Lavinia works one of the waterside bikini-bunny joints, all stiletto wiggle and exhausted plastic smile. The tidal inlets lead to sculpted concrete rockpools, warmed with the same power-sucking futility as patio heaters. Alongside — or for the braver, shoulder to shoulder in the water in swimming trunks or Speedos — greasy human businessmen talk deals with the business sharks of the mer-world.
The merfolk wideboys are either indifferent to the tiddy-waitress shtick, or occasionally even creepier than the human guys, sending her ping-ponging back and forth to the bar so they can stare, fixed and nictitating, at the alien exoticism of a woman walking, on legs.
She could do without ever hearing another slurred confession about the childhood awakening of watching Ariel wobble about tailless, post-transformation.
It's yet another Dollar Daiquiri Hour on yet another Wednesday night when Vinny gets motioned over to one of the pools in the back by an imperious, grey-skinned, webbed hand, gold thumb ring glinting in the lights. She hoists the tray and her slipping smile, sashays over.
"What can I get you?"
The usual buffet of paunchy man-flesh and scaled assholes give her the usual round of efforts to impress on each other their worldly taste and machismo. The one who'd waved her over gives her a look over. It's not the usual look; it's a cold evaluation for threat that drags a cold finger up and down Vinny's spine.
The merlady is built, power like a walrus bull, arms thick with scars. She gazes with unreadable moray murder-eyes, visibly dismisses Vinny as nothing, and orders a local craft beer.
"Who's the—" Vinny asks, sotto voce at the bar, against all judgement— "the lady."
It is not the word, but damned if Vinny knows what rightfully is.
"That's the living definition of oh honey no," the bartender says, chewing a toothpick. "Those guys are the mob."
Vinny pictures big, big scarred hands, and concedes that mob enforcer makes sense.
"Vinny," the bartender adds, quirking an eyebrow while pouring overpriced dick-waving whiskey, "there's a reason sleeping with the fishes is a euphemism for bein' murdered, you know?"
"Nobody said sleeping nothin'," Vinny says, lying penny-bright on her tongue.