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It’s the kind of laugh that, if you heard it in public, you’d look around for the sound, trying to figure out who you should be friends with because it sounds like a good time.
When he slows his laughter to low chuckles, a hand moves, and he tweaks the strands of my ponytail like I assume an older brother would do when his sister says something kind of dumb.
“Fuck. That was good.”
“So, Paulie isn’t the boss, I assume?” I ask, tipping my head to look at him and raising an eyebrow.
“No, Paulie sure as fuck is not the boss. Wishes he were, but he is not.”
“When I came in . . . the first time . . . to, uh . . . get a job—" I’m actually not sure how much of my story Marco knows. Is he an employee of the club, or is he part of the . . . family, like some of the girls have mentioned?
“Know about your troubles, princess. Know you’re not here because you think the tip money is good and you like the flexible hours.”
I blink at him.
I can’t quite decide if I should be embarrassed, but I continue on regardless.
“He was who I talked to. To make the deal. Get the job.”
“Yeah, I know that,” Marco says with a sigh, running a hand over his close-cut hair. “He was playing dress-up. Boss man was out of state on business. Paulie wanted to be a big man, sat in his office. He’s the manager of the club, does day-to-day shit. Has the job as a favor to the family.” He says the family so causally, in a way that I know he knows I know about the family, and somehow, I know that if I were anyone else, he’d be speaking more coded, more ambiguously. “Anyway, he technically shouldn’t have given you the job, but it’s all good now.”
There’s irritation in his eyes. It’s clear as day.
“You don’t like him. Paulie.”
Marco rolls his head on his neck like he’s trying to decide how to answer and move forward with the conversation. Now we’re moving into territory that is uncomfortable.
Perfect.
I need intel. Intel is not comfortable. I move a hand to twirl a strand of hair, playing into my siren’s role, and Marco laughs again, this time at me.
“Princess, you have questions, you just ask. No need to play games. No offense, you’re not my type.” He tugs my ponytail again and snatches a chip off my plate.
“Hey!”
“Payment. But no, I don’t trust Paulie,” he admits, but not like it’s a burden. Like it’s a fact. “And babe, you shouldn’t either.” A cold chill runs down my spine.
“I shouldn’t what?”
“Trust Paulie. He’s shifty.” He looks at me, and the fun, carefree Marco is gone. His eyes are hard, stern. Like whatever he’s telling me, he wants me to take seriously. “Don’t go anywhere with him alone. Don’t let him corner you.”
Corner me?
“You think he would . . .”
“I don’t know. But I’d hate to have not given you a warning. I just don’t fuckin’ trust the man, yeah?” And despite the fact that I barely know Marco, I nod. “If you ever have an issue with him, you tell me right away. Got it?” His eyes are serious, lacking the fun Marco-ness I’ve come to know and like.
“Got it. Don’t trust Paulie. Don’t be alone with him.” I take another bite of my sandwich, and Marco follows suit until we’re eating in silence. Despite the strange conversation and the even more strange setting, I like Marco. I like that he’s around, that I feel safe when he’s near. And because I feel safe, I ask another question.
“The owner then—the Big Boss?” I ask, playing with crumbs of chips on the paper plate I’m using. “I’ve never met him. What are your thoughts on him?”
“I’d trust that man with my life, princess,” he says, and his words are firm and come quick, with no hesitation. It’s like he’s speaking of a dear friend, someone who has had a huge impact on his life. “He brought me in when I was a piece of shit, roaming the streets and looking for trouble. Gave me purpose. Gave a friend of mine a job, too. He’s good.” He stops, thinking, and then smiles a bit. “A bit boring, definitely a bit unhinged, but he’s good. When you meet him, you’ll know what I mean.”
“When I meet him?” I ask. There’s a smile on Marco's lips that I can’t define, almost like he’s telling a joke that I don’t understand.
“He comes around sometimes. I think he’s here today, technically, hidden away in his cave.” Interesting. Very interesting. I wonder if that Big Boss would be useful in my grand scheme. But there’s one question I can’t avoid asking.
“Does he really . . . watch everything? In the club?”
