Through The Grinder

“Frangelico lattes.”

Into each of the three cups, I splashed the translucent gold, added a freshly pulled espresso shot, poured in a tsunami of steamed milk, and topped it with a fluffy cloud of foam.

“She’s underage, you know,” teased Tucker as I handed out the drinks.

“She’s old enough to vote, drive a car, have a baby, and fall in love. I say she’s old enough for two ounces of hazelnut liqueur. Joy, just pretend we’re in Milan.”

“Okay, Mom,” said Joy. She lifted her cup. “C’ent anni, mama mia.”

“C’ent anni, mia fia.”

“One hundred years,” said Tucker.

And we all drank.

I sighed, tasting the sweet hazelnut flavor of the Frangelico, the glowing heat of its alcohol, the earthiness of the espresso, and the soft, milky froth of the steamed milk.

I hated myself for speculating, but I couldn’t help wondering if Bruce Bowman could possibly taste this satisfying.

“Uh-oh,” said Tucker.

Looking up from my pathetic, unattainable reverie, I saw why Tucker had complained. We hadn’t locked the door yet, and a new customer had walked in, a young man in a long gray overcoat.

“Shall I tell him we’re closed?” asked Tucker.

“No, I’ll take care of his drink order and tell him it has to be to go. You grab the keys and lock up after him.”

“What about the lovebirds?” asked Tucker.

The last three couples, spillovers from the Cappuccino Connection “Power Meet” session, were still nursing coffee drinks near the fireplace, heads together, talking with that intimate tell-me-everything-about-yourself intensity that always comes during the first fiery flush of an infatuation. I still didn’t have the heart to pull the plug.

“We’ll let them out one at a time as they approach the door,” I said. “I have another thirty minutes’ work here at least, then we’ll kick their butts into the street.”

“Sounds good,” said Tucker.

He turned and strode toward the back pantry, where we kept our thick ring of shop keys on a hook. I took another satisfying sip of my Frangelico latte, waiting for the new customer to approach our coffee bar counter and place his order.

But he didn’t.

Like a ghost, the young man drifted hesitantly over to those last three remaining couples. He approached one of the tables, hands in the pocket of his long gray overcoat. He stood there, waiting for them to look up. When they did, he mumbled to them. They shook their heads and looked away, then he moved to the next couple.

“Joy, something’s up with this guy,” I whispered. “Go get Tucker.”

In less than thirty seconds, both Joy and Tucker were back.

By this time the lone customer had drifted to the second couple, with the same result. The man at the table, a slight guy in a navy sport coat and glasses, and the young dark-haired woman shook their heads; then the stranger moved along.

“Tucker, watch this guy,” I whispered. “Something’s not right.”

The stranger moved to the third couple, spoke to them, and again was turned away. Finally, the man in the overcoat moved toward the coffee bar. He wasn’t that old, maybe twenty-six or twenty-seven. He had pale skin, short brush-cut brown hair, and a very unhappy expression on his face.

“May we help you?” called Tucker, stepping in front of the counter to confront the man.

“Yes,” said the stranger. The collar of his long gray overcoat was still turned up. He removed his hands from his coat pockets, took off his black leather gloves, and turned down the collar. “I’m looking for someone.”

If the young man had sounded relaxed, I wouldn’t have worried. But his tone was venomous, full of naked hostility.

“Tucker…” I said, trying to call him back.

“It’s okay, Clare,” he said over his shoulder.

“Your name is Tucker?” asked the young man.

“Yes,” said Tucker.

The young man looked Tucker up and down. “And earlier this evening you talked to Percy?”

Percy? I thought to myself. Who the heck was Percy? A second later it hit me. Percy was Mr. Switch-hitter. The nice-looking graphic designer who’d advised me to consider “tadpoling” — the one I’d suggested get together with Tucker after the Cappuccino Connection night ended. The one with the “insanely jealous” ex-boyfriend. Ohmygod.

Before I could warn Tucker, he was already telling the young man, “Yes, Percy and I hit it off. Not that it’s any of your business.”

“Oh, but it is,” said the young man.

The punch came so fast and so hard I stood completely stunned for a second.

“Call the police!” I told Joy and rushed forward to help.

But one of the men from the couples’ tables, the slight guy with glasses in the navy sports coat, had gotten to Tucker faster. As the attacker was about to swing again, the slight guy body-slammed him, sending him soaring. Chairs clattered to the floor as the attacker’s body flew into them. With an ear-shattering screech, a heavy marble table was dragged across the wood planks as the attacker used it to quickly pull himself back up.

By then, I was coming at him with a raised baseball bat — the one I’d kept behind the counter ever since my own frightening encounter with a bad guy a few months back. The attacker didn’t tarry — he raced to the door and out into the black, cold night.

I dropped the bat and rushed to Tucker.

“Ah, shit, shit, shit!” he cried, blood pouring from his face, “I have an audition in three days! Do you think it’s broken, Clare?”

“Take it easy, Tuck. Sit down.”

I led him to a chair and had Joy bring out an ice pack. We had a first aid kit in back, of course, and I always kept ice packs in our freezer for staff burns or injuries.

“Honey, hold this against your nose,” I told him.

After a minute, I had him remove the pack and took a look. “It’s not twisted or misshapen. Do you feel a tingling or numbness?”

“No, but it hurts like hell.”

“That’s good, Tuck. It’s probably not broken — just badly bruised.”

“Well, thank God! And thank God Percy wasn’t dating Mike freakin’ Tyson or my career would be completely over!”

Within minutes a siren was screaming down Hudson. The red lights painted our front windows as the police car pulled up to the curb.

Officer Langley, a lanky young Irish cop, rushed toward our front door, nightstick in hand. His partner, a shorter, more muscular Greek cop named Demetrios was right behind him, one hand on the butt of his holstered gun.

I met them as they entered, and told them the attacker had fled. Then Langley put away his nightstick and pulled out his notebook, and Demetrios called in my description of the attacker over his radio.

“The cars in the area will look out for him, Ms. Cosi,” said Demetrios. He and Langley had been regular Blend customers for a few months now — ever since they’d both helped Madame and me out of a few jams.

“Do you want an ambulance?” Langley asked Tucker.

“God, no. I’m a drama queen, but only on the stage.”

I put a hand on Tuck’s shoulder. “You need to see a doctor. I insist you at least get checked out at St. Vincent’s ER.”

“Fine,” he said. “But I’m not going in a paramedic mobile, thank you very much. Flag a cab or something.”

“We’ll give him a ride,” Demetrios offered.