by Cleo Coyle
Dante saw the problem immediately. “Franco’s flirting like a boroughs guy. Manhattan women require a different touch. Don’t worry, boss. I’ll set him straight.”
“Hey, boss!” Nancy dangled our store phone in her hand. “Detective Buckman wants to speak to you. He said something about Sunday dinner…”
I took the call in my upstairs office.
“I was just about to call you,” I said. “What’s this about dinner?”
“Time for another meal of crow,” he replied, deep voice rumbling like his GTO engine.
Great. “You’re talking about Billy Li’s fingerprints, right?”
“Yeah, Cosi. Sorry to break the bad news, but the prints you sent over don’t match any of the prints we found in the van. And don’t bother trying for Kaylie’s, or anyone else on her crew, because my guys checked them out and none of them were involved in Lilly’s assault.”
“And you know this how?”
“Two Sunday mornings ago, Kaylie, her truck, and her entire crew boarded the ferry to Governors Island where they spent the day selling cupcakes to the spectators at the Five Boroughs Little League Soccer Playoffs.”
“I don’t understand. Why is Kaylie free and clear because of somewhere she was two weeks ago?”
“The van that struck Lilly was involved in another hit-and-run after Kaylie and her staff boarded that ferry to Governors Island. Her boyfriend, Jeffrey Li, along with his truck and staff, were on the same ferry. Now it’s possible a stolen van used in one hit-and-run was abandoned by the perp and later stolen by a second perp for a subsequent attack, but we very much doubt it.”
I did, too, and the news could not have been worse.
From the start I’d been convinced that Kaylie or her coworker Billy Li was responsible for Lilly’s injuries. Now that Buckman proved me wrong, I had no clues, no motive, no suspects—and about a million questions, none of which this motor head detective was willing to answer.
“I’ll talk to you again soon. Take care.”
* * *
AFTER ending the call, I descended the stairs now happy that John Fairway and Warrior Barbie were in my coffeehouse.
This is good timing, I thought. I can press them about what they know on this other hit-and-run.
But when I reached the main floor, their table was empty. Fairway and Barbie were gone.
With an exhale of frustration, I returned to work behind the counter, where Dante, Tuck, and Nancy were now gathered in a knot.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
Tuck grinned. “Our little boy is all growed up.”
A burst of feminine laughter floated through the air. Tucker pointed, and I searched the crowded floor to find Franco chatting up those single ladies who’d admired him earlier. My undercover barista appeared relaxed, natural, friendly, and personable—in short, a perfect example of the boyfriend experience.
“Amazing…” I turned to Dante. “How did you do it?”
He shrugged. “I told him flirting with women was no different than pouring them coffee. Too hot, you’ll burn them. Too cold, they’ll dump you. But serve it up with just the right balance of warmth and stimulation and, brother, they’ll be back for more.”
I patted Dante’s shoulder, happy he’d steered Franco in the right direction. At the same time, I couldn’t help wondering about Max Buckman’s.
What lead is he following? What does he know?
I had some educated guesses about the identity of that other hit-and-run victim, but I’d have to wait for the detective to contact me again before I could be sure.
I sighed, giving it up—for now.
With Franco squared away, Quinn preparing for a drug sting, and Mad Max hot on the trail of our killer driver, it was time I refocused my energies on the coffee business.
FORTY
AS the week progressed, Mike Quinn continually reminded me to keep things looking normal. I did my level best—although it was hard to relax into routine when your next customer might be a Brazilian drug runner.
Still, Monday and Tuesday went without a hitch: no shots fired, no DEA raids, nobody run over. I did, however, face one daunting challenge, and it had nothing to do with the workplace or the crime wave.
My biggest problem was domestic.
Quinn and Matt continued to squabble over just about everything from bathroom time, to second helpings at dinner, to the last slice of my special “Melt-and-Mix” Double-Chocolate Espresso-Glazed Loaf Cake. (Really, I would have melted and mixed two if I’d known they were going to eat the entire thing in one day.)
Then came Wednesday, and for the first time since our truck-painting party I was out in public—the middle of Flushing Meadows Park to be precise—where criminal smugglers could chat me up at any moment.
As scheduled, I’d come to Queens with our Muffin Muse to participate in the Dragon Boat Festival, aka Duanwu Jie, a yearly event held in China and in Chinese communities around the world. New York’s was typically held in August, but today’s late spring event was an exhibition for visiting diplomats and was very well attended.
Cheers and drumbeats now echoed across the park’s Meadow Lake, where dragon-prowed rowboats shot across the water. Along the shore, spectators watched from a forest of colorful tents with fluttering banners emblazoned with team logos.
At sunset, Chinese lanterns would be lit for martial arts demonstrations, live music, and Esther’s kids reading Chinese poetry—capped by a fireworks display at nine.
Our Muffin Muse truck now sat in a grassy field next to the lake, alongside a half circle of food trucks featuring a United Nations of taste: Korean barbecue, Mexican tacos, Salvadoran papusas, and Asian shaved ice. I’d already snagged a half dozen of their frozen yogurt bites with exotic flavors like mango, green tea, and lychee.
Unfortunately, Kaylie’s Kupcake Kart was also here, just twenty feet away from us, and the Kween had been glaring at me for the past two hours.
After that snarky tweet on Sunday, even more appeared on Twitter under the hashtag #DragonBoat, and I was convinced Kaylie had another prank up her buttercream-stained sleeves—specifically for this event—which is why I’d enlisted Franco to help me end her sugarcoated reign of terror once and for all.
“Anything suspicious?” I asked.
Franco grunted. “Not yet, but I’m pretty sure Billy Li recognized me from the day I snagged his prints. Perps are like elephants. Chat up their tats and they never forget.”
“Maybe Billy will have second thoughts about trying something, now that he knows we’re watching.”
“I doubt it,” Franco replied. “Not with that blonde in the paper crown giving you the fish-eye. By the way, if she sends over cupcakes, I would advise you not to eat them.”
“Kaylie would love to poison me. In her mind, this is some kind of turf war. But there’s plenty of business to go around. It doesn’t have to be this way.”
Franco shrugged. “Then convince Kaylie. That’s how I did things when I was working anti-gang. We couldn’t lock up all the gangbangers. Sometimes I had to negotiate.”
I smiled, patting him on his big shoulder. “Now you’re sounding like a member of the family…” Madame’s family, for sure.
Nancy Kelly’s angry cry interrupted us. “Holy smokin’ rockets! Dante’s talking to another girl.”
My youngest barista’s mad crush on Dante was ongoing—though, by now, we’d discouraged her from pursuing a workplace romance. She tossed her head, clearly miffed.
“That’s the fifth girl in an hour to hit on him.”
Dante, who’d been placing muffin- and coffee-cup-shaped balloons around our truck, had been garnering attention, but I didn’t think he was the attraction.
“It’s not Dante this time, Nancy. Those girls were asking him about the hand-painted balloons that Josh Fowler created. I’ve had a dozen people ask me how much they cost. I’m thinking we should sell them.”
“Well, that chick is only pretending to look at the balloon
s,” Nancy insisted. “I can tell. It’s a sneaky excuse to press Dante’s flesh.”
Franco folded his arms. “You know, Nance, there’s more than one sexy bald guy aboard this truck.”
“Oh, please.” She rolled her eyes. “Everyone knows you’re taken. You’re so into Joy it’s scary.” Then her scowl melted into a dreamy smile. “But it is soooo romantic, though…”
Another batch of customers arrived, many of them directly from the office, and boy did they crave caffeine. They nearly cleaned us out of Blueberry Pie Bars, too. The Asian-American crowd seemed more impressed with Lilly’s Forbidden Chocolate Muffins and Black Bean Brownies.
During a lull, an older man appeared at our window, his wrinkled face animated with good cheer.
“Map lady! Good to see you again!”
“Mr. Hon! I see you’re not driving your cab tonight.”
“And you’re not chasing dragon trucks!” Mr. Hon laughed.
“No truck chasing,” I said. “But I’ll tell you a secret. I am still chasing the boy with the dragon tattoo. See, he’s over there in the cupcake truck, and I’m sure he’s up to no good.”
Mr. Hon frowned, shook his head. “When boy is headed for trouble, he need to be put on right path. Right path important. Like this festival today. Duanwu Jie, all about staying on right path.”
“Do you know anyone competing in the dragon boat races, today?”
“Yes, yes…” Hon nodded. “Two cousins, three nieces, one nephew. We all meet later, watch fireworks and eat zongzi.” He smiled.
I didn’t want Mr. Hon to leave empty-handed, so I poured him a free coffee and gifted him one of Lilly’s special Black Bean Brownies. Munching happily, he sauntered off.
“Hey, boss, look who’s here,” Dante called. “Mother of the year—that’s what Josh calls her.”
He gestured to a knot of formally dressed men making their way toward our food-truck area. These were the visiting dignitaries from China, I realized, and plenty of local politicians were gathered around them for photo ops. But Dante was pointing out the only woman among them—Helen Bailey-Burke.
I had no desire to see Mrs. Bailey-Burke again, not after she so coldly rejected Esther’s grant proposal and then publicly slapped gentle doctor Gwen Fischer. I had no love for her sidekick, either, sorority sister Tanya Harmon.
But where was Tanya (and her naughty hand)? Not here. Not today. It appeared Helen had now attached herself to a new politician, handsome African-American state assemblyman Wilson Seacliffe.
A former college tennis star turned history professor, Seacliffe was also a mayor wannabe. Like Dominic Chin and Tanya Harmon, he’d just announced his bid to live in Gracie Mansion.
As the VIPs drew closer, I confirmed my passing observations about Helen. She wasn’t just infatuated with Seacliffe. She was wearing his campaign button.
Looks like the sorority sisters had a falling out. But why did Helen dump Tanya? And why now? My next thought was spoken out loud. “I wonder what happened…”
“Yeah, me too,” Franco growled suspiciously.
“Are you reading my mind?”
“Only if you’re thinking about Billy Li, because he’s missing.”
“What?”
“He disappeared inside the truck while you were talking to that little old man, and I haven’t seen him since. I think maybe Billy slipped out the back.”
I scanned the area. “This is bad, Franco. I know he’s up to something. We can’t lose sight of—”
“There he is!” Franco cried. “He ducked inside the tent with the dragon logo.”
I blinked. “They all have dragon logos!”
“The black tent—”
The first bang was loud enough to shock the birds out of the trees, scary enough to cause panic—especially after a bobbing muffin balloon popped right beside my head. People ducked, many hugged the grass. But I didn’t panic, and in fact I’d lied when I told Mike if shots rang out I’d duck, because when Franco jumped through the service window to chase down Billy, I was right behind him.
I landed in the grass and started running just as the second blast echoed across Meadow Lake. No balloons exploded this time, because Billy Li’s plan had been interrupted.
Fleeing a determined Franco, the boy with the dragon tattoo burst out of the tent, clutching what looked like a long tube. Legs pumping, he raced toward the parking lot, knocking people out of the way.
Billy was fast, and he had a great head start. With so much distance to cover, there appeared to be no way Franco could catch him. I despaired—until a familiar figure stepped into the Billy’s path. Mr. Hon!
The elderly taxi driver didn’t have a chance. Billy was about to slam right into him. “Out of the way, old maahhh—”
Billy’s shout transformed into a howl as the “old man” upended him with two swift, expertly executed martial arts moves. The boy’s legs danced in the air before he landed on his back in the grass.
Oof!
By the time Franco and I reached them, the wind had been knocked out of Billy, and Hon kept him pinned to the ground with his foot.
“You looking for this boy, Map Lady?”
“Where did you learn that stuff, pops?” Franco asked.
“Shaolin kung fu,” Mr. Hon replied. “Long time now. Black belt.”
“But you’re such a little guy—”
“Little guy, big guy.” He shrugged. “Size not matter. Victor knows how to turn enemy’s strength against him.”
Franco scooped up Billy’s plastic tube and examined it. “Looks like a homemade super slingshot. Pretty cool. And what’s this?” Franco yanked a plastic bag out of Billy’s belt pack. I expected drugs, but I was wrong.
“It’s ice.”
I couldn’t believe it. “Little icicles…”
“Clever,” Franco said with a fellow bad-boy smile. “Pop a balloon with an ice spike and a sling shot. Add some bang, bang noise and distracted crowds think shots were fired. Cops come and there are no bullets or pellets because by then the evidence melted.”
I stood over Billy Li until his gaze met mine. “Kaylie put you up to this, didn’t she? You pulled this same stunt at our party?”
He nodded twice.
“Where did the sound effects come from?”
“Speakers,” Billy gasped, “inside the tent.”
I glanced at Franco, who gripped his phone, ready to summon the park police and have Billy carted off to Rikers. But I met his eyes, shook my head. I shifted my gaze to Mr. Hon, who removed his foot from Billy’s chest, waiting for me to state my piece.
As the boy sat up, moaning, I cleared my throat.
Okay. Here goes…
“Listen up now, Billy. I know all about the black market knockoff business you’re involved in—and I could turn you over to this nice police detective right now. Or… you, me, and Kaylie could work something out today. Something that will put an end to our stupid turf war for good. What do you say?”
Billy glanced at Franco, then at Mr. Hon. Finally, he rubbed the back of his neck, shook his head and shrugged.
“Okay, Coffee Lady. Talk.”
FORTY-ONE
I was feeling pretty good the next day. It’s not often you get to make offers that can’t be refused—but Billy Li and Kaylie Crimini accepted my “egg-tart truce,” and our turf war was over for good.
I would sell Mrs. Li’s delicious egg custard tarts and, with Madame’s help, find her many more vendors uptown, as long as Billy agreed to abandon his part in the knockoff-designer-handbag business and make extra money delivering his grandmother’s pastries instead.
We also agreed that Kaylie would (literally) steer her truck clear of the Village Blend if I would start selling a few of her most popular cupcakes. (Franco convinced me Maple Bacon had to be one of them.)
In return, Kaylie agreed to drop her current coffee supplier and sell mine, after a few lessons on how to properly prepare and serve it. (Freshly brewed, thank you very much.)
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One problem solved. A few more to go, and at least one of them involved coffee—Matt’s coffee.
Our Muffin Muse was scheduled to join a select group of food trucks the following evening to help cater an elaborate Central Park wedding. The bride and groom were longtime Village Blend customers, and earlier in the week I had served them a sample of a very special coffee that I called Ambrosia.
This was, of course, Matt’s special Brazilian “crack” coffee, and I asked if they’d like to share this superb find with their wedding guests. They flipped for it, readily agreeing to pay the exorbitant price. (They were loaded, natch.) This development landed me in the basement roasting room for much of Thursday.
