Latte Trouble

Fifteen

The Fortune received an official police and fireboat escort all the way back to Pier 18. The Coast Guard even arrived to lend a hand.

After Matteo and the bodyguard had splashed into the water, the sailors aboard the yacht went into action, fishing the two men out and depositing them back on deck in record time. Unfortunately, one of the guests on board had panicked and dialed 911 on his cell. Just about every agency responsible for river safety—with the possible exception of Homeland Security—responded with an appearance.

The excitement aboard ship interrupted the flow of presentations. The rest of the seminar was cancelled and the Fortune returned to port. Meanwhile, there were so many blinking red lights on the water that by the time we approached the pier, a crowd had gathered to see what all the fuss was about.

The Fortune bumped into its berth, and the crew lowered the gangplank. Like rats fleeing a sinking ship, the affluent passengers crowded the exit. Matteo, dripping wet and smelling like stagnant water, accompanied his mother as they joined the exiting throng. I hung back, however, hoping to catch a glimpse of Tad or one of his associates, even Clipboard Lady.

I slipped into the ballroom, saw the bartender tidying up while a pair of women wearing aprons collected glasses from around the room. I went back outside and circled the deck, to the other side of the ship. My booted toe bumped against a rope stand, and I nearly pitched over. With a moan of frustration, I ripped the tinted glasses off my face and stuffed them into the Gucci purse.

The view was nice from this portion of the deck. Ships were approaching Manhattan, or moving out to sea. Far in the distance, the Statue of Liberty was lit in a brilliant glow. At the rail, I gazed at the vista for a moment, then heard a door open around a corner from me. A man and woman stepped out of the light, and up to the darkened area near the rail. I recognized the man—Tad Benedict. The woman’s back was turned so I couldn’t see her features. I stepped back, against the bulkhead, not daring to breathe. They were so preoccupied with each other, they failed to notice me in the shadows, listening to their conversation.

“We didn’t sell enough,” the woman said. Her tone seemed desperate, her voice familiar. I tried to lean my head just a little bit closer.

Tad snorted. “Sell enough? We didn’t sell a damn thing.”

After a moment of silence, the woman spoke. “I just want out, Tad.”

“We’ll get out,” he said with conviction. “We’ll buy our way out if we have to. I know I can raise the money. Enough money to make the payoff, and still have something left for the both of us to make a life for ourselves, free of…you know…”

His voice trailed off and he rubbed the woman’s shoulder. She turned to caress his hand, but her face remained in shadow.

“We’re running out of time,” she said.

“Don’t worry,” came Tad’s reply. “I can fix this.”

Finally she turned to face him. As their lips met, the woman moved into the light. I recognized her instantly: Rena Garcia, Lottie Harmon’s partner and marketing and publicity manager.

The kiss broke, and Tad, escorted her back inside. When they were gone, I hurried around to the other side of the boat. At the gangplank I joined the last of the passengers disembarking. Out on the street, I found Madame standing alone on the sidewalk, looking out at the river. Matt was waiting on the taxi line by the curb.

“I’m sorry, Madame,” I said. “I probably should have told you what Matt had in mind. I know it’s not what you’d do with the business.”

“Yes,” she replied. “Perhaps you should have told me. But it really doesn’t matter now. It’s water under the bridge—” She gazed at her sopping wet son in the taxi line. “—so to speak.”

Madame faced me. I was surprised to find her eyes bright, her expression buoyant. “In any case, my dear, how I’ve done things in the past is not the point any longer. The Blend’s future belongs to you…and Matteo. In a way, I’m happy.”

“Happy?”

“My son is finally showing genuine interest. In the business. In the future.”

She touched my arm. “Perhaps he really has changed, Clare.”

Then she turned and walked to the waiting cab. She and Matteo spoke briefly as he held the door for her, then he closed it and the cab sped off. Matt immediately hailed the next car in line and we climbed inside for the silent trip back to the Blend.

When we arrived, I pitched in to help Gardner, the evening shift’s barista, while Matteo ran upstairs to shower the river stench away and change into dry clothes.

Gardner Evans was an easy-going African-American composer, arranger, and jazz musician (sax, piano, guitar, bass—the guy was amazing). He’d moved to New York from the D.C. area a few years before, after finishing college, and had immediately started playing the clubs and hotel lounges with a small ensemble.

His group, Four on the Floor, had an excellent sound—I’d seen them live a few times and they’d put out two CDs, which we often played in the evenings at the Blend, along with CDs he’d bring in from his own impressive collection. For my money, however, the best thing about Gardner being a musician was his affinity for night hours. He was always alert and alive in the evenings when he arrived for barista work, which was pretty much any night his ensemble didn’t have a gig.

I hadn’t yet changed out of my Jackie O disguise, and the customers obviously found it amusing. As I served up a doppio espresso and a skinny vanilla lat with wings (i.e., a double espresso and a vanilla latte made with skim milk and extra foam) Gardner shook his head and said, “I swear, C.C., you should wear that get-up for the Village Halloween parade.”

“Don’t laugh at your boss, Gardner, it’s demoralizing. Besides, don’t you think I’m just a little bit credible as a Jackie O type?”

He responded by laughing harder.

I raised an eyebrow. “You know, mister, you’re treading a very fine line. Maybe you should start restocking the cupboards—that should dampen your levity.”

But as he turned for the pantry, his chuckles failed to fade.

Matteo returned just then, still toweling his hair dry. “My shoes are ruined. Italian leather. I could strangle Lebreaux for that alone.” He dropped into one of the tall swivel chairs at the coffee bar.

Behind the espresso machine, I dumped the cake of used grounds and rinsed the portafilter, packed more of our freshly ground Mocha Java inside it, tamped it, clamped it, and began to draw two new shots. I poured each into a cream-colored demitasse, added a twist of lemon for my ex-husband, and a bit of sugar for myself.

After a fortifying hit of caffeine, I finally asked, “Matt, what was that fight all about exactly?”

“Fight?” Gardner asked, returning to the counter with an armload of cups, lids, and heat sleeves. “Did I hear the word ‘fight’?”

Matt made a sour face. “It was just a scuffle—”

“You were trading blows with the guy,” I pointed out. “And in front of your mother, too.”

Gardner lifted his eyebrows and gave Matt a closer look. “Really?”

“Yes,” I said. “Really.”

“Cool,” said Gardner, sounding impressed.

“No. Not cool,” I said.

Gardner shrugged and went to work restocking.

“But, Clare,” said Matt. “Lebreaux insulted my mother—”

“No,” I pointed out, “he insulted you.”

“You weren’t even there for most of it.”

“That’s why I asked you to enlighten me,” I said.

“Remember when Lebreaux was pushing my mother to franchise the Blend label? Well, after she shut him down and we exposed his little scheme to take over this coffeehouse, Eduardo apparently gave up coffee and went