Serving the Billionaire(8)

I tried to match faces with behaviors, but all of the customers looked more or less the same to me: rich white guys in suits. After a while, I quit looking at their faces, and focused on their body language instead. It spoke volumes. If they wanted to be friendly with Beth, they would turn their torsos toward her, and maybe smile at her as she approached. If they just wanted to place their drink orders, they would wait to turn their heads and acknowledge her until she was standing right beside them.

Once I noticed that, I asked Beth about it the next time we were back at the bar. “Do you really know all of these guys, or are you just watching their body language?”

She raised her eyebrows at me. “Very good,” she said. “I know some of them. Some of them I haven’t seen before. If you can keep an eye on what they’re doing with their shoulders, you’re golden.”

I was pleased that I’d done something well, and worried it was the last good thing I’d be able to pull off. My feet were starting to hurt. I didn’t know what time it was—there were no clocks in the main room of the club—but it couldn’t have been more than an hour. It was going to be a long night. If I stayed there until closing, I would be at the club—and on my feet—for twelve hours.

One thing I noticed, as I followed Beth around, was that she wasn’t in a hurry. I was used to seeing servers in restaurants rush around like their pants were on fire, but Beth strolled around calmly and seemed totally unruffled. As the first round of arrivals settled in, I realized that Beth didn’t seem like she was in a hurry because she wasn’t. She only had a handful of tables, which gave her plenty of time to stand at the bar and watch for any signs that the customers needed something: another drink, a napkin, glass of water. The Silver Cross really was determined that the clients would have the best experience possible: Germaine was willing to over-staff to make sure that nobody went unattended to.

I also watched the clients—or, more precisely, I watched what they watched. Some of them stared fixedly at the dancers gyrating on stage; others basically ignored the stage altogether, and had intense conversations with their companions, sometimes huddled over reams of paper. I asked Beth about it.

“Some of them do business deals here,” she said. “No idea why. It’s private, or they like showing off, or maybe they just like looking up from their paperwork and seeing a nice pair of tits.”

So rich people were mysterious. Nothing new there. Sadie told me once that rich people liked to eat steak from Japanese cows that were massaged by hand every morning, to keep the meat tender. If they wanted to perform billion-dollar mergers at a strip club, who was I to judge?

Time went by in a blur. I staggered after Beth and tried not to let on how much my feet hurt. Whenever we had a few minutes at the bar, I surreptitiously slid out of my heels and stood on the carpeting in my stocking feet. The bartender caught me at it once and smirked knowingly. I blushed, and quickly put my shoes back on.

When I looked up, Beth was watching me. “It gets easier,” she said. “You need different shoes. I’ll show you what to buy. And you should get some of those gel insoles.”

“I don’t mean to cause so much trouble,” I said, embarrassed, and worried that I was being a burden.

She waved one hand dismissively. “Everyone’s new at some point. You’re doing better than I did, my first night.”#p#分页标题#e#

With those words of encouragement, she went out onto the floor again, and I followed after, an obedient duckling. Less yellow than a duckling, but the same basic idea.

A few hours in, Beth told me, “It’s time for you to take your first order.”

“Really?” I asked, panic gripping me. I was definitely going to screw up. I’d been trying to keep track of orders as Beth took them, and half of the time I’d forgotten at least one thing by the time we made it back to the bar. I was starting to get the distinct impression that I wasn’t cut out for waitressing.

“Sure,” she said. “There’s just two of them, and I know the one on the left. Mr. Venkatesan. He’s nice. Smile at him and ask him what he’d like. He always gets the same thing, so just worry about the other guy’s order.”

I walked over to the table, far more nervous than I probably should have been. I was just taking a couple of drink orders, after all, not competing in the Olympics. Even so, my heart raced, and my palms felt sweaty. I hoped I didn’t do anything embarrassing, like trip or stammer.

As I approached the table, Mr. Venkatesan turned toward me and smiled. That was a clear signal; Beth had been right about him. I bent down slightly so that I wouldn’t have to shout. “Good evening, Mr. Venkatesan. What can I get for you?”