moonsblackwolf said:
Anthony ran his hands through his hair, his eyes looking at the papers, his profits. He slammed the profits down on the table as he looked around, noticing that his bar was barely managing with 6 customers in it. He didn't know what he was doing wrong, but he obviously was doing something wrong. His phone rang and he looked at it, scared that it might be him... and it was. He was yelled at for not paying his rent, and that he was trying to scam the rich man, the owner of the building he rented for his bar.
Rebecca, or Becca as she liked to be called, came to her father's bar after classes like every night. It was cheaper to hire your own family than to pay an employee to run the bar. Besides, there was never enough business to need more than one bartender. As she looked around into the nearly empty bar, she sighed and walked to the lonely bartop where her father sat leaning over some paperwork. "Hey dad, how's it going?" He turned and gave her a grim look, shaking his head. "We're going to have to shut down soon unless...unless a miracle happens."
(I had started to work on this before I saw your post. If any of this is objectionable, let me know and I'll change it.)
Chasen Frost paused on the sidewalk outside, stroking his light black mustache lightly peppered with gray, as he contemplated going in. The front of the bar was decorated with garish neon beer logos and the name of the bar, but two of the logos were burned out, as were three letters of the sign. Chasen shook his head, sadly thinking of how long it had taken for this bar to fall so low. And just as curious a story was why he was coming here, yet again.
He had first wandered in on a rainy night four months ago, his car coughing rudely at the curb, refusing to go any farther toward his home far uptown from this neighborhood. He'd dashed into the only lit business on the street at that hour to wait for a tow. It was an old fashioned sort of place, the foreground dominated by a long polished bar with a dozen stools. Behind the bar was a mirrored wall, half covered up with bottles of alcohol and neatly stacked glasses. Chasen had noticed the cracks along the surface of the old bar surface, and another running down one corner of the mirror. The glasses were clean and neatly stacked, but not new, and the supply was dwindling as more and more had to be thrown out with chips. In the corner, mounted high near the ceiling, a not-particularly-large old tv screen, not a flat screen or high-def, played a sports game in the background for the entertainment of the three or four patrons seated almost morosely at the bar, paying more attention to their glasses of booze than the game.
The rest of the place had a half dozen tables and booths along one wall, the cheap plastic cushions also showing cracks and tears. Near the back was a pool table and a foosball, neither one in good shape. An old juke box at the back had been unplugged, since it didn't work anyway.
Dump, Chasen thought, taking a seat at the bar and ordering a quick martini. But the lovely young barmaid had a smile that seemed to almost single-handedly light up the place, piercing the otherwise somber mood of the run down establishment. She didn't necessarily have model looks or centerfold sexiness, and Chasen had had his share of both over the years as a successful money manager. But she entranced him nevertheless. An older man's fancy with a young woman, he admonished himself, although at forty he wasn't that old, surely.
A week later he'd returned to the bar, and every week thereafter. He'd learned more about the place from some of the other, relatively few, regular patrons. The bar's owner had had it for decades, run it with his wife until she passed on a few years back. Since then he'd seemed to have lost his drive to stay in business, and wasn't making enough to stay in business much longer. The barmaid was his daughter, stepping in to help out, concerned for her dad's health and mental state. The bar represented the last he had of his wife's spirit, it seemed, and if it went, she feared he would lose his own will to go on.
Not that she burdened the patrons with her concerns, and occasionally Anthony Montgomery himself showed up to serve drinks and stir up some fish and chips for his old customers. On those nights, he seemed closer to his old self, some would say.
Chasen knew that tonight Anthony would be at the bar, as Becca was still studying part time for some ambition or another. Tonight he would approach Anthony with his proposition. He bought a bottle of Brady's favorite and sat down with him in a quiet booth.
"You know I have a lot of money," Chasen offered.
"Aye, Mr. Frost, and I'm grateful for all of it that you've spent here," Anthony joked back.
"I could do more," Chasen continued. "The neighborhood's good, close enough to the markets to attract a high-paying crowd. Just needs to be, you know, spruced up some. New decor, furniture, music, menu, some video games, better tv's..."
Anthony held up his hands. "Yeah, right. I'll just pull a couple of hundred grand out of my bank account and get right to it. Why didn't I think of it before?" He was smiling, but there was a dark frustration in his eyes at his lost opportunities.
Chasen hunkered down seriously. "I have that kind of money, Mr. Montgomery. I could make quite an investment here."
Anthony looked surprised, and then suspicious. "And just how much of my place would I have to give up for such an investment, Mr. Frost?" he asked with caution.
"I was thinking ten percent," Frost replied cooly, to a stunned look from Anthony.
"You're kidding!" he blurted out. He'd expected ninety, seventy-five, hell maybe the whole thing. "Why would you do such a thing?"
Chasen paused and sipped his Chivas. "You must have noticed my admiration for your bartender, Mr. Montgomery," he said.
"My bartender? You mean my daughter?"
"Exactly. I would appreciate your influence to get her to agree to spend some time with me. Say, two nights a week, specifics to be negotiated..."
Anthony resumed his look of suspicion. "What kind of time?" he growled.
Chasen shrugged. "Anthony, I can buy a whore for a lot less than two hundred thousand dollars. I wish a congenial companion who will be cooperative and open."
Anthony heard what he wanted to hear, and he seemed to be trying to wrap his mind around what Frost was really asking for, but the much needed money to really restore this place, his dream bar, to former glory was too enticing to refuse. "I'll talk to her, Mr. Frost. That's all I can promise for now."
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