Decaffeinated Corpse

I was ready to dash back inside when I heard footsteps on the nearby sidewalk, crisp and quick, aggressive, purposeful. I turned my head toward the approaching passerby, and that’s when I felt the shove—hard and deliberate.

I was half crouched over Ric, off balance already, and the violent push propelled me forward, into the old bricks. For a split second, I think I was out. I remember the slamming connection to the cold wall, then nothing for a moment. I blinked and realized I was down on the ground.

My hands moved under me, wet pebbles scratching my palms. My apron felt heavy, restrictive. I struggled to rise, but the ground seemed to tilt dramatically, like those old Batman TV shows when the villain was cackling with evil glee. I fell back again. The icy drizzle stung my face and hands, the nearby Dumpster smelled rank. I heard the distant scream of a police siren, glimpsed a navy blue baseball hat, the trademark NY logo embroidered above the bill.

For a split second the Yankee cap was there, resting near me on the concrete. Then it was gone, snatched away. I sat up quickly but saw no one close by—except Ric’s body, still slumped against the wall.

The top of my forehead was throbbing as I scrambled to my feet. My breathing was fast and shallow. I was disturbed, angry, and yes, finally, I was scared. Still, I had to risk a look. Stepping carefully, I moved beyond the alley, hoping to catch the glimpse of a figure running away on the sidewalk or lurking in a nearby townhouse doorway.

I peered east down the dark, quiet street; then west, toward brightly lit Hudson. I searched for any sign— male or female, short or fat, tall or thin. But there was not one human being on the block. Not that I could see. The night’s shadows had cloaked my attacker.

He... or she... had vanished.

Four

“Hand me your cell phone,” I asked Matt five minutes later.

“Why?”

“Because I left mine behind the counter, and I’m calling 911!”

We were back inside the Blend. I’d already sounded the alarm. Matt had followed me outside, Tucker on his heels, and I’d led them to the end of the alleyway.

By then, Ric’s eyelids had fluttered open, and he was making groggy, incomprehensible noises. Matt and Tucker helped him inside and lowered him into an easy chair by the fireplace so we could take a look at his condition.

Joy rushed across the wood plank floor when she saw us coming, bumping through our cafe tables, most of them still empty. Those few customers nursing cappuccinos and espressos lifted their heads from their laptops, newspapers, and trade paperbacks. But as we closed ranks around Ric and lowered our voices, they went back to minding their own business—a skill ninety-nine percent of New Yorkers have perfected.

(I’d once seen a four-hundred-pound man in a purple flowered muumuu belt out the entire first act of Oklahoma between Canal and 116th streets on the Number One train, and every rider in the subway pretended absolutely nothing out of the ordinary was happening. It wasn’t that hard to believe. I’d been one of those riders pretending.)

As I tore off my wet, dirty apron, I quickly explained to Matt, Tucker, and Joy what had happened in the alley: that Ric was not passed out drunk; he’d been attacked, most likely by the same person who’d shoved me into the Blend’s brick wall. That’s when I asked Matt for his cell phone to call the authorities.

“Don’t do that,” Ric murmured to me.

“Don’t do what?”

“Don’t call 911.”

I stared in confusion. Those three little numbers represented more than the date of an infamous terrorist attack. Once dialed, the common citizen could immediately summon his own little uniformed army, including a team of battle-hardened paramedics. It was a tax-funded service any medieval duke would have envied, and I was more than ready to take advantage of it. So why the heck wasn’t Ric?

“Please,” he said, “no police.”

“But you need to report what happened,” I said, “and get some medical attention—”

“I’m fine. Really, it’s no big deal.”

“Of course it’s a big deal!”

Ric remained adamant, and I considered calling 911 anyway. After all I was assaulted, too, and right in my back alley. But then I stopped to consider... there might be reasons Ric was reluctant to deal with the NYPD.

“Is it your paperwork?” I asked. “Is your visa expired?”

Ric shook his head. “No. I’m legally here... I just don’t believe we need to make a large matter of this... May I have something to drink?”

Everyone nodded, and Joy ran off to get Ric some water, but I refused to budge—physically or mentally.

Although I hadn’t seen Federico Gostwick in years, I remembered a few things about the man. His striking good looks for one. With a British dad and Caribbean mom, he’d inherited an amazing combination of features: the patrician profile and six feet of height from his father; the olive complexion and thick ebony hair from his mother. Add fluid mastery of Spanish and Portuguese, English spoken with a slight British accent, and a romantic nature, and he had a recipe for (quite literally) charming the pants off any woman he met.

That gave me pause... had Ric known his attacker? Was it a jilted girlfriend perhaps or a jealous husband?

I lowered my voice. “I won’t call the police,” I told him. “But I want you to tell me every detail of what happened out there.”

“Sure, love, but there’s not much to tell...” He shrugged. “I was coming down the side street, on the way to your front door on Hudson, when someone approached me from behind. I remembered a sharp poke in my back, like the end of a gun shoving into my ribs. Then bam...”

Ric fell silent and rubbed the back of his head. There had to be more to this story, but he’d stopped talking. I glanced at Matt.

C’mon, help me out here.

I waited for my usually glib ex to ask some questions of his own, argue with his friend about his reluctance to call the police. In the face of my pointed stare, Matt said not a word.

With a frustrated exhale, I turned back to Ric. “What do you mean bam?” I pressed. “Didn’t your attacker speak? Ask for anything?”

Ric shook his head. “There was only this mechanical-like voice—”

“Mechanical?” Tucker repeated. He and I exchanged confused glances. “What do you mean?”

“You know, uh”—Ric’s hand waved, some Spanish phrases followed, and then—“the kind you hear on answering machines?”

“Answering machines? You mean... a computerized voice like this?” Tucker asked, giving an impression that landed somewhere between Stephen Hawking and the automated teller who answers my bank’s phone.

Ric nodded. “That’s it, but it wasn’t coming from a person the way you just did it. This voice sounded tinny, like it was being played on a recorder.”

Tucker’s nose wrinkled up on his angular face. He glanced at me. “That seems odd. A mugger with a prerecorded message?”

“Yeah, that’s odd, all right,” I said. “So, what did this mechanical voice say?”

Ric shrugged. “I have a gun in your back. Put your hands up.”

“Did you?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“Then what happened?” Joy asked. She’d returned by now and was handing Ric a cup of water.

As Ric sipped, he regarded Joy for a moment. “You look familiar...” His dark eyebrows came together. “I don’t think we’ve met, have we?”

“That’s our daughter,” Matt replied.