He set the beer down carefully, like he thought I might say something about the wait, and I let the silence stretch a beat longer than necessary just to watch him fidget with it.
"Thank you for the drink," I said eventually, dropping the cold front I'd been running since the blondes left.
"You're very welcome, sir," he said, relief flickering across his face. "Hope you enjoy it."
"I'm sure I will." I picked up the glass, more for something to do with my hands than out of any real thirst. "I was wondering how long you've worked here."
"A while," he said, narrowing his eyes — sharp, suspicious, the kind of look that told me he wasn't nearly as soft as the costume suggested. "Is there something I can help you with?"
"How many men work here," I asked, sipping the beer. Decent, for a dive. "Just curious."
"Only two," he said. "Bartender and the owner."
A lie, and not even a good one — I'd counted at least three other broad-shouldered waitresses on my way in who clearly weren't women under the wigs and makeup, Alex included. But I let it go. "You don't say. So the rest are all women."
"That's right," he said, and I admired the commitment to the bit.
"And what do they call you," I asked, "if you don't mind me asking."
Before he could answer, an older man's voice cut through the noise — "Alex!" — and the kid in front of me turned, relief written all over his face like he'd been handed an excuse to escape.
"Sorry, I've got to go," he said. "Boss is calling."
"So your name's Alex." I let myself smile properly for the first time all night. "I'm Law. I have something I want to ask you. When do you get off?"
"Four a.m.," he said, already half-turned away. "I won't wait around if you're not here."
"That's fine with me," I said, and meant it. "I'll be waiting."
I watched him walk off, watched him not-quite-look-back over his shoulder, and let myself smile at the small, satisfied confirmation that I'd finally found my mark.
This was going to be useful. Maybe more than useful.
I'd come here planning to scare the truth out of him, or threaten him into giving the money back, or hand the whole mess over to the police and wash my hands of it. But sitting in this loud, cheap club, watching Alex blush over something as small as a wink, a different plan started taking shape — slower, messier, and considerably more interesting than calling the cops.
My parents wanted me married within the year. They had a list of women ready to go, all from the right families, all carrying the right amount of money and the right amount of nothing else. I had exactly zero interest in marrying any of them, and exactly zero interest in explaining to my mother why that was, in detail, over Sunday tea.
But a man who'd already stolen ninety thousand dollars from me, who had an obvious reason to need cash badly enough to risk getting caught, who blushed every time I looked at him too long — that was leverage. That was a problem solving itself in real time, if I was patient enough to let it.
I drank the rest of my beer slowly, and when Alex finally reappeared at four in the morning, out of the costume and back into something that actually fit him, I was still sitting at the same table, exactly where I'd told him I'd be.
He didn't know it yet, but he was about to become very important to me.