“You’re kidding. I would never have known.”
The walls in the coffee shop are that dingy brown color you know is not paint. The stainless steel hood over the grill in the kitchen is impregnated with enough grease that the cook could open his own tallow works.
“Best of all, it’s quiet.”
“I can see why.”
I’m afraid to ask him about the hotel upstairs. Any little shake, and it may visit us while we’re sitting here.
“The owner’s name was Wan Lu Sun. Chinese,” he says. “Good businessman. But he died a couple of years ago. His kids have the property now. Not like the old man. The new generation. They have no sense of values. Americanized,” he says.
“If you say so.” I’m still taking it all in, trying not to inhale for fear the dust particles floating in the isolated ray of sunlight that’s managed to penetrate one of the encrusted windows might be asbestos.
“The developers are lined up like vultures ready to whack the place with their wrecking balls,” he says.
“This isn’t the place you’re…”
“Yeah.” Nick smiles at me.
“Tell me it’s not true.”
“It’s true,” he says.
I’ve been reading about it in the papers for almost a year. A group of community preservationists have launched a campaign to save some downtown structures they claim are historic. Every few months Nick’s name pops up in print, leading the charge.
“Take my advice,” I tell him. “This place needs a good wrecking ball.”
“Stick around. It’ll grow on you.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of. You must have better things to do than this?”
“I do, but I figure I owe it to the old man,” he says.
“What old man?”
“Lu Sun,” he says. “Hell, if he was around, developers wouldn’t get near this place. Not unless they posted their first born as collateral. The old man would have gotten an arm and a leg for the land.”
Nick has tilted at a few windmills in his time, but this is a stretch even for him.
“I knew you were stirring the embers of discontent,” I tell him. “But this is a side of you I’ve never seen. Your passion for preservation.”
“I’ve come to it late in life.” He smiles, then winks at me. “Actually, between you and me, I just like to stir the shit.”
“I would have never guessed.”
“The firm gives us time to devote to community activities. I had to find something to do. Besides, I don’t like walking two more blocks down to Starbucks just to make an executive decision on what kind of beverage I want in the morning. Here I got the place to myself. Have a seat. The booth over there in the corner is mine. It’s the one without holes in the Naugahyde,” he laughs.
Nick knows the waitress by her first name. She looks as if she’s worked here since the hotel’s grand opening.
“Two coffees, Marge. We’ll take them at the booth.” He passes on menus and grabs some Equal from what appears to be a private stash under the register.
“Hate the Sweet’n Low,” he says as he waltzes me toward the booth. “It leaves a taste.” We sidle into the bench seats, something out of the fifties, probably the last time the place was remodeled.
“You have to admit it has a certain ambiance,” he says. “All it needs is some drunk to drive a Cadillac with fins through the front wall, and it would be chic.”
Marge comes over with her glass pot and pours. He asks her how she’s doing. They chat.
No doubt my senses are colored by the odor of smoldering grease from the kitchen, where nothing in particular is being cooked unless the cook is eating it, but the coffee seems to slide out of the pot, instead of pour. Some of it is fluid, but there are a lot of black lumps like tar.
“You know, on second thought,” I tell her, “I think I’ll have tea.”
“All we got is Earl Grey,” she says.
“That’ll be fine.” As long as I can see the bottom of my cup through the hot water.
She leaves to get it.
Nick catches me looking at his cup as he loads three little packets of pretend sugar and stirs in cream. “What’s wrong?”
“I just don’t like to use purification tablets this early in the morning.”
“Hey, this is the real shit,” he says.
“That’s what I’m afraid of.”
“Actually, if you want to know, the real shit is in London. I was reading this article the other day.” This is vintage Nick. Everything reminds him of a story, even on a deadline with a case in less than a hour.
“They’ve got this stuff over there they call Crappuccino. People pay through the nose. It’s brewed from some kind of coffee berries that pass through monkeys.”
“Nick. I haven’t had breakfast yet.”
“You wanna eat? I’ll have her bring a menu.”
“No!”
He laughs.
“Yeah, I’m not kidding. Five hundred dollars an ounce and you have to use toilet paper as a filter. They say it has a very earthy taste.”
“No wonder the Brits drink tea,” I tell him.
“Really, the coffee here is fine,” he says. Still, he’s looking off in the distance as if maybe he’d like to try this Crappuccino someday.
“Time is getting short,” I tell him. “Do you want to know about Metz or not?”
“Not to worry. The arraignment’s only a first appearance. You know,” he says. He’s looking around again, taking it all in, his private dining room. “You have any idea what this place is probably worth? I don’t mean the building. I mean the location?”
I shake my head. “But I’m sure you’re going to tell me.”
He takes out what looks like a cell phone. Lately Nick has been playing with this gadget. I call them all PalmPilots. He calls this one a Handspring, every electronic device imaginable in a package the size of a deck of cards.
He slides the little stylus out of its holder on the side and starts tapping the screen.
“What, you’re not going to call somebody now?”
“Just working the calculator.”
“Nick, listen. I’ve got work waiting for me back at the office.”
“Keep your shirt on. Relax. Why are you so uptight all the time?”
“I’m not uptight. I just have better things to do.”
This is the Nick I know, putting me on the defensive while he kills my morning musing about downtown real estate prices.
“Figure you can get it for eight million, maybe eight and half,” he says.
Metz is probably wearing out shoe leather right now, out in front of the courthouse, wondering if he will be sleeping in his own bed tonight or in one of the bunks at the federal lockup.
“And it’s outside the corridor, the approaches to Lindbergh Field. That’s important,” he says. “You wanna know why?”
“Not really, but you’re going to tell me, I’m sure.”
“Because outside the corridor, you can go as high as you want, as long as you get a variance. You know, get around the current height restrictions.”
“Are you becoming a realtor?”
“No, but I ought to,” he says. “Some developer’s gonna come in here, buy the place cheap, go to his friendly planning commissioner or a county sup, and multiply his investment by a factor of four overnight. All he has to do is get a variance to go up higher. He wouldn’t even have to do anything with the property. Just turn it over. Make a
