Martin forcibly turned his head back, suppressing his craving for the little ticket, and looked at the civilized bartender, muttering, “There’s something wrong with this drink.”

Bruce was pouring the prepared Long Island Iced Tea into a glass filled with ice.

Vincent was indeed intrigued: “A drink made by Bruce could have a problem?”

Martin pointed at the glass with ice and, relying on his knowledge from his previous life, started spouting some high-sounding nonsense: “The essence of a Long Island Iced Tea lies in the ice. The ice column in the glass is less than half the height, and the frosty aura isn’t enough to tempt the palate into indulgence.”

Vincent remained unmoved. With women flooding in, who the hell cares about that?

Martin immediately changed his approach: “This means the upper part of the glass is left empty, so you have to add at least a third more alcohol. Even if you use the cheapest base spirits, you’re still losing a lot of profit per glass.”

Vincent lifted his cowboy hat and did a quick calculation: “An extra $2 profit per Long Island Iced Tea, selling 30 a night, that’s $420 more a week.”

For the first time that night, he looked Martin in the eye: “You know how to bartend?”

Martin skillfully put up his shield: “Old bastard Jack is the most versatile person in Marietta.”

Vincent nodded toward the bar: “Let me see.”

Martin took off his jacket and placed it on the high stool. His tight T-shirt radiated overflowing hormones as he slipped behind the bar and patted Bruce: “Buddy, this isn’t a job for a civilized man.”

Bruce had already noticed Martin, and seeing the boss nod, he stepped aside willingly.

Martin cleaned his hands, quickly scanned the various ingredients, and asked the nearest customer, “Miss, what would you like?”

The woman who had just finished a Long Island Iced Tea said, “Another one.”

As the name suggests, Long Island Iced Tea originated from Long Island, New York, and for most women, it’s considered a rather strong cocktail.

But it’s perfect for those wild ones who crave that icy, intense sensation when they’re burning up inside.

Martin sprang into action. At first, his movements were a bit stiff, but after preparing the four base spirits—gin, vodka, rum, and tequila—he gradually became more adept, regaining the state he had before being stifled by the Danny-brand big balloon.

He filled the ice column in the glass to more than two-thirds, poured in the mixed liquor, added a slice of lemon for garnish, inserted a straw, and handed it to the woman: “Your drink.”

This glass used over a third less base liquor than Bruce’s version.

The female customer took a careful sip: “This one suits me better than the last.”

After paying for the drink, she pulled out another dollar and pushed it specifically toward Martin.

Bruce looked at Vincent again, spreading his hands, confused: Why didn’t I get a tip?

More people came over. Customers willing to spend didn’t mind ordering a cocktail. One after another, people asked for classics like Pink Lady, Angel’s Kiss, and Manhattan.

Martin worked hard. If he didn’t run off, he’d need a job with free daytime hours to earn income and support his pursuit of opportunities in his field of expertise.

When there were no customers for the moment, Vincent called Martin over: “Let’s talk.”

Chapter 10: Weapons Are the Guarantee of Being Civilized

Facing different people at different times, Martin used different coping strategies.

He placed the $7 tip in front of Vincent.

Vincent pushed it back: “Tips belong to the individual.” He asked directly, “How many types of cocktails can you make?”

Martin stopped bluffing and said, “I can make all the common cocktails. I wouldn’t say my skills are top-notch, but at least I’m average.”

Back then, he’d worked hard to compete for a bartender role. Although he didn’t get the part, his love of good drinks meant he never gave up practicing, so it became a skill he’d built up over the years.

Vincent asked, “Ways to save costs without affecting the taste too much?”

Martin was already in the zone: “I can guarantee higher profits on some mixed drinks.”

While collecting tips, he’d been observing carefully. Female customers were focused on the stage; the drinks were just for fun, and they weren’t picky about taste.

As long as the basic flavor was there, there wouldn’t be any problems.

If a civilized man could sell such poorly made drinks, so could he.

Vincent’s expression suddenly darkened: “Are you a bastard like Jack?”

“Mr. Li, with someone as powerful as you, even if I had ten times the guts, I wouldn’t dare deceive you.” At this moment, Martin played the role of a humble, respectful nobody: “That old bastard Jack was exposed under your wisdom. Nothing I do can escape your eyes.”

Vincent was quite pleased and said, “You’re now the bartender at the Beast House. The hourly wage is $8, paid every two weeks, with debts settled at the same time as payroll.”

The most important income from this job was the tips.

Now that his skills were recognized, Martin cautiously probed, “Since I’m a club member, what about the interest…”

Vincent thought for a moment and said, “We’ll only calculate the total interest, no more compounding. Pay back another $7,000 and your debt is cleared.”

Martin felt a bit more at ease. This way, he could first see if there were any opportunities with the Marietta Troupe.

“The prerequisite is that you have to show me your value!” Compared to bartending skills, Vincent valued Martin’s approach to the Long Island Iced Tea more.

Martin needed the money: “When do I start?”

Vincent casually pointed at the bar: “Right now.”