Dak lowered the radio earpiece to his pocket and took a sip of the golden lager he'd been nursing. He enjoyed the beer and would have already downed it and at least one more in the time he'd been there if he weren't working, but he had to keep his wits.
Dak watched the young bartender with the handlebar mustache making his rounds to check on other patrons, the brown apron hanging from his neck flapping in the breeze. The bar looked like a million others Dak had seen in his life. Dark wood panels covered the façade of the main counter. Bottles of every liquor variety festooned the shelves behind it. To the left of the mirrored shelves, ten taps jutted out from the wall to provide patrons with draft beer varying from IPAs to a locally made coffee stout, and a few ales and lagers in between.
Unlike most bars with that design and layout, this one allowed a decent amount of sunlight through the windows. Even with the mesh blinds pulled down to keep the interior temperatures lower, it was probably the most well-lit saloon Dak had ever visited.
The young bartender approached after checking on the other drinkers and stopped at Dak's table.
His wavy, black hair matched the mustache against a backdrop of bronze skin. Dak figured he probably went straight to the beach across the street after every shift.
"Can I get you anything or are you good?" the young man asked.
"No, I'm good," Dak said. "Although," he added, "I do have a question."
"Sure."
Dak cocked his head to the side and took a swig of beer, a larger gulp than the previous. He swallowed and set the glass down.
"I'm looking for someone."
"Okay." The bartender looked confused. "Can you elaborate?"
"I'm looking for a Puerto Rican guy named Bert. I hear he runs this place. Is there any chance I could talk to him?"
The bartender shifted uneasily. "I'm sorry, what's this about? Bert is usually pretty busy."
Dak's eyes panned the room and then landed on the brown orbs belonging to the younger man. "Yeah, I'm sure he's overwhelmed with running the business." He gave the sarcastic remark a second to register with the barkeep.
Before the guy could protest, Dak went on. "I'm looking for a job. Was hoping I could speak to the manager. That's all."
The bartender shifted nervously. The name tag clinging to his apron jiggled.
Dak noticed the name for the second time.
"I don't think we're hiring, sir."
"Josh. That's your name?"
"Yes, sir."
"Would you mind just asking for me? If Bert says no, I'll be on my way." Dak produced a hundred-dollar bill and slid it across the table. "Just walk over there," he pointed at the management office door, "give it a knock, and ask if he can see someone about a job. If he says no, you keep this money. If he says yes, you keep this money. Either way, you win a hundred bucks for taking five steps to that door and asking your boss a simple question."
Dak's eyes scanned the room again and then met Josh's once more. "I doubt any of these scamps are going to tip that well."
Josh licked his lips and then chewed on the bottom one, contemplating the offer. His eyes filled with the things he could do with an extra hundred.
"Okay," he said and reached out for the money.
Dak pulled it back temporarily. "You're not going to run off with this, are you?"
"What?" Josh asked, sincerely curious.
"I'm kidding," Dak said. He slid the money across the table and leaned back, hefting the beer glass to his mouth again.
Josh nodded and scooped the money into his hand and stuffed it into his pocket. He glanced around the room as if he'd just broken some law, then ambled over to the manager's office.
He hesitated at the doorway and looked over to Dak, who urged him on with a raise of the glass. "Go on," Dak mouthed.
Josh licked his lips again and then raised a fist. He rapped on the door three times and took a step back.
Ten seconds passed before the doorknob twisted. The hinges creaked as someone inside pulled it open.
"What?" a gruff voice asked. This one had a New York City accent, though Dak couldn't place which borough.
"Sorry to bother you," Josh said. "There's a guy here who said he's looking for a job. Wanted to talk to Bert."
"What are you talking about?" the man said.
"He's over there if you'd like to see him." Josh pointed to Dak and a second later, a man in his thirties with a dark tan leaned out. He was wearing a black tank top that revealed several tattoos stretched across his muscular arms and up the sides of his neck.
"We're not hiring," the guy said. "You can check one of the other bars."
Dak nodded and looked down at the beer in his hand. "I'm sorry," he offered. "I thought Josh told you I was asking for Bert. You're obviously not him."
The man stepped out of the doorway and into the bar. He wore white shorts with his blacktop, along with black sneakers. It was a strange look for an enforcer, though Dak wasn't surprised—things were different in Miami. This guy was clearly a transplant, though how he came to work for Bert probably had an interesting backstory.
"What was that?" the guard said.
Dak took another sip of the beer and set the glass on the table. "I said, I wanted to talk to Bert about a job. You're not him. Bert's a Bordicuan," Dak said, using the native term for Puerto Rican he knew the bar's owner would recognize. He even said the word with an authentic accent from the town of Rincon, a place he'd
