“I’m sorry, do you work here?”
Jack had heard that question four times since the start of his shift. This time, it came from a man who looked like he could bench-press a car, a towering hunk with a chiseled jaw and long, brown hair that he wore in a ponytail. He was one of those business tycoons who liked to stop by the club for a little after-hours entertainment. Or “during-hours” entertainment. It was never too early to ogle the waitresses.
That was one reason why Jack had been assigned as his server. The staff had drawn up a list of repeat offenders and devised a strategy for what to do about the ones who got grabby. If they preferred men, they got a woman as their server and vice versa.
This guy had a bit of a rep. His name was Pim Mezola, and he ran the local shandje course. Which
