"So do me a favor, Portia. Just for the hell of it, tomorrow drive through and buy a coffee. Tell me what you think."
"Me?"
"Yeah, you're in sales. You size up people all the time. All day, everyday."
"Sure, but I'm a converted software engineer. You really want to trust a ex-nerd, a retread?"
"Pretend you're in black ops. Come back and tell me what you think."
She let out a hoarse laugh and sent him a look that said, You're half daft. "My, my, black ops, this sounds serious."
"Lenny, the battery in my shit detector must be dead," she said when she called him on her cell from the car after her visit. "He's some Arab kid filling orders and being polite. That's all I got. Period. Whatever you saw I didn't see in my quick pass. Again, drop it. Concentrate on, well, whatever you are concentrating on. I've got a thousand sales calls this morning. Love you."
He should have let well enough alone, he really should have. But he was drawn to the barista, to the thrill of something. Retirement had left him gray. Money was not the issue. His last two years at work had been stupendous, and with a little stewardship and care, he could do pretty much what he wanted. And that was the problem. Given an infinite menu of possibilities, he couldn't choose. And now he was presented with a tasting menu. The amuse-bouche was Mystery Powder Egyptian Style. He was hooked before his first taste.
It's true, he had plenty of sounding boards—he was a regular at Ferndale's, and Snorri would be obliging. Or Florentino at Bar Antofagasta. But he wasn't in the mood for more advice. What he needed was reconnaissance, and who better than himself to gather it. He had a craving, not for drugs, but for action. The next day he was back. The line was slack and Sammy took his order inside.
"A house Grande, please."
"Will that be it this morning?"
"No, actually, I'd like the other as well." Sammy's uncomprehending look was focused by the fifty Lenny palmed him.
"Coming right up, Mr. D."
Lenny didn't see any powder go into his coffee. He sighed, maybe the barista hadn't understood. He found a stool at a high table and sipped his coffee. Nothing. Have I fucked up? Three students sat with him at the table, content on their laptops. He fidgeted. More small sips. Gradually a strange illumination came over him. He saw a sliver of moon whirling around Venus—he could almost touch them. Then two teams of cheerleaders appeared. They were playing football on the field while hulking players, stripped to the waist cart-wheeled down the sidelines. Why was everybody staring at his coffee cup? The young woman sitting across from him was about to reach over and grab it. No, this can't happen. I can't let that happen. Time to go. He picked up his coffee and tried not to stagger out the door. People kept staring, every last one of them. After what felt like hours, he managed to open the door of his Mercedes and ease himself in. He allowed it to guide him home.
He went straight to the bedroom. Didn't even leave his fleece in the hall closet. He was momentarily enlivened by the thought that he and Mrs. Babcock owned similar fleeces. He took a few large gulps and stood there smiling. Magically the baby blue duvet pulled itself over their unmade bed. He plopped down and stretched out. A story he had heard on NPR floated into his head. It was about George Maduro, a Jewish Dutch resistance hero, and an 18th century menorah that his family had just sold. Next, the menorah came bouncing in alone and began to rotate in a Chagall dreamscape. It spun like a great dreidel and dissolved into a whirling nebula out of which materialized Mrs. Babcock in her dreamy, yummy tights. Then his dream dissolved into a teardrop. It merged with her teardrop. The dream told him that the two drops were like two single cell organisms exchanging genetic information. A helpful voice informed him that they were getting it on. Then another voice asked the first why his body didn't feel alive the way it did when he made love. Because it isn't love, stupid.
Sometime later he felt seasick. The whole bed was rocking side to side. Insistent hands were on his shoulders. He opened an eye to see Portia shaking him. "Stooop."
"What happened to you, Lenny?"
He couldn't focus. Something big, he remembered, something out of this world. She looked at the half-finished coffee. "Seems you've tasted from the tree of the knowledge of good and evil."
He answered in a dull-witted monotone. "Jesus, what a headache…yeah, I had to find out for myself. Let me collect myself a second…. He's in business. He's definitely dealing. I have no idea what. It was out of this world. It was a trip. I'm back and in powerful need of ibuprofen."
She dumped the coffee down the drain and brought him the pills.
Over coffee the next morning she said, "Okay, Lenny, you've had your fun. Bring your little experiment to a close and move on. Tonight is book club, yes? Have you read what's up for discussion?"
He had no intention of going to book club or moving on. It was not about the drugs, he told himself, it was about…yeah, about…. Then he was back. "Look, no harm done. It's mostly like a party where somebody drank too much and got over it the next day. I'm good. I'll have a look for tonight."
"What's the book?"
"Well, if you really must know, it's, well, it's…right on the tip of my tongue."
"Lenny, get a grip on this or you're headed for trouble." She looked at the time on the stove clock. "Sorry, I've got a sales call I can't be late for. Got to go. Why is it I start out behind every morning?"
He spent most of the day trying to make the hours pass. He went to the gym and worked out, he read the papers, he looked up Egypt online. He killed time until he could show up at Ferndale's. When he arrived at four, Snorri was behind the bar. "How's my favorite Icelandic barkeep?"
"Glad to be in Houston at this time of year. Yessiree."
"Yessiree?"
"Just trying it out to see how it feels on my tongue, that's all. What can I get you?"
"Perrier and lime."
Snorri gave him a funny look. "How long have I known you?"
"I need a clear head. I have something to discuss. I'll cut to the chase. I need your help."
"I can see that." Then Snorri backed off. "Sorry, what's up?"
"This is going to sound weird, but something's not right at the Starbucks where I get my morning caffeine fix."
"Like what? Somebody's stealing sugar packets? Or maybe cutting in line ahead of you?"
Lenny started to say something, but Snorri cut him off. "Wait." He put two glasses on the bar, took down a bottle of Chivas Regal, and poured. He raised his glass. "Drink my friend, then talk."
"Oh, my that's good. One second," and he took another swallow. "Anyway, Scotch or not, you sound just like Portia. Please listen. Something is going on. I mean it. I'm sure the barista is dealing drugs and maybe more."
"Well, then it's settled. We don't have to worry about the butler. The barista did it."
"Stop, Snorri. Cut the crap and listen for a minute." He went through the story in detail: Mrs. Babcock and the white powder the barista had mixed into her coffee Christmas morning, the packet he had purchased and his trip to far away galaxies. "I have a sixth sense that he is doing more than dealing a little. Why? I don't know. It's just a hunch. You know how sometimes something doesn't feel right and you're not sure why?"
"Why don't you go to the police?"
"And what? Tell them there is a part time barista dealing drugs at my Starbucks? Sure I could, but that's not what this is about. I keep trying to explain to you there is more to the story, and HPD is going to have zero interest in pursuing this thoroughly. I'm not even sure they would take the word of an old dodger like me seriously. Something larger is going on."
"And me? Where does your favorite bartender fit into this? Remember we listen to people's complaints each night. We don't act on them."
"Jesus, Snorri Samuelsson, you keep bellyaching that nothing ever happens in your life. Here's a chance."
"Okay, let's just say, hypothetically, that I'm interested. But before you tell me what you want, you sure you want to do this? If you're rig
ht, it could get pretty messy."
"Yeah, I'm sure. I have no coupons to clip. I need an activity. So some background: the barista's name is Sammy, he said he was from Egypt, and he was an engineering student at FDU, maybe Chem. E. Here's a photo I got of the guy at Starbucks. Ignore the Santa hat. It's not the world's best, but it will do. Would you consider nosing around some? Sort of pretend you are interested in a masters and go by and have a look. Maybe head for the registrar's office and find out more. No, on second thought, you can't waltz in and ask for 'Sammy,' even if we knew his last name. It would raise suspicion."
They finally agreed that Snorri would show up at FDU, wander around, and have a look see. Maybe he could dig something up. "Take a few days and then maybe we can get together and talk.
"So there's one more thing." Lenny said. "I want to know what the kid is selling—the stuff that tripped me beyond the Milky Way. Do you know anybody who might be able to help? If I get more of it, the drug-spiked coffee, do you have any idea how to get the stuff analyzed on the QT? I'm afraid to try some U.S. commercial lab. I have no chain of custody, no right to possess what might be an illegal drug or a controlled substance. It's too risky. What do you think?"
Snorri paused, trying to consider whether he was really in or not. "Okay, here's what I think. You remember last summer when I went to Reykjavik for a while—I was there to burnish my Icelandic bartender routine and shed Dale Samuelson. Well, I hung out a lot and met all kinds of people. Without telling you more than you want to know, I met some guys with what I will call 'connections in Europe.' This is well within their reach. So if you mean it, get me a sample and we'll see what they come up with."
"The other way in is Mrs. Babcock," Lenny said. "I can hang out at Starbucks until she comes in again and pick her up. You know, engage her in friendly chitchat and see what I can get out of her."
"You're dreaming. No housewife who is using is going to come clean. She's hooked. She doesn't want to be outed. She'll be tight as a clam. She'll give you nothing. But…"
"What?"
"So, you're spoken for, Lenny. You and Portia are tight. But I'm between girlfriends, and if she's looking for a fling, I could be pressed into service. Under cover or under the covers as the case may be."
"First things first. Let's keep it simple. I'll get you a sample to send your guys, and you do a little spadework at FDU. Then let's see where we are."
3.
The next morning he saw Portia off and headed for the drive-through to order. His face fell when a kid who looked like he belonged in junior high asked him what he wanted. Disappointed, he ordered. "Say, where's Sammy?" Bummer, Sammy had the day off.
At once Lenny was at sixes and sevens. He had laid out his day with care, and now before he could launch his plan, the balloon had all but deflated. He headed back to the house to regroup. Of Lenny's many virtues, patience was not one. But what could he do? His attack plan had two prongs: Snorri was hard at work, or Lenny supposed he was, and his own initiative was stymied. No Sammy, no plan.
While he waited out his discouraging circumstance, he thought he might distract himself by reading—maybe something from his nightstand. No way, what was this? A recent translation of Swann's Way had made it to the top of his stack. Portia could surprise. She must have put it there. What message could she have in mind? It made no sense. What was he to make of Proust anyway? The man, who once fancied himself captain of the king's Musketeers, opened the book to a random page and read: The path that separated him from her was one he inevitably traveled as though it were the slope itself…. Lenny could not grasp how dipping into this lavish prose was going to help him find an Egyptian barista who was dealing to Mrs. Babcock and might be, what? sinister, maybe even an operative.
He rejected Proust for the wisdom of CNN, but after a few minutes of rocket fire from Syria or was it Afghanistan or Iraq? an earthquake in was it Chile or Italy? and gaunt, loping runway models in was it Milan or Paris? he gave up and clicked the remote.
Now on autopilot, he put on a fleece and set out on foot. Destination unknown. What guided him along a mile or two of neighborhood streets—now devoid of schoolchildren and working adults—to the long, gray wooden facade of the Menil Museum is unknown. But there he was, and he warmed to its possibilities. It had been a while, but he remembered liking the little museum and its quirky paintings. When he read the sign at the door, his faced clouded with disappointment. Not open until eleven. He found a nearby coffee shop and waited it out.
Once inside the museum he remembered why he liked it so much. Their surrealist collection spoke to him in a way he could not explain. In another mood, he might have passed the paintings by—like his rejection of Proust—but with the memory still fresh in his mind of how Sammy's white powder had sent him well beyond Earth orbit, he was more than receptive.
He was eager to reengage with some of the Menil's boarders. Now the Max Ernsts and the De Chiricos seemed familiar, not exactly old friends—that implied too much knowledge and intimacy—but certainly acquaintances. Magritte reached out and welcomed him. Fellow traveler in the land of the absurd, go forth and remember your other friends—the expansive visions of Piero della Francesca and Hieronymus Bosch. Against all logic, he spent an hour in their den and emerged more certain than ever that the pursuit of Sammy would open new worlds to him. He was right in this judgment, but they were not the worlds he expected.
The next day Sammy was back, and Lenny showed up and ordered a "Grande works." "Coming right up, Mr. D." He whispered that they could settle up latter.
Coffee in hand, he went home and took the smallest of tastes. Nothing. He waited. Nothing. He kept sipping until an angel appeared in a fireman's hat and slid down a pole and into his dream. He recapped the cup and slept it off. That afternoon he drove out to deliver the sample to Snorri.
"You got it, Lenny. I'll send it off tomorrow morning to my contacts with the message to work on it pronto."
The next afternoon he went by the Starbucks again. "Sammy, when's your break? I'd like to settle up." An hour later they huddled outside near Lenny's Mercedes. He paid Sammy for yesterday's hit. "I'm curious. You seem too, well, intelligent to be a barista. What do you do, or maybe a better way to put it is, what are your plans?"
"Yeah, so I'm working on a masters in chemical engineering at FDU. I did my undergraduate in my country. Egypt, I told you, right? So how about you, Mr. D.? You're way young to be here mid-afternoon with time to kill."
Lenny allowed himself to be diverted. If you don't give a little, you don't get. "Not very interesting, I'm afraid. I used to trade securities. I did really well and made a lot of money. One day about a year ago I said to myself I don't want to be doing this for the rest of my life, and just like that I quit. Went cold turkey. Which reminds me, before I forget, I like your additions. They make the coffee terrific."
The barista frowned, covered his mouth, and whispered that they should never refer, no matter how obliquely, to this subject out in the open. They have video surveillance and "Some of those guys can read lips like you wouldn't believe." And still covering his mouth, "No more payments in the parking lot. We can work out a plan."
"So, Sammy, I don't even know your last name, not that it matters."
"Sammy is good enough. Everybody here calls me Sammy A., like my badge. At home, I'm still Sammy, period."
Lenny didn't press the point. At this stage he couldn't afford to be found out. "I've never been to Egypt. Where in Egypt did you grow up, Cairo?"
"No, Alexandria, the city no one ever thinks of. It's right on the Mediterranean. My father and brothers import chemicals. That's why the degree. And being here helps with the English, which their business needs. When I finish, I'm joining them. Someday you should visit."
"Maybe. I've never been to North Africa unless Sicily counts."
Sammy laughed and said no, it didn't, and excused himself. He had to get back to work.
Later as Lenny thought back on the conversation, it didn't sit
well. What was he hiding? Why no last name? Surely in a country the size of Egypt or even a city of several million, Lenny guessed, he couldn't be only "Sammy." Primarily what bothered Lenny about Sammy was his poise. He was too polished, too ready with an answer. His style was too casual, too colloquial for an Egyptian graduate student. He was sure that there was more to Sammy than recreational drugs. He was hungry to find out more.
He called Snorri from the car. "Hey, super spook, a little info to help you in your quest. The barista goes to FDU for sure and is getting a masters in Chem. E. So that should help. The bad news is that I couldn't get a last name, but how many Sammys from Alexandria, Egypt are in the Chem. E. program? Or maybe Sami or even Samuel if he anglicized it. Oh, I almost forgot. His Starbucks badge says 'Sammy A.' This should be a piece of cake. What about you?"
"Well, we are on our way. I sent the material to my friends who have some friends. As soon as I know something, I'll let you know. Ditto on the FDU deal. One more thing. I can do the in-person stuff on campus, but on a scale of 1 to 10 my hacking skills are a -2. So if this goes forward, we're going to have to find some help."
"For now, I'd like to keep this below the radar. Let's see what we can do on our own."
Lenny's going a little crazy. He's wound tight with all the possibilities whirling around in his head like a bunch of swarming electrons mobbing the nucleus of his dense little self. "Not enough data," he says out loud to nobody. "There's no way to figure the odds, assess probability."
Often when Lenny feels at loose ends, stuck with a problem he cannot solve, his default relaxation is target shooting—an interest he developed a few years ago at winter circus camp. Today seems like the perfect day: he needs to unwind and decides to go to a nearby range where he's been getting instruction and practice. He calls ahead to see if Paul Stoltz, his favorite instructor, can work with him.
The Nano-Thief: A Lenny D. Novel (Lenny. D. Novels Book 1) Page 2
