“I prefer to think of it as a trade.” Vero opened her hand toward the door. “You got something I want,” she pointed at her crotch, “I got something you want.”
“So you sleep with him then,” Lola said.
“Honey, for that much I would. I don’t care how he looks.” She leaned over so Johnny couldn’t hear. “But damn if that man didn’t look good.”
Lola shook her head. “He looked like trouble.”
Vero laughed throatily. “You know Vero gives it up to trouble for free all the time.”
Lola willed herself to look away from the door. It’d been days since Beau had been there. She hated to admit she was still thinking of him. There had to have been a reason he picked her, but she went in circles trying to figure it out. Had there been others? If so, what was the common factor between them?
She tore her eyes away to focus on Johnny. He watched the door with more intensity than he’d looked at her with in days. A few hours earlier, an unusually large table of male customers had ordered round after round. He’d joked with them that if they doubled their bill by the end of the night, he’d throw in a complimentary lap dance from the waitress of their choice. “Come on, I’m joking around” had been his defensive answer to her glare. Johnny didn’t joke around like that, but he hadn’t really been himself since the picnic.
Lola held her breath when the man walked in. She and Johnny exhaled at the same time. “It’s not him,” Johnny said in a way that almost sounded disappointed. Johnny leaned over the bar. “Can I help you?”
In the light, the man was clearly not Beau. His arms were too short for his wrinkled suit jacket and his belly strained the buttons of his dress shirt. “Wow,” he said. He narrowed his eyes up and around, stopping at the framed black-and
-white photos of musicians on Hey Joe’s stage. “This is even more authentic than it looked on the Internet. Not like the dives you see in Brooklyn where all the stuff on the walls came from a website or boutique.”
Vero was refilling the bar caddies. Johnny picked up a jar of olives she’d asked him to open earlier and knocked the lid hard against the edge of the bar. Everyone jumped and turned to him. He twisted off the top and passed it to Vero without removing his eyes from the man. “What can I do for you?”
He held out his hand for Johnny, who just stared at it. “Hank Walken,” he said, jovial and unaffected by the brushoff.
“Jonathan Pace.”
“I’m looking for Mr. Wegley.”
“Mitch isn’t around right now. What’s this about?”
“Heard this place is for sale. You guys worked here long?”
“About twelve years,” Johnny said.
“How’s business?”
The man was smarmy. Lola would set the building on fire before a guy like that got his hands on Hey Joe. “It sucks,” Lola said. “In fact, the whole block sucks.”
Hank nodded. “Interesting.”
“Interesting?” Johnny asked.
Hank scanned the wall behind them. “Yeah,” he said absentmindedly. “It’s got a lot of potential. Would do well with some sprucing up.”
Johnny and Lola exchanged a look. “Sprucing up how?”
“I’ve done my homework. This place has history. Foot traffic. Repeat business.” Hank checked under the lip of the bar as if he expected to find something there. “That’s not showing in the numbers, though. It needs a fresh touch. Something special. Maybe a rooftop bar or a lounge area or something.”
“This is more of a local joint,” Johnny said.
Hank’s eyes went to a pool game happening in the corner. “I picked up on that.”
“It’s the complete opposite of a lounge.”
“There’s your problem.” Hank pointed at Johnny, grinning. “You’re not thinking outside the box, son. It’s all about the angle. We give it a cool, hip, rock ‘n’ roll vibe. Get some young celebrities to make appearances at the reopening. We’ve already got the rep, but a new look and a little rebranding could do wonders.” He nodded thoughtfully to no one in particular. “I’ve flipped bars before, and fives minutes in here, I’m seeing a lot of missed opportunities.”
It was exactly what Lola and Johnny had been saying for years. Mitch wasn’t willing to budge on a lot of things to keep the integrity of the bar, but sales suffered as a result. Not that Lola and Johnny had ever once discussed turning it into a lounge. “What opportunities?” Lola asked.
Hank looked back at her and narrowed his eyes. “Think I got this far by giving away my secrets, sweetheart?” He laughed good-naturedly but didn’t answer her question.
“Business really is slow,” she said. “Not sure this place can be saved.”
“I disagree,” Hank said. “In the right hands, Hey Joe could be at least doubling profits by this time next year.” He dug his sausage-like fingers into his suit jacket. “I’ll give you my card. I’m just going to take a look around. If I don’t hear from Mr. Wegley, I’ll try again tomorrow.”
Johnny took the card. “He won’t be in until Friday.”
“Any way we can get him in here to take a meeting?”
“He’s out of town.”
“Guess I should’ve called before hopping on a flight from New York. That’s all right. I’ll wait.”
Hank walked away. He swiveled his head, pausing to read flyers Lola had designed and stuck on a corkboard. He inspected the floors, touched the walls—got so close to the pool table, a man nearly twice his size asked him if he knew any surgeons who specialized in pool-cue removal.