Chapter 1: Fade

Fifteen years ago, I was just a run-of-the-mill bartender, peddling my wares at an upscale poolside establishment on the south coast of Spain. I didn’t have a care in the world. I had three: sun, sex, and fun.

I tried my very best to fulfil them all with as little effort as possible. Luckily, all my pressing concerns drank at my place of work regularly. The locale of my employment was to be found in Puerto Banús, where the rich and semi-famous would go to be seen and frolic in the Mediterranean sun. The primary element of my vocation was to get the sun-soaked, floss-wearing cougars full to their plastic-infused lips using my elixirs of wonder: Mojitos, Woo Woos, Piña Coladas, or Sex on the Beach.

I was good at my trade. I’m sure I turned a few customers into alcoholics or at least got them on their merry ways. The secondary part of the job was to make it look like I gave a shit about my patrons’ lives and their beautifully privileged problems. Bartenders are the uncertified psychologists of the world. Everybody thinks we have PhDs in life’s problems. So, when the third Cosmopolitan kicked in, the girls stopped seeing me as the purveyor of fine alcoholic beverages that I was, and before their overly glazed eyes, I would somehow morph into their personal shrink.

I’d have to listen to the ladies whine about how lonely they were and how unfair life was while they ordered bottles of Cristal like it was fucking tap water. They got all that attention for the bargain-basement price of a ten-euro tip. My fee was usually paid for by their less-than-attentive, cigar-smoking husbands at the end of the day—a small thanks for watching the girls. The husbands would rather play eighteen holes than play with their wives.

At one point during the summer, I thought some of the women had taken residency because they spent so much time at the bar. On occasion, I’d get a bonus and a wife or two would be pissed off at their husbands and would play with me instead. Yes, they were older than me, but hot and full of experience. In my defence, I was young and impressionable, and I swear they took advantage of me. I thought fooling around with them would help with their self-esteem issues, you see; it helped with mine. That’s my reasoning and I’m sticking to it.

There were two ladies of a cougar nature in particular who drank at the bar every day. Man, if I had got those two in the sack at the same time, I would have died a happy man. I could never talk my way into it, much to my disappointment.

Sorry, I’m daydreaming.

Forget about the wildlife that prowled poolside; back to the story at hand. The road to my current profession was an odd one. At the time, I didn’t know I was being considered for a career that I didn’t even know existed…

Chapter 2: The Man with the Red Face

It was a Friday afternoon nearing the end of the summer. The humidity was thick enough to chew—a mix of expensive sunblock, sea salt, and the smell of roasting money. I wiped a bead of sweat off my forehead with a bar towel that had seen better days. Every summer in Banús feels like the last days of Rome: everyone trying to out-drink, out-tan, and out-spend the person next to them. I was just the guy keeping the glass full.

The drinks were flowing, the DJ was hitting the right beats, and the cougars were on the prowl around the pool, which meant the towel boys were running for their pubescent little lives. The bar was buzzing with regulars and newly arrived sun-worshippers on their annual vacations from reality. The atmosphere was stunning. I was busy jumping from one customer to the next, giving drinks and grabbing tips. The place was bursting at the seams.

I was running round like a lunatic for hours, serving and smiling. It finally started to ease off after six. I ducked out from behind the bar for a smoke and a scan of the ladies poolside to see if they needed any help applying their sunscreen. It was all part of my personal service. If any of the owners asked, I was checking up on the waitresses.

As I was appreciating the view, two guys walked up to the bar. One was in his mid-30s and the other in his early 40s. I noticed because they stood out like sore thumbs. They were wearing tacky Hawaiian shirts which were painful to look at and smoking fat cigars. I watched them as they approached. I could feel the definite air of “American on tour,” which meant big tips. I dropped the smoke and got back to work.

Before I could even ask them if they would like a drink, the older one of the two—who I’ll call Vegas for legal reasons—he made a beeline for two of my residents sitting at the bar. I swear, if he had moved any fucking faster, he would have left a smoke outline of himself like the Roadrunner.

He got straight in their faces and offered them his business card. I was right about them being American; he let out a big smile. You see, this was a smile you could only get in the great old U.S. of A: brilliantly white. When the sun reflected off those things, they blinded anyone who dared look. He should have had a health warning around his neck saying: Caution: could lead to blindness.

I was standing there like a tool being blinded, so I turned my attention to another customer. As I was serving, I overheard Vegas spew such classic lines as, “Did it hurt when you fell from heaven?” and, “You must be tired? Because you’ve been running through my mind all day.”

I thought I was becoming lactose intolerant with all the cheese being churned out. He finally stopped spouting lines the 80s didn’t even want and said, “Champagne!” with such vigour that a few of the regulars turned to look at him. I was serving one of the waitresses when I heard a clicking sound. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the cheesemonger clicking his fingers at little old me.

Now, a word of advice to you all: Never, ever click your fingers at a bartender. It’s just plain fucking rude. If you do, you will pay the penalty.

To top it off, he tried to look all suave in front of the ladies by spouting bad Spanish in an American accent. “Yo, boy! Dos glasses champagne for the lovely chicas por favor.”

I looked at his friend who was now sitting at the other end of the bar. He was sitting quietly like a good customer but cringing after seeing my face. He looked at me, mouthing, “Sorry.” I shook my head, turned and faced Vegas with a smile, and replied, “My man, I no comprendo Americano.”

Vegas looked at me and tried to ask again in shit Spanglish. I stopped him mid-breath. “And I certainly don’t understand anyone stupid enough to click their fingers at me… sir.”

“Excuse me… you can’t talk to me like that!”

“And you shouldn’t click fingers at me, but what can you do?”

“Well, I…”

“Well, I think you should buy these gorgeous ladies a drink before they get bored of you. I mean, don’t you?”

“Fine, they can have whatever they want. Money’s no object, BOY.”

“Very good, sir.”

Vegas pulled out his wallet, threw a platinum Amex on the counter, and gave me a big “fuck you” smile. I gave the girls a look and a smile and asked if they would like their usual. They knew I was up to something. They looked at each other and said yes. I thought about what to make. I looked at my liquor collection for ideas, then it came to me: a Brandy Alexander.

I reached for a bottle on the top shelf—the one we kept under a spotlight to make the tourists feel poor. It was a Louis XIII Cognac. In the light, it looked like liquid amber. I poured it slowly, letting the aroma of century-old oak and dried plums hit the air. I wasn’t just making a drink; I was executing a financial execution. Vegas was still grinning at the cougars, oblivious to the fact that I was about to swipe his dignity right through the card machine.

Now, a Brandy Alexander is a classic, no more than six euros max. But when you use a brandy that costs three hundred euros a shot, and there are a shot and a half in each… well, you get the picture. He did say money was no object. I made the cocktails, gave them to the girls in question, then gave him the bill. I told him out loud how much it was so everybody in earshot could hear. I did this as I was swiping his card.

“That’ll be 920 euros, not including the service charge, sir.”

I gave him my own “fuck you” smile. A few customers who were watching the proceedings looked on in amazement; one guy choked on his drink. Vegas turned a startling shade of red. I thought I had just given him a heart attack. The two girls stared in disbelief and his friend nearly fell off his bar stool in shock, sniggering.

“What the…! I’m not paying that much!” he shouted.

“I thought you said money was no object, sir?”

Just then, his friend jumped in. “He’s got you there. Pay up, it’s your own fault.”

To which I added salt to the wound. “Would you like to leave a tip, sir?”

“Where’s your manager?”

He was livid. I looked up and down the bar, over the people in front of me, then looked down at my feet before looking back to Vegas. “Oh… I’m the manager, sir. How can I help? Would you like to make a complaint to me… about me?”

His friend started chuckling, as did a few of my regulars. The friend whispered something into the ear of Vegas, then motioned for him to pay and gave him a look. Vegas paid up and gave me a look that probably would have killed me if it had a gun. He slunk back to the other end of the bar with his tail between his legs, muttering like an R-rated Muttley. If I counted correctly, it was at least 140 swear words a minute. I got a round of applause from the regulars. One even told Vegas, “You should never fuck with your bartender.” That really didn’t help the situation.

I hoped that was the end of the Americans… Wrong. They didn’t leave. While Vegas was busy vibrating with rage, I kept my eye on “T.” He wasn’t reaching for his wallet, and he wasn’t trying to intimidate me. He just leaned back, took a slow pull of his beer, and watched the whole scene like he was watching a masterclass in “how to lose.”

He looked at me, and for a split second, there was a flash of recognition. It wasn’t that he knew me; it was that he knew my type. I was the guy who didn’t blink. I was the guy who knew the system well enough to turn a bully’s own credit card against him.

It looked like they were having a heated discussion at one stage, Vegas flaring up every so often. I got the other bartender to give them a couple of rounds on the house to make sure Vegas calmed down. I did seriously piss him off. Vegas is a big guy; he looked like he used to play pro American Football as a hobby—you wouldn’t want a smack off him. I’m more lover than fighter; ask the cougars. The other one kept looking over in my direction. It freaked me out. I thought he was planning my demise by going to my bosses and complaining.

After an hour I finally had enough, went over to them, and asked him what he was looking at. He told Vegas to give him a minute. Vegas went to see if the girls by the pool had enough clothes on or something. I asked T why he was staring at me and said if he was going to complain to the owner, just do it.

The guy had no intention of complaining. He introduced himself as T and then apologised for his friend’s earlier behaviour. I was truly stumped. The reason they stayed was because while I was disgracing Vegas, T noticed everyone at the bar knew me. It made T think I’d know my way around the town; bartenders always know the in-places. He wanted to ask me earlier, but he needed to get Vegas to come round to the idea after our “little misunderstanding.” He put a 200-euro note on the bar as a tip for my earlier troubles.

“So, will you be our guide?”

“What about the happy snapper?”

“He’s okay now; you bruised his ego just enough.”

“He won’t try and kill me or anything?”

“I don’t think so… I’m kidding, he’s calmed down. If it makes it easier, drinks are on us for the night.”

“I’m not finished work until nine.”

“That’s fine. Invite some female friends if you like; it will keep him busy.”

“Okay. Meet me here after nine.”

“Excellent.”

Chapter 3: The Boys Are Back in Town

Nine o’clock rolled around. I sat at the bar having a drink. The boys arrived on the dot, all decked out in their Friday night best. Typical American attire: cigars in mouths, wrapped in khaki slacks, polo shirts, and what looked like new leather loafers. Thank Christ they dropped the Hawaiian shirts; otherwise, I wasn’t going anywhere with them. I had a bit of a rep to think about.

“Looking snazzy, lads.”

“Are you going home to change?” Vegas asked.

“Nope.”

The well-dressed gents looked me up and down. I was wearing a pair of old-school Converse, shorts, a black wife-beater with my tattoos showing, and my battered Yankees baseball cap. I looked like I was ready for the beach, not a cocktail bar. I explained that what I looked like didn’t matter; I was considered a local because I worked in the town and everyone knew me. I downed my drink and we were off.

I took the boys on a booze-fuelled voyage into the underbelly of the town where the locals go and party. After a few hours of trawling the bars and drinking way too much, Vegas asked me to pick up some “extra-curricular activities.” I looked at him, shocked for about half a second. He told me to fuck off. Vegas said that every bartender he had ever met knew where to get the best party favours. This was true.

I made a call. Ten minutes later, I ducked into one of the side streets on the second line. In Banús, the “party favour” guy likes the shadows—you don’t see him unless you know him. My guy, Heber, didn’t do street deals. He did handshakes and whispered codes. I handed over the cash, felt the weight of the wrap in my palm, and checked the quality with a quick rub against my gums. If I was going to supply T and Vegas, I wasn’t going to give them the stepped-on rubbish they sell to the tourists.

We were back on the party wagon about twenty minutes later. There was not even one drunkard amongst our party once we powdered our respective noses. We walked down the strip, all glass-eyed and feeling important. Vegas declared he wanted to see “fresh livestock.” I looked to T, bewildered, thinking that was the strangest reaction from coke I’d ever heard. I really didn’t know where to find a cow at that hour of the night. T explained it was what Vegas called a group of women.

That made more sense. I knew exactly where to find the aforementioned bovine.

I frequented a little after-hours bar with the guys from work. It was the sort of place Vegas could run off some of his newly found steam and we could run amuck and not get in trouble. The party favour guy owned it. It was a great little bar named Haven. It was lined with burgundy wallpaper. Gold-framed pictures of famous drinkers adorned the walls. The music was pumping house, the atmosphere was electric, and the air was filled with the scent of sex, smoke, and debauchery—the perfect setting for late-night drinking and getting into trouble with the female form.

Vegas did just that, taking full advantage of the half-drunk and coked-up women in the place. T and I sat at the bar and shouted at each other; the music was obnoxiously loud. Heber, the proprietor and party favour guy, noticed us trying to have a conversation. He interrupted our shouting match and motioned for us to follow him. We followed and left Vegas to his own devices.

I’ll say this a few times during this book: I make stupid decisions when I’ve been drinking. Leaving Vegas without supervision was one of those decisions. Fortunately, there was a two-way mirror in the back room where we were headed. Heber had lovingly nicknamed it the “Dirty Protest Room.” I kept an eye on Vegas while T made small talk with our gracious guest.

He told Heber about what I did to Vegas during the day. Shaking his head with a smile, Heber looked at me for a reason. I told him I had no choice; he clicked his fingers at me. He laughed hard at my response. T said he had never seen someone put Vegas in his place like I did earlier; he was impressed.

We turned our attention to the man in question for a while. It was like watching a 6’5” drunken train wreck. He hit on every woman with a short skirt and a pulse. I think the pulse was optional, to be truthful. He didn’t care if half the women couldn’t even understand him or stand up.

“Does he ever let up?” I asked T.

“You kidding? This is him on his best behaviour.”

“He’s persistent, I’ll give him that.”

“Yep.”

As we watched, the next event seemed to happen in slow motion. I think it had to do with the blend of booze and drugs, or it was probably the strobe lights. One of the girls the train wreck was trying to chat up gave him one hell of a right hook and stormed off with her friend. I jumped up and went straight to him. I gave him a look and pulled him off the dance floor. We got back to the protest room in one piece. I sat back down. Vegas just stood there, then turned to us, lit a cigar, and shrugged.

“Can’t win ‘em all.”

I looked at him in astonishment. “What the hell did you ask her?”

“If she and her daughter would like to have a golden shower back at my place.”

“No fucking wonder she thumped you!”

“Fuck that… she hit me because she was the younger of the two. Women, go figure.”

Vegas smiled and went back out to the dance floor. T, Heber, and I looked at each other, stunned, and started laughing. We stayed in the Dirty Protest Room for the rest of the night, drinking and doing party favours in between talking about life, music, and work. Hell, Vegas even came in and relaxed with us for a bit. He apologised for snapping his fingers at me. I apologised for making him spend nearly a grand on two cocktails.

T explained to us that he and Vegas owned an international concierge service. Basically, if a client wants something and is willing to pay for it, they get it for them. T leaned in, his eyes surprisingly clear despite the amount of powder on the table.

“Think about it,” he said. “Most people spend their lives in a straight line. House, job, grave. But some people want to skip the line. They want a painting from a private vault, or a suitcase moved across a border that doesn’t exist on a map. They need a Concierge. Someone who knows the rules well enough to break them without leaving a footprint.”

I looked at him and realised he wasn’t talking about being a travel agent. He was talking about being a ghost. It sounded like an interesting business to be in. I told them about my life as a travelling bartender which, in comparison, sounded dull as ditch water—doing season to season in a different place, summer in the sun and winter in the snow.

I told them I loved travelling. T asked if I would ever settle down. I thought about it and said, “When it’s time.” He asked if work had much to do with it. I said that I could work anywhere. I told him I’d like to find a job that keeps me on my toes; I get bored easily. I was convinced I suffered from ADD or some other abbreviation. It wasn’t just boredom; it was a physical itch. My brain felt like a radio stuck between stations—static and white noise until something interesting happened. I could manage a bar rush with forty orders in my head because the chaos was the only thing that made the noise stop.

T saw that. He didn’t see a kid with an attention problem; he saw a high-performance engine that was being used to mow a lawn. He knew that in his world, that kind of restless energy isn’t a disability—it’s a survival trait.

Around 1 am, a couple of the waitresses from work showed up to get some drinks out of me. Vegas saved the dent in my wallet. He made the most of the situation by hitting on them with such renewed enthusiasm it was terrifying. He was like the Duracell bunny on crack. He kept going and going. I could only watch in horror at the amount of booze he poured into the girls. I swear, I think Vegas thought his life depended on getting laid that night.

The girls, on the other hand, were having none of it. They did make the most of the free beverages, though. There was some serious damage done to his credit card and our livers. I knew for a fact that neither of the girls would sleep with him for all the booze in Spain, and I didn’t want either girl getting alcohol poisoning. To put him out of his misery, I thought I’d introduce him to a girl of a working nature I knew. I spotted her on the dance floor earlier.

I told T what I was up to. I wanted to know if Vegas would hit the roof, but he said with a mischievous smile, “No, he is a devoted investor in girls of the working kind. Do you think he would get laid otherwise?”

“Point taken.”

I grabbed the lovely Maria from the dance floor and explained the situation as we made our way to the back room. I did my introductions with Vegas. The girls from work knew who she was but said nothing. They didn’t give a shit; they were full to the eyeballs with rum, coke, and other things. They were having a good time. Vegas and Maria hit it off immediately. I would’ve been surprised if they didn’t; it was her job to show interest in drunken men, for fuck’s sake. No one had the heart to tell Vegas the meter was running.

We finally left the bar at stupid o’clock—well, “fell out of” would describe it better. The sun was rising and you could hear the town waking. I hated the sound of the birds in the morning because it meant I only had a few hours until work, and it was Saturday.

Vegas walked out with a smile only the Cheshire Cat could duplicate. With Maria in arm, he said goodnight to us all. T looked at me and said in a low tone, “At least we know he will be safe in bed with a hooker to keep him warm.”

I chuckled to myself and said my goodbyes to everyone. I strolled home with the day breaking behind me, a drink in my left hand and Sophie the waitress on my right. As the sun started to bleach the sky over the Mediterranean, I realised I wasn’t tired. The adrenaline of the night—and the chemistry—was still humming. I looked at the 200-euro tip T had given me earlier and then at the sunrise. I’d spent my life watching people have “the ride.” I didn’t know at the time that T was going to offer me a seat in the driver’s carriage. I didn’t know where the track led, but as I walked Sophie home, I knew I wasn’t going to be pouring Mojitos for much longer.

Good times.