Anais De La Rosa stood in the foyer of the run down club, abandoned years ago and held in contempt by her neighbors. Her green eyes flickered about with an air of satisfaction, at the high rafters, the long, dusty bar, the crooked, broken tables and chairs, shattered windows, high loft area, and the chipped, filthy black tiles. Twirling the keys to the building around her right index finger, she let the creaky door swing shut behind her, encasing her in the gloom of the bar. She was confident in her ability to clean this place up, confident that the money she had hustled in pool and poker, plus the money she had saved in her own account, would be more than enough to fix this shit hole to the lovely, shady bar she had in mind.
"Dead End Tavern. It has a nice, solid ring to it."
Her voice echoed plaintively through the bar, demonstrating the excellent acoustics of the main room. The bar opened from the front door into a large platform, the bar and tables below that platform, a pool hall in the back through a broken door, hanging from the hinges crookedly, bathrooms down the main hallway with the kitchen to the left. The stairs to the loft at the end of that hallway.
She didn't want carpets in her new establishment. It would be a pain in the ass to clean spilled liquor from the floors and she really didn't need dingy carpet to take from the ambiance of the place.
Nodding, she pulled her cellphone from her pocket, said a few words into the speaker, and hung up. Her backup would be here soon, an army of maids and repairmen to bring her idea to life. Slipping the cellphone into her pocket, she rolled her sleeves up, tying her hair back.
A week later:
The camera in Anias's hand clicked as she took a photo of the bar, newly installed with lights, her bar oiled and sanded, new black and red booths, glossy black tables with red, Victorian chairs, shiny red vinyl barstools, the bar floor polished to a high shine, the VIP loft up and running, along with the back pool room with a flat screen in every nook and cranny. The bathrooms were spotless, the ladies' equipped with tampon and pad dispensers, the men's with condom and Viagra dispensers, as a little joke.
Also, in the VIP loft, she had a stage installed, cages mounted from the ceiling, and poles in the corners on high, glittery platforms. For performers.
"Damn. 18 and you've accomplished all of this. How the hell did you get a liquor license?"
Anias looked up questioningly at Mike, the main man in installations.
"I hired a man to get the license. I paid him off well. Basically, I own him."
Looking a little shocked, Mike nodded stupidly and walked out of the bar, yelling at one of his workers to be careful with a blacklight that would be going up in the loft. Anias watched him leave and then turned her attention back to her new bar. She was proud of this project.
Now, all she needed were workers and drunks.