and dash to the restroom.
"What the hell was that drink?" I hear Marybeth ask.
Manolo's laugh was evil. "Adios MF."
I look at myself in the mirror above the sink and cry out. My face is tomato-red, courtesy of my Asian blood and slight intolerance for alcohol. My eyes have the dazed expression of an intoxicated raccoon.
This is why I don't drink, damn it. I don't handle my liquor very well, and the next day, I always feel like death warmed over in the microwave a minute too long.
The door swings open, so I hide in one of the stalls. I don't know why I felt the need to do it– probably because I didn't want anyone to witness my mini-nervous breakdown. I quickly lock the door and sit on the toilet. After a few seconds, the sudden urge to pee overcomes me, so I pull down my pants and let loose.
As my urine stream slows to a trickle, I hear someone speaking in what sounds like Russian. I dated a Russian guy in college and took a couple of semesters of it in school. I convinced myself it was because I was a language minor, and it would probably come in handy someday.
Now I've been drinking a little, so my comprehension may not be top-notch, but I understand enough of the language to decipher that a crazy woman two stalls from me is some kind of assassin who's acquired her target. She'll be taking care of him by the end of the evening. She could be talking about something else entirely, but stuff always sounds scarier when it's said in Russian.
I hear a flush, then the stall door opens. I peek through a gap in the stall frame and see a tall red-haired woman washing her hands at the sink in a red floor-length gown. I gasp. That's bossman's date. She's going to fucking kill him!
Agent Fine told me no heroics– as if I'd risk my ass for my jerkoff boss– but this is a matter of life and death. If he dies, what if the Feds blame me and follow through with their threats to put me in prison?
Third-degree murder, accessory after the fact, can send me away for ten to fifteen years. I wouldn't survive prison.
I give myself a hard slap across the face to get my brain cells restarted. I have to save Vincenzo San Giovanni… but how? I wait until the woman has left the bathroom before I venture outside and look at myself in the mirror again.