Shot in the Dark

by Cleo Coyle

  Esther rolled her eyes. “You’re a hit, Baldini.”

  Going with the flow, Dante mugged a Mr. Universe pose, and more women (and even a few men) whistled at his tattooed flexing.

  “So join us up here,” Esther urged the audience, “if you’re shot down some night, for live music, karaoke, or slam poetry lite. If you’re not a poet, no worries, just share your woes in standard prose—and smile ’cause we’re streaming to the digi-globe!” She pointed to Nancy, down in front, who waved at the crowd from behind a camera. “For those doing free verse, you can make it terse—or take the full three minutes before you quit it. And now . . . let’s hit it!”

  As more folks packed into the standing-room-only lounge, mobile phone cameras came out, and our amateur poets lined up near the stage. There were women and men, some in their twenties, a few in their thirties, customers we saw every day—a bank teller, a paramedic, an accountant, an office manager, a waitress, a programmer, a nanny, and a graphic designer, all waiting their turns to rap out their dating disasters. Finally the first poet, a young woman, approached the mic . . .

  Un-Related

  I matched an older dude, but he was still hot.

  We met at a bar and he smiled a lot.

  He said, “You look like her,” and I asked, “Who?”

  “Your cousin. We were married in 2002.”

  They’d split by now and weren’t even speaking.

  Too young to remember, I couldn’t stop freaking!

  “You want me, I know,” he said with a wink.

  I covered his head with my two-for-one drink.

  Class Mate

  I was sixteen at the time (six years in my past)

  when a girl friended me and began to chat.

  She was cute and funny and I thought she was cool.

  She said she went to a nearby high school.

  But nobody knew her, and I couldn’t see

  why she never FaceTimed or wanted to meet.

  When I got her number, I ran a check.

  Reverse directory made me a wreck.

  She wasn’t a scam-bot or dark-web creature,

  the “girl” of my dreams was my history teacher!

  The Wrong Divorcée

  ForeverLoveWithYou.com matched my ex-wife with me,

  five years after our divorce.

  Clueless

  Slamming shots of tequila, she started to cry

  about her ex-boyfriend and how she lost a “great guy!”

  With tears streaming down, I thought she might drown,

  and I’d feel like a skunk, if I left her half-drunk.

  So I listened for hours about her lost man.

  Then I poured her ass into an Uber van.

  Next day, she texts “thanks” for my “hospitality.”

  Wants a second date! Are you kidding me?!

  Hazardous Hookup

  Greatest date ever! (I thought.)

  We talked and laughed and went back to his squat.

  Made love and passed out. Then I had to pee.

  Swung in the wrong room—and what did I see?

  Guns and ammo and Semtex galore.

  I even saw bulletproof vests on the floor!

  I hurried home and called the cops.

  Then got drunk on peppermint schnapps.

  Three months later, I get a text from his brother.

  “My bro is in prison for one reason or other.

  He’d like to see you. Here’s the lockup’s process . . .”

  I changed my phone number and blocked his address!”

  Sliced

  “Let’s meet for pizza,” she said, once we matched.

  They say to meet quickly, and she was a catch.

  So I bought the pie. We shared it and talked.

  I worked hard to be charming, didn’t think I’d get blocked

  when I asked for her number. But she said, “Naw, I’m good.

  Just wanted free pizza. See you in the hood!”

  Catfished

  “I can’t decide what’s more beautiful.

  Your name or that smile.”

  He was so romantic. Had class and style.

  It was three years ago, when I was eighteen.

  I matched with him, and he spoke like a dream.

  Said he was twenty, and looked it, too—

  in the photos he used on social media views.

  After weeks of messaging, we declared our love.

  I wanted to meet, sure we’d fit like a glove.

  He proposed that we kiss and take a long drive.

  That’s when I found out—he was fifty-five.

  Empty

  I swipe and type and fly like a kite

  when he picks me from the dating app tree.

  But my photo is shopped, and my texts are all copped

  from a clever blog I know.

  So who is he picking? And who am I kidding?

  Welcome to the robot show.

  Hi, wassup? Hi, wassup? A thousand times a day.

  One likes my smile; another, my wit,

  but it’s all a big pile of—

  The poet tipped her mic to the audience, who called out the missing word.

  Fingers and thumbs, tapping and rapping

  Feels like a party (where no one came)

  So many guys. But after some time,

  these dates all sound—

  “The same!” cried the room.

  This wireless connection is pretend affection.

  The screen is a mirror, but I need its—

  “Reflection!” the people shouted.

  So it’s back to the swiping, the selfies and liking,

  back to the love less real.

  Hold the phone, there’s another entry!

  The poet paused to uplift her phone like a holy grail. Then she brought it down, her voice going quiet . . .

  My hands are full,

  but my arms are empty.

  The crowd had been warmly applauding every poet brave enough to approach the mic. But this last one must have hit a chord with the app users, because she got the biggest hand of all. Some women even stood up to applaud her.

  As the next poem began, I noticed Sydney had heard enough.

  With a snap of her fingers, she summoned her Tinkerbell posse and headed for the stairs.

  I did, too, the back stairs.

  Muscles still aching from that ridiculous Critter Crawl, I forced my feet to take two steps at a time. Then I burst out the back alley door and raced around the corner—just in time to catch Sydney Webber-Rhodes storming out our front door.

  Sixty-seven

  “YOU ruined everything, Clare. This is a total disaster.”

  “No, it isn’t. The crowd is enjoying the show. And did you notice, after the poets came off the stage, people were eager to speak with them, wanting to share their own bad experiences—”

  “Bad experiences?! Are you an idiot? My app delivers happy endings! That’s the narrative. That’s the message!”

  “I know that’s what you’re trying to sell, but there’s a bigger picture here to consider. Just listen a minute—”

  “I’m leaving.”

  I blocked her path on the sidewalk. “Please, one minute?”

  She folded her arms and gave me a look that felt like it plunged six inches into my chest. I sucked in air and plowed forward.

  “Believe it or not, we all want the same things. Even Esther—”

  Sydney scoffed, but I kept talking.

  “Tonight we officially launched our second floor as the ‘Shot Down Lounge’ for my customers and yours. When their swipe-to-meet dates don’t work out downstairs, they can move upstairs, into a community of people who are looking to find connections—and an
other chance at those ‘happy endings’ you claim to want so badly for your app’s users. Esther and I already talked it over. We’ll have live music, karaoke, and fun icebreakers for customers, like the open mic poetry slams—”

  “More poetry? Like those awful ones tonight, you mean?”

  “They weren’t awful. I thought they were truthful and human—and remarkably brave. Don’t you see? Esther’s idea to dedicate the lounge is a kind of ubuntu, a gesture for the community. It’s the best of both worlds, digital and physical, maybe even a chance for the worst app addicts to regain some self-worth, instead of desperately seeking it through swiping. Wait, don’t go!”

  But she was already gone, her Tinkerbells trailing after her.

  When I spied AJ’s brunette pixie in the exiting group, I impulsively hooked the girl’s arm. “Hold on, AJ. I want to ask you something. It’s important.”

  With worried eyes, she nodded, and I lowered my voice. “When Sydney saw those sketches in our pantry, she had an extreme reaction. How does she know that Richard Crest character?”

  AJ’s body tensed. “He’s someone from her past,” she whispered. “That’s all I know.”

  I tried asking about Haley, but she broke away. Then she was gone, too. I considered chasing after her—as embarrassing as that would have been—but my way was suddenly blocked by a skinny, freckle-faced youth wearing a backward baseball cap and enough faux gold chains to open a hip-hop jewelry emporium.

  “Yo, lady! I’m here for a hookup. A hottie named Kara wants to bump fuzzies with me. If you’d just point her out, I can induce the magic.”

  “Kara?” I looked him over. This freckle-faced teen was definitely not Crest. “Sorry, Kara is, uh . . . underage, and her father’s in there lecturing her. I wouldn’t tempt fate. The man’s got a temper, and I think he’s packing.”

  “Damn!” The kid couldn’t flee fast enough. “Peace out, lady!”

  Sixty-eight

  AS the wannabe gangsta departed, I sat down heavily at an outdoor table and massaged my temples.

  So far tonight I’d scored a big fat zero. The Cinder bash was a bust, as far as the company’s CEO was concerned. And our Barista APB had come up empty. I’d like to say the night was young, but it was already past eleven PM, and there was nary a sign of Richard Crest.

  At least Esther’s poetry slam was a hit with the customers. Everyone seemed to enjoy it—well, everyone but the Tinkerbells.

  Was the Shot Down Lounge a naïve idea? Sydney’s extreme negative reaction (or maybe just my aching Critter Crawl muscles) put a pin in my optimistic bubble.

  With two hours left until closing, there wasn’t much more that could upset me, or so I thought—until I sat back in the café chair and caught sight of a familiar-looking red SUV parked across the street. It was the color of a young cabernet. I might have doubted it was the same vehicle that almost ran me down, if I hadn’t seen the mud splattered on its grill and wheel wells.

  I hurried into the coffeehouse to track down Matt. He’d promised to deal with Red Beard the next time he had the chance. And that time may have come.

  I found Joy, but to my surprise, there was no sign of my ex.

  “Where’s your father?”

  “He had to go, Mom. His date—Marilyn something—got a headache so he walked her home.”

  “I can’t believe he left you alone.”

  Joy shrugged. “I think Daddy is finally acknowledging that I’m an adult and perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”

  As she moved to bus another table, Dante followed close behind.

  “Don’t worry, boss,” he whispered. “Matt ordered me to keep a close watch on her—something about birds on a hippo?”

  I suppressed a laugh. Yeah, that was Matt. “Have you seen any sign of Crest?”

  “No. And no one’s hit on Joy since I started looking after her. The Barista APB looks like a bust. I think the dude slipped our dragnet . . .”

  Dante’s words stayed with me for the rest of the evening. I kept watching for Crest, and Red Beard, too, but didn’t see either.

  Near closing time, we got busy again—a last call for coffee brought a surge to the counter, our supplies ran low, and our pastries ran out. Finally, we closed the doors.

  I sent Joy upstairs. She’d been on the go since the crack of dawn and didn’t argue. I told Dante and Nancy to take off, as well. Tucker agreed to handle closing duties with me, and Esther insisted on helping, claiming she was too keyed up from the slam to go home.

  So, while Tuck policed the lounge and Esther cleaned the kitchen area and loaded the dishwasher, I headed outside with a broom, a dustpan, and a wheeled trash can.

  The night was cold, and getting colder now that the outdoor heaters were turned off. Traffic was light on Hudson, and pedestrians were scarce.

  As I began to sweep, I saw that Red Beard’s SUV was (thankfully) gone. That’s when I noticed a man passed out at the farthest table.

  No big deal. I’d seen this sort of thing before, usually in the late spring or summer. Some college kid or bridge-and-tunnel partier would have one too many at a nearby bar and try to sober up with our coffee before heading home. They seldom gave us trouble, but I hung back, anyway, hoping he’d wake up and move on.

  But ten minutes later, the man was still slumped over the table. I continued to sweep until I reached him. A coffee cup lay at his feet, its contents spilled onto the sidewalk.

  “Hello!” I called, sweeping as I moved closer. “Are you okay?”

  I was about to shake his shoulder when I was rocked by twin shocks. The coffee wasn’t coffee; it was blood. And the man sprawled across the table was Richard Crest.

  Sixty-nine

  ONCE again, my coffeehouse was a crime scene.

  Outside our front door were four squad cars, two vans from the Crime Scene Unit, a truck from Traffic Control, an FDNY ambulance, and an SUV from the medical examiner’s office. Hudson Street was so clogged that officers in reflective vests were redirecting traffic away from the area.

  Yellow police tape blocked all the sidewalks around our shop, too, even though most of the action—and the bright tower lights—were concentrated in one small corner, at one table, around one very dead body.

  Esther, Tucker, and I had been told to wait at a table “until detectives arrive to question you.” A rookie officer was also stationed inside the shop to make sure we stayed put. As of now, we’d been here for nearly an hour—a conscience-stricken sixty minutes as Esther and I pondered our role in this mess.

  Did I lure this man to his death?

  Esther wondered the same thing, though Tuck pooh-poohed the notion, stopping just short of declaring that the dead man had it coming.

  Guilty feelings aside, it was a question I was certain the detectives would also be asking—if not tonight, then after they cracked the victim’s phone and found a message from bikini babe “Kara,” inviting him to the scene of his demise.

  I dreaded what was to come as the Fish Squad pushed through the front door. Soles and Bass were grim faced as they crossed the polished plank floor, though Sue Ellen’s hard expression was softened somewhat by her loose hair, flowery skirt, soft sweater, and dangly earrings.

  They were accompanied by a grizzled sergeant with a beer belly, and another policeman in a yellow NYPD Traffic vest, bearing an industrial-strength laptop.

  The sergeant went behind our counter and looked around. Soon he disappeared into the pantry. Meanwhile, the traffic officer set the laptop on the marble coffee bar, turned it so we couldn’t see the screen, and began to type. Soles and Bass watched for a few minutes, sometimes whispering instructions to the cop.

  The sergeant’s alarming two-word call—“Back here!”—interrupted them.

  Soles and Bass strode into the pantry, where they lingered for a few minutes. When they came out again, the two detectives
walked right up to our table, shaking their heads.

  “Nice catch, Cosi,” Lori Soles said. “Looks like you were right when you said this guy was trouble.”

  “I don’t think we’re going to get much out of him, though,” Sue Ellen cracked. “Not after someone took the trouble of whacking him.”

  “Did you find out his real name?” I asked.

  “He’s got IDs for one Harry Krinkle,” Sue Ellen replied, “but that identity might be as phony as the last one.”

  I brought out my phone and showed the detectives the photo I took of the man’s bank withdrawal receipt. They asked me to send it to them forthwith. Then Lori’s hands went to her hips.

  “You know, you’re lucky we were running a sting in Hudson River Park. We understand what you were trying to do here, but the Night Watch might have come to some wrong conclusions once they took a look at those two wanted posters in your pantry.”

  Sue Ellen sent a chuckle in my direction. “Dead or alive, eh, Sheriff? So does the shooter collect the reward?”

  “You know that’s not what I wanted,” I firmly stated. “But if you think I’m guilty, arrest me alone. Please leave my staff out of it—”

  Lori silenced me with a raised hand.

  “Relax, Cosi. We’ve got our suspect. A traffic camera captured the actual murder. We’d like you and your people to look at the raw footage. It’s disturbing, but maybe one of you can ID the woman in question.”

  “Woman?!” Tuck cried.

  “That’s right. Like I said, it’s disturbing. So if any of you would rather not watch the—”

  “We’ll watch it!” Tuck, Esther, and I practically shouted together.

  Lori pointed to the counter. “Okay, let’s do it.”

  Seventy

  WE gathered around the computer. Then the traffic cop rolled the footage.

  The screen time read 12:33 AM, twenty-seven minutes before the Village Blend closed. Despite the late hour, the nearby LED streetlight, along with our own exterior shop lights, provided good clarity and color to the picture, which was shot from a high angle.