I set the receipt folder on the back counter. “Where do you want this?”
She pointed to the tiny office. “Locked drawer. Top right. Don’t get ideas.”
I walked the folder into the tiny office, slid it into the top-right drawer, and turned the key she handed me. The lock clicked. She took the key back and tucked it into her pocket.
“I’m not after your drawer,” I said.
“I meant the other kind of ideas.”
“I have those.”
“I know. You’ve had them loudly all night.”
“That’s your fault.”
Nella pushed away from the door. “My fault?”
“You wore that top.”
“This top made me thousands of dollars.”
“It’s still a threat.”
She looked down at the smear of blue curaçao near her hem. “This top is a casualty.”
I moved closer. “A brave one.”
“You’re flirting after renouncing your shark mafia family in my service alley?”
“I didn’t renounce every shark in my family. I renounced the part where I do what I’m told.”
“Important legal distinction?”
“Family tree, not employment contract.”
Nella’s smile finally came, small and tired and enough to make my chest feel too tight.
“Good,” she said. “I don’t have the energy to learn a whole new family tree tonight.”
“I won’t quiz you.”
“Very generous.”
She crossed behind the bar, pulled two short plastic sample cups from the stack, and reached for the last small pitcher of the blue margarita. There was barely enough for a few swallows each. She poured anyway, then took one of the cups and pushed the other toward me.
“Drink,” she said. “You look like you just quit your entire life.”
“I did.”
“Then hydrate with tequila.”
“That sounds medically questionable.”
“I’m a professional.”
“You’re a bar owner.”
“Exactly.”
