Murder by Mocha

From what I remembered of the Greek myth, in repayment for Prometheus’s heroic act of bequeathing fire to humankind, Zeus ordered him chained to a rock where an eagle visited him daily to dine on his liver.

No good deed goes unpunished sprang to mind. Mike occasionally muttered the aphorism in reference to police work.

Today I knew why.

Mike’s visit to the NYPD’s version of Mount Olympus was certainly over by now, but he had yet to return my call. With every passing hour, I worried a little more. Sure, Mike sounded firm in his decision to protect Sully and Franco by resigning, but that was only in theory. In my experience, hard facts hit you in the face with a whole lot more impact than airy little theories.

So where was he now? I wondered. Is he with his squad? Or in some pub across town? Did he seek out some shoulder (other than mine) to cry on?

Punishment for good deeds, or at least good intentions, had me reconsidering my own morning. After my long, head-clearing shower, I’d returned Madame’s call, absolutely insisting on straight talk. Thank goodness, she agreed. No more equivocating.

Like me and the Fish Squad, Madame believed Alicia had been targeted for some sort of nefarious scheme. She even volunteered to question the woman, but I’d specifically asked her to get Alicia here early so we three could hash things out. At this late hour, my calls went unreturned, and I had yet to see either lady.

I was beginning to feel like Prometheus’s brother, Atlas, whose bronze likeness was power-lifting a weighty sphere on the other side of this complex. With my own worries heavy on my shoulders, I focused instead on that universally acknowledged painkiller . . . chocolate.

Like the Greeks and their theory of fire, the Aztecs thought of chocolate as a gift from a god, one who’d stolen the cocoa tree from paradise and delivered it to us mortals on the beam of a morning star.

I could see Esther appreciated her little bites of heaven as much as I did. Glancing back to my senior baristas, I noticed Tuck explaining why he’d slapped her hand.

“Sorry, but I was counting. That was your third kiss.”

Esther’s response: “Nah-ahh.”

Hands on hips, Tucker faced her. “Did I just hear the Dark Princess of street poetry murmur the astoundingly jejune phrase ‘nah-ahh’?”

Esther smirked. “When you fail to amuse, I’ll disabuse. You don’t inspire . . .” She snapped her fingers. “You tire.”

“Hey, you two,” I called, attempting to derail this hip-hop train before it fully left the station. “Tell me how this looks!”

I had just finished placing two hundred shot glasses filled with triple-chocolate budini on a miniature staircase of blue-hued ice. The chilly steps were a dramatic way of keeping the creamy Italian puddings fresh. They circled a frozen-water sculpture of Aphrodite—your basic, armless, Louvre Venus de Milo rendered as Giant Popsicle.

I’d recommended the budino to Alicia as an alternative to gelato, which never would have held under these circumstances. Of course, chocolate, sugar, eggs, and cream weren’t its only ingredients. Like everything else we were serving, the treats were laced with Alicia’s Mocha Magic Coffee “love” powder.

Tucker and Esther, who’d been filling silver trays with goodies, now turned to offer their oohs and aahs at my frosty staircase of passion-inducing pudding shots. Then Esther went back to munching her stolen kiss and Tucker returned to fixing the chorus line of cookies she’d disturbed.

Their verbal sparring ceased, but Tuck couldn’t stop himself from pointing two fingers at his own eyes before thrusting them at Esther.

“I’m watchin’ you, girl,” he said, playing up his Louisiana twang.

Esther pulled her serving glove free, pushed up her black-framed glasses, and stuck out her tongue. Then she snatched a piece of broken tiramisu bar from the “damaged goods” bowl and waved it in the air before popping it in her mouth.

“Chill, you two,” I warned.

Esther faced me, mouth full. “I’m out,” she garbled then swallowed. “What next?”

“More’s coming.” I pointed across the room to Nancy Kelly, who was wheeling a stainless steel bakery cart our way.

“Holy smokin’ rockets!” she cried. “Those cute little ice steps are really something!”

“What’s that?” Esther slid her dark frames down enough to peer at Nance over them. “You didn’t have ice back in Yokelville?”

“We didn’t have ice stairs, except maybe in the winter,” Nancy replied honestly.

“Where are you from exactly?” Tuck asked.

“All over. I come from a lot of places.”

“Where they get up with the chickens, apparently,” Esther said.

“Roosters.”

“Which implies Nancy actually kept chickens.”

“Why should I tell you anything!” Nancy threw up her hands. “All you guys ever do is make fun of me.”

“We’re not making fun of you,” Esther said. “We’re alternately appalled and yet charmed by your bumpkin ways.”

Tuck waved a gloved hand. “Don’t sweat it, honey. All newbies get tortured. When I first came to New York, my bayou accent earned me so much ribbing I tasted barbecue sauce.”

“How did you get it to stop?”

“Simple, sweetie . . .” He snapped his fingers. “I stuck.”

“To what?”

“To doing what I came here to do. When you stick around long enough, you become a New Yorker. It’s inevitable—although you do have to hold on tight.”

“To what?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Your dreams, your soul, your sanity . . .”

“It’s like that sign you read before you get on an amusement park roller coaster,” Esther said. “Secure your belongings.”

“You’ll see,” Tuck added, “unless you beat it for a kinder, gentler burg. Believe me, there are plenty—but none as exciting . . .”

I didn’t say anything to counter Tuck and Esther, mostly because I agreed with them. New York was a glorious town filled with memorable thrills, but like any carnival coaster enduring the dips required gripping the bar with everything you had.

“Oh, wow!” Esther pointed to the tray I’d pulled from the bakery cart. “What do you call these?”

“Gianduia,” I said. “It’s a lovely brownie named after a hazelnut-chocolate invented a few hundred years ago in northern Italy. We also have a tray of gianduia fudge.”

Esther blinked. “Za-do-ka? Like bazooka only with a z in front?”

Nancy shook her head. “It’s Zudoku, almost like the game.”

“No, no. It may start with a g,” I explained, using the appropriate Italian arm gestures. “But you pronounce it zhahn-doo-yah.”

Esther munched one of the chocolate triangles and rolled her eyes. “Ohmigod, it’s so delicious, rich and chocolaty, moist and chewy, with the most perfect toasted hazelnut finish, but . . .”

“It’s gianduia, Esther. How can there be a ‘but’?”

“Listen, boss lady, trust someone whose grandfather turned the name Bestovasky into Best: this particular treat needs a reassessment of nomenclature.”

“Excuse me?”

“The name should roll off the tongue, not tie it into knots.” Esther took a second bite, stared off into space. “What do you think of Cocoa Hazelnut Bliss? Or . . . I’ve got it! Brownies Italiano!”