by Cleo Coyle
He patted my hand. “Honey, I don’t blame you. Frankly, if the producer was an exploitation ham like William Castle, he’d probably use Carol Lynn’s viral video for publicity.” Tuck sighed. “But instead he’s going to help defend Carol Lynn. He feels very bad about what happened with the gun—”
“Gun?”
“The weapon she loaded with blanks—”
“Oh, now I see. Carol Lynn took the gun from your set.”
Tuck lowered his voice. “The gunsmith left the set early with the weapon unsecured, which is a big no-no. Carol Lynn ‘borrowed’ it, and you know the rest.” Tuck’s shoulders sagged again. “I’m so sorry, Clare.”
“But you’re not responsible. Not for any of this.”
“You don’t understand. Carol Lynn started using Cinder on my advice. She’s such a shy person, very private. She had little experience with the opposite sex, but she confided that she was lonely. With daydreams of romantic dinners and strolls through Washington Square Park, she asked me and Punch if we knew any nice guys around her age. The only straight young men we knew were already in relationships, so I advised her to use Cinder—I thought it would be totally safe for her. Its users are supposed to be screened for legitimacy. No make-believe profiles. And she would be in control of making first contact; no unwanted pervy messages, like women get with other apps. I was also the one who told her to meet her dates here at the Village Blend. I convinced her it would all go fabulously!”
He seized the demitasse and drained it in one gulp. Finally, his eyes met mine. “So you see? What happened here the other night is completely my fault.”
“You’re wrong, Tuck, you only tried to help her. If anyone’s to blame, it’s Richard Crest. Did Carol Lynn tell you about him?”
“Are you kidding? She poured her heart out to me after he shredded it.”
“Didn’t she check him out first?”
“She did. His social media looked legit, and in line with how he described himself. And the ‘Cinder Chat’ forum comments had entries for Crest that were totally complimentary—‘He’s a real gentleman.’ ‘What a nice guy . . .’ When I heard that baloney, I told Carol Lynn to put up her own comment, tell the truth to prevent Crest from hurting another unsuspecting Cinder-ella. And report him to the app administrators for abuse!”
“Did she?”
“I read what she wrote before she tried to post it. Carol Lynn was articulate and detailed. But the comment never posted. First, an auto-reply claimed it was ‘awaiting moderation.’ Then her comment was deleted, without any message explaining why. The administrators ignored her abuse report, too. They just allowed Crest to keep on swiping.”
I was outraged. How could they do that?! Before I could say as much, Tuck dropped a bombshell on my head.
“I’ve made up my mind, Clare. Because of my actions, I hurt a friend and this wonderful coffeehouse. I let Madame down and especially you. That’s why I’m resigning. Today. Without a two-week notice. You can keep my final paycheck, too. I don’t deserve it.”
“Tuck, no! You can’t do this. We need you—”
“You don’t. Look around! I did this.” He shook his head and stepped off the stool. “I know you’d never fire me. You’d keep me here, paying my salary while your coffeehouse died. But I am not going to put you through that—”
Tears in his eyes, he bolted. Before I could get around the counter and across the shop, he was opening and closing the front door.
“Good-bye, Clare!”
Undeterred, I hurried forward. If I had to chase Tucker all the way to Hell’s Kitchen and drag him back by his floppy hair, I would!
Pulling open the door, I was ready to go when a wall of humanity hit me. In a tidal wave of pastel tees and skinny jeans, the female swarm crowded my entrance and flowed in, carrying me along with it!
Thirty-one
AS my shop’s welcome bell jangled relentlessly, the army of women surged through my coffeehouse door.
My solitary male customer wanted no part of it. Faster than you could say “suffragette,” Red Beard fled the female incursion, an expression of mortal terror on his furry face.
My only other customer, the twenty-something brunette in the pleated skirt and pastel tee, stood up. Instead of fleeing, she opened her luggage to reveal the guts of a technical device. Then she hurried to join the swarming pack.
That’s when I realized the brunette’s T-shirt displayed the same graphic emblazoned on all the others. No words, just hearts on fire—the same icon as the Cinder app!
“What is this?!”
“Hold still!” the brunette in the pleated skirt commanded, and aimed some kind of advanced digital camera at my face.
I tried to move away, but the group wouldn’t have it. Like tigresses in booties and ballet flats, the twelve young women surrounded me—not unlike predators separating the weakest prey from its protective pack.
“Back off!” I cried, loud enough to bring Dante running from the pantry.
“Need help, boss? What’s going on?”
“I’m not sure yet.”
Dante rolled his shirtsleeves up his strong, tattooed forearms and leaned against the counter, wary eyes on the young women—who didn’t appear to mind. Wetting their glossy lips, the pretty tigresses looked over my resident fine arts painter as if he were a fresh piece of meat.
In the meantime, I looked them over. Most were well under the age of thirty. Despite a diversity of race, body type, and hair color (which ranged from curly black to light blond with pink neon streaks), they each had the same pixie haircuts, including the camera operator.
“What is going on here?” I demanded.
The answer came from a thirteenth tigress, the oldest one. Her perfect elfin features were caressed with a slick blond pixie as shiny as polished plastic. She stepped out of the throng and right past me. Flashing a brilliant smile, she gazed into the digital camera.
“Hi! I’m Sydney Webber-Rhodes, founder and CEO of Cinder!”
Her perky tone matched her cheer girl demeanor. “My Tinkerbells and I are here in New York City, at the legendary Village Blend coffeehouse, to get to The Heart of the Story—”
“You can’t film here!” I told her.
Sydney’s megawatt grin switched off like stadium lights. As her elfin face went dark, her cherry lips pouted, and she thrust her left pinkie finger into the air.
For a second, I thought she was flipping me off in a hip new way, until I spied a tiny microdot set in the middle of her glossy crimson fingernail. The instant she raised her digit, the camera stopped.
“Stand by, AJ,” she told the photographer, who nodded her brunette pixie with grave obedience. Then Sydney turned back to me.
“We’re not filming, Ms. Cosi. We’re time-delay streaming to all users of my Cinder app. But since you’ve put the delay in time-delay, it would help if you stepped over here. I just realized how much better the light is near the window . . .”
She curled a too-familiar hand around my wrist and leaned close, her hazel-bronze tiger eyes staring me down in an expression as sharp as my daughter’s favorite chef’s knife.
“And one more thing: I would appreciate it if you didn’t interrupt me.”
Clearly, this woman was used to bulldozing her way through life—not to mention being in total control. She didn’t even trust her own photographer to operate the camera!
Well, unfortunately for Sydney Webber-Rhodes, I learned how to block bulldozers a long time ago. And I was pretty big on control myself, especially when it came to the Village Blend.
Her tiger eyes widened in surprise as I jerked my wrist from her grasp. “I decide what is or isn’t streamed in my coffeehouse.”
Though not much older than my daughter, she tossed back her slick blond pixie with the testiness of an exasperated parent. “Given all these empty chairs, I doubt this
place will be yours much longer.”
I met the woman’s assured stare with my own. “That was uncalled for. The Village Blend has survived two World Wars, a Great Depression, and a Great Recession or three. We’ll find a way to weather this storm, too.”
The salesgirl smile returned. “Why weather a storm when you can reap the whirlwind?”
The Tinkerbells nodded in expressive agreement. Apparently, they’d heard this snappy bit of faux Sun Tzu before.
“Why are you here, Sydney?”
“For one reason, Clare. To save your business and mine.”
Thirty-two
I folded my arms and stared with stark skepticism. Sydney didn’t flinch. Instead, she dropped her voice, along with her bulldozing bull.
“Look,” she said, “that debacle the other night did as much damage to my brand as yours. But I’ve devised a smart strategy that will save us both.”
She did sound sincere—if not entirely sane. “You’re here to save my business?”
“And mine. But we have to work together.”
“Please explain.”
“Right now, your Village Blend and my Cinder app are generating a lot of buzz—”
“Yes, bad buzz.”
“It’s bad,” Sydney agreed, glancing away. “But it’s also the kind of media exposure you can’t buy for any price. Which means we have to hack it—take control of the story and tweak it until it fits the narrative we want to tell.”
“That sounds vaguely dishonest.”
“Please.” She waved her hand. “All of advertising is vaguely dishonest.”
“I don’t know if I’m comfortable with this.”
“I respect that. But don’t you agree that the viral video and the news reports didn’t tell the whole truth?”
“Yes.”
“So why not tell everyone the whole story? Tell it our way? All you have to do is participate in this interview. You do not have to be dishonest in any way. Just follow my lead. This will benefit both of our brands. I promise.” Sydney locked eyes with mine. “We can turn this ship around if you’ll let me steer.”
My mind raced. Should I actually cooperate with these Silicon Alley Cyber-Sirens, or have Dante toss them into the street at the end of this so-called interview?
The latter option was far more appealing, but I wasn’t convinced it was the correct one. While I didn’t trust this arrogant girl-child or her streaming scheme—and frankly, her staff of Tinkerbells gave me the willies—I could see that Sydney was an ambitious woman who would employ every trick in her social network arsenal to save her own business. I also knew that she would execute her strategy with or without my consent or cooperation.
But if I’m on board her ship, I’ll at least have some control over the direction, right?
Madame once told me that getting through difficult times sometimes coupled you with bizarre bedfellows. This appeared to be one of those times. So . . .
Despite my misgivings, I mentally swiped right and accepted this Cinder match for the Village Blend, praying I wouldn’t end up ranting about this Horrible Hookup at Esther’s next poetry slam!
Turning to Dante, I asked him to serve coffee to our guests.
Sydney took my hospitality for assent, retrieved her electric smile, flashed that magic pinkie, and addressed the camera.
“As you know, The Heart of the Story is a weekly forum for sharing the experience of an Ella or Fella who’s found empowerment in taking control of their social life through our Cinder app. Well, today’s story is going to be a little different, a little disturbing. But the good news? It stars one awesome fairy godmother, and I promise there will be a happily ever after.”
Sydney laid her pale hand on my shoulder. “Most of you have seen the viral video featuring this legendary coffeehouse and this amazing woman . . .”
Accompanied by nods and gentle applause from her Tinkerbells, Sydney continued to chatter to her audience of heaven knew how many Ellas and Fellas.
Finally, she faced me and asked: “So tell us what happened here the other night.”
I briefly related the basic events to the camera. But Sydney did not look satisfied. “Surely, the story doesn’t end there!”
I blinked as the camera went for a tight focus of my face, and I’m pretty sure a deer in a pair of headlights would have looked less startled.
“You evacuated the upstairs lounge,” Sydney coaxed. “And now you’re alone with an armed individual and her victim. What did you do next? What’s the Heart of the Story?”
“Well, um, my main concern was getting my customers out of harm’s way. After that, I didn’t do much.”
“That’s not true!” Dante suddenly blurted. “She did way more than that!”
“Dante—”
“You did!”
Sydney’s expression lit up with glee. Then she twirled her magic finger and AJ, the digital photographer, spun with it. Now all eyes, including the camera’s, were focused on my artista barista.
Thirty-three
“CLARE did plenty,” Dante went on. “She talked the distraught woman into giving up her gun, so that by the time the police arrived, it was all over—without anyone getting hurt.”
“I understand the police response was quite rapid,” Sydney said.
“It was,” Dante replied, folding his tattooed arms. “The Sixth Precinct isn’t very far. A lot of the cops are regular customers.”
Sydney nodded. “So I’ve heard! Your coffeehouse must be one of the safest places for anyone to meet a Cinder date! So let’s talk about the Village Blend. Since we brought Cinder to New York City, this landmark coffeehouse has been rated as one of our most popular meeting spots. Here’s one reason why . . .”
Sydney pulled a note from the pocket of her tight jeans. “Brenda, an Ella from Park Slope, posted about a date gone wrong on our message board—we’ve all been there, right?
“Anyway, Brenda was involved in a public scene right here in the Village Blend. But before it turned ugly, she was rescued by one of the staff’s baristas. They say the baristas here have the same insight into human nature as good bartenders. And Brenda testified to that. Ms. Cosi’s barista saw how upset Brenda was and took her upstairs for complimentary coffee and tender loving care.”
Sydney tucked the note away and looked at the camera.
“That’s some Fairy Godmothering from you and your superior staff, Clare Cosi.” As Sydney spoke, a hand covered her heart. “And in case you’re wondering why this place is so famous—” The Tinkerbells all lifted the coffee Dante served them and made yummy sounds. “The house blend is amazing.”
Sydney stood beside Dante. “And so, for superb coffee, inventive lattes and pastries, a barista staff that delivers so much more than caffeine, eye candy like this dude”—she winked and AJ gave a little whistle—“but especially for a fairy godmother of a manager who would risk her own well-being to keep her customers safe, Cinder declares the Village Blend the Number One spot for Happy Hookups in all of New York City!”
Sydney and her Tinkerbells applauded and hooted. Even Dante joined in, turning on his most magnetic smile.
“I urge every Ella and Fella in the tristate area to come down to the Village Blend in New York City this weekend. It’s Cinder approved! And now you know The Heart of the Story . . .”
A twirl of her pinkie and the photographer lowered the camera and rushed to her rolling luggage, still open to reveal the portable digital streaming system, which fascinated Dante almost as much as he appeared to fascinate the photographer.
As he and AJ began to talk (okay, flirt), Sydney exhaled, sounding as relieved as I felt that the streaming event was over. Then came a loud, intrusive voice—
“Happy Hookups, huh?”
We all turned to find Esther Best coming around the counter, shaking her raven head. She’d been in the ba
sement when Sydney and her Tinkerbell posse arrived. I wasn’t certain how much of the streaming Esther witnessed, but I gave her credit for maintaining radio silence. Now that the camera was off, however—
“What about the Horrible Hookups?” she challenged. “The Dating App Disasters?”
Sydney’s tiger eyes narrowed into slits. “Who is this person?”
“This is Esther,” I said, “one of those dedicated baristas you mentioned.”
“That’s right.” Esther stood next to me. “I’m one of the people who consoles the not-good-enough ‘rejects’ on your lousy app.”
“Does she need to be here?”
“Absolutely,” I said.
Thirty-four
“YOU want the Heart of the Story, sure,” Esther challenged, “as long as they’re not the broken ones.”
“That’s not true,” Sydney replied.
“Then why do you delete negative comments in your Cinder Chat forum? And ignore abuse reports on users?”
“That’s crazy!”
“Not so crazy,” I said.
Sydney turned on me. “And what would you know about it, Clare? I thought you were engaged to be married to a rather delicious police lieutenant.”
“How do you know about my personal life?”
“I always do my research. For instance, I know your daughter is a Paris-trained chef working at your Washington, DC, location. And you’re running this coffee business with your ex-husband, a coffee broker who owns a warehouse in Red Hook, Brooklyn—full of amazing beans he sources himself. Anyway, with a fiancé like the one you have, what are you doing using my Cinder app?”
“I’m not using it. A reliable source told me that Carol Lynn Kendall filed an abuse report on Richard Crest for his appalling behavior, but your administrators allowed him to continue using your app. She tried to warn other women about him, but your Cinder Chat moderators deleted her negative comments.”
