by J. J. Murray
“I’m closing soon,” Angela said.
“Okay. Make it a good, quick tip then.” Matthew drummed his fingers on the counter.
She handed him his coffee. “What makes you think I’ll give you a good tip about women?”
“You’re a woman, and I have faith in you.” He took a sip. “Delectable as always.” He looked at the front booth. “Another regular?”
“An irregular regular,” Angela said. She bagged the cookies and the pastries.
“Meaning?”
“There’s something wrong with her,” Angela said. “I can’t put my finger on it, but she always seems to be on the verge of tears. She has sad puppy eyes, you know? She’s been here just about every night for the last few weeks at this time, and she just sits there, alone, with two mugs of coffee. I’m not sure, but I get the impression she gets stood up a lot. She’s always watching out the window. I never see her with anybody.”
That’s not a woman you stand up or leave alone for any length of time. “Why would such a pretty girl have any reason to cry?”
Angela stared and blinked. “You don’t need to be pretty to have a reason to cry.”
“I know that, Angela. I was just saying—”
“Why don’t you go find out if you want to know so badly?” Angela interrupted.
That sounded like a challenge. “I just might.”
Angela sighed and shook her head. “You want that tip now?”
“Sure.”
“Stay away from her,” she said.
That was pretty clear. “I think I’m staying away from women for a while anyway.”
“Why?” Angela asked.
“I just had another date from hell.” The third circle of hell, I think. Isn’t that where Dante put the lusty?
“You had a date on a Wednesday night?” Angela asked.
Matthew nodded. “It was kind of a church date, actually. A Haitian woman in the Bronx was trying to use me to make her married pastor jealous so he’d commit adultery with her, and she had the nerve to tell me that I was going to hell.”
Angela squinted. “You have to be making this stuff up.”
Matthew held up his right hand. “God’s honest truth.”
Angela smiled. “Where on earth do you meet these women?”
“Everywhere I go, it seems,” Matthew said.
“Everywhere except here,” Angela said.
That’s true. Angela is so perceptive. “You know, you’re right. I’ve never had any trouble with a Williamsburg woman.”
“I meant . . . never mind.” Angela wiped the counter.
Matthew looked at the woman in the first booth. “Do you think Gray Eyes is from Williamsburg?”
“How do you know she has gray eyes?” Angela asked.
“I notice these things.” He turned to Angela. “Think she’s a Billyburger?”
“I doubt it,” Angela said. “She sounds like she’s from Long Island somewhere. I’m betting Hempstead or Massapequa.”
“But she evidently lives here now,” Matthew said softly.
“How would I know?” Angela said. “I don’t card people.”
Ouch. Angela is in a bad mood. “Doesn’t her current address count?”
“Well, if she does live here, she’s a transplant, a transient, an outsider,” Angela whispered. “She’s not from Williamsburg, right?”
Like Joy. “She could learn.” Hmm. Joy never learned.
“And you’re going to teach her,” Angela said.
Matthew smiled at Angela. “I might.” He finished his coffee and picked up his bag. “No. I will.”
“Now?” Angela asked. “You’re going to teach her now?”
“Why not?” The night is young.
“Wait, Matthew,” Angela said. “You want me to repeat my tip?”
“I will take it under advisement, counselor,” Matthew said.
“Stay away from her,” Angela said. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you, and you only have a few minutes to make your mistake. I close at eight.”
Matthew took his empty coffee cup and bag to the first booth. He had to walk in front of the woman to break her gaze out the window. “Hi.”
The woman’s sad face lit up. “Hello.”
Yep. She’s definitely from the suburbs. If I close my eyes, I’ll hear the typical Long Island white girl. “Isn’t it kind of lonely drinking alone?”
The woman smiled. “I’m not alone now, am I?”
That was an open invitation to sit. “And neither am I. May I join you?”
The woman slid to her right. “Please.”
And she wants me to sit next to her. Matthew sat dangerously close to the woman’s left leg. “I’m Matthew.”
“Allison.”
Why doesn’t her name surprise me?
“Ten minutes!” Angela yelled.
Matthew turned to see Angela rapidly wiping tables and moving closer to the front of the shop. “We may be kicked out soon. It’s almost closing time. Angela runs a tight ship.”
Allison cradled the fuller of the two mugs. “Yeah. And she makes the best coffee on earth.” She sipped her coffee, her sad, puppy eyes looking at Matthew.
“You want to . . . go somewhere, Allison?” Matthew asked.
Allison reached into a baggy black leather purse and pulled out two tickets. “You like hockey?”
A black woman who likes hockey. In Williamsburg. Allison is definitely a Long Island girl. “Sure.” He looked closely at the tickets. “Hey, those are for tonight. The game’s about to start.”
“I, um . . . I was supposed to meet someone . . .” Tears filled her eyes. “Sorry.”
Someone extremely evil stood up this woman. What an idiot! These tickets are in the first row! And it’s against the Boston Bruins? What a schmuck! “The jerk.”
“Yeah,” Allison said. “We were supposed to go out to eat first, too. This coffee is going straight to my brain.”
“Tell you what,” Matthew said. “We’ll get a quick bite on the way to the game, and we’ll be in our seats maybe by the beginning of the second period. What do you say?”
“I’d like that a lot, Matthew,” Allison said.
This woman has some delightful doe eyes. Matthew looked up and saw Angela waiting by the door. “It must be eight o’clock. Ready?”
Allison gathered her purse and held out her hand. Matthew pulled her across the seat and to her feet.
She only weighs about ninety pounds. I nearly yanked her completely off her feet.
Allison whipped a cell phone out of her purse. “I’ll call us a cab. We can eat at TGIFriday’s at the Garden. My treat.”
I like this girl already. Free food and front-row seats to a Rangers game. Where has this girl been all my life ?
Matthew held the door, and Allison went outside to make her call.
“Remember what I told you,” Angela said.
“I hope you’re wrong,” Matthew whispered.
Angela stepped closer. “I don’t think I’m wrong about her. You see how eager she is?”
Yeah. Hmm. Monique and Jade were eager, too. “Yeah, but I think you’re wrong about her.”
“What if I’m right?” Angela asked.
“If you’re right,” Matthew said, “I’ll tell you all about it early tomorrow morning over breakfast.”
Angela laughed and took out a scrap of paper and a pen. “How do you like your eggs?”
“You’re taking my order now?” Matthew asked.
“I will see you bright and early tomorrow morning,” Angela said. “How do you like your eggs?”
“Over easy.”
“Bacon or sausage?” Angela asked.
“Surprise me.”
“Both then,” she said.
“It might work out,” Matthew said.
Angela shook her head. “You’ll be waiting outside for me.”
She seems so sure. “Wanna bet?”
“All right,” Angela said. “When I win this bet, and I will, you hav
e to help me clean up the place for the next three days.”
“And when I win?” Matthew asked.
“You won’t.” Angela smiled.
“And when I win,” Matthew continued, “you will provide me with free breakfast for three days.”
Angela shook his hand. “You gotta bet.” She turned his hand over. “You’ll have to use some gloves. I wouldn’t want your soft lawyer’s hands getting calluses while you scrub my toilets.”
Allison returned to the doorway. “The taxi’s here! Wasn’t that quick?”
Matthew walked out and opened the taxi door, Allison scrambling inside.
“Be careful,” Angela mouthed from the doorway.
“Good night, Angela,” Matthew said.
“Promise,” Angela whispered.
“I promise,” Matthew mouthed.
I am sitting next to a gorgeous woman about to go to a hockey game.
What could possibly go wrong?
Chapter 10
On the ride to Madison Square Garden, Allison clasped Matthew’s hands in hers. “You are so sweet.”
“I can’t stand to see a woman cry,” Matthew said. Such soft, small hands.
“You’re a saint,” Allison said. “You’re Saint Matthew.”
“Trust me, I’m not.” I’m having lusty thoughts, even now. Very nice legs, slender fingers, and those eyes! She is lean and sexy. “I’m no saint, Allison.”
“You are to me, Boo,” Allison cooed.
A pet name already? Hmm. This is sudden. “Really, Allison, I’m not. I’m a lawyer.”
“You are? Wow! That’s so cool!” She clutched his hands more tightly. “That is so cool. A lawyer, and only two days until Valentine’s Day. My luck is changing for the better!”
And so is mine.
I hope.
At the TGIFriday’s at Madison Square Garden, while Matthew picked at the Cajun shrimp, chicken strips, and baby back ribs on the Jack Daniels sampler, Allison ate only half of her chicken piccata pasta and sucked down two Heinekens before Matthew could finish half of his Sam Adams.
I’ve never seen a woman do that. Let’s see if she can hold a conversation as well as she holds her beer. “What do you do, Allison?”
“I’m a buyer,” Allison said, “well, a junior buyer for Bloomingdale’s.”
Okay. She’s educated, driven, has a job. “Sounds exciting.”
“It’s okay,” Allison said. “I can only afford to live in Williamsburg, though. I have to take the bus to work.”
She said that with disgust. What’s wrong with riding the bus?
“I flat out refuse to take the subway,” Allison said. “There are far too many criminals on those trains, especially on the L train.”
Hmm. She’s also slightly bigoted. I blame her upbringing. “I ride the trains all the time, and nearly all of the people on them are just like you and me.”
“Sure they are,” Allison said.
Okay. She’s more than slightly bigoted.
When their server walked by, Allison said, “Two more Heinies.” She smiled. “I’m thirsty.”
Matthew tore into his last rib, pausing only to wipe his face. He looked up to see Allison staring at him.
“You should chew your food thirty times,” she said.
“I thought we were in a hurry.” He looked up at the TV. “The Rangers are already losing three to one. The first period’s nearly over.”
“That’s no reason to choke to death,” Allison said, finishing beer number three. She planted her bottle in the middle of the table. “How do I look? And be honest.”
She certainly flits around in her conversations. “You look . . . cute.”
“Thank you.”
“What’s your heritage?” Which is safer than asking, “Are you mixed?”
She tossed back her hair. “I get that question a lot. My father is black, and my mother is white. I am a blended human.”
“You’re very pretty,” Matthew said.
“Oh, thank you, Boo.” She picked up and drank half of her fourth Heineken, waving her bottle at a passing server. “My last boyfriend, Tommy, the guy who stood me up tonight, he said I was too fat. Do you think I’m fat?”
“Not at all,” Matthew said. “Tommy needs glasses.”
“I told him to get an eye exam, but he never did.” She pulled up her shirt. “Do you like my stomach?”
That is the flattest stomach on earth. “What’s not to like?” Now kindly cover yourself, Allison. You’re getting lewd stares from the men at the bar.
Allison finished her fourth beer, leaving her stomach exposed. “It’s hot in here, isn’t it?”
It might have something to do with the amount of beer you’ve been drinking.
“Have you had your prostate checked?” Allison asked.
And now we’re talking about my prostrate.
“What are you, forty?” Allison said.
“I’m thirty-five,” Matthew said.
“You should really get it checked,” Allison said. “My Uncle Jimmy had prostate cancer when he was forty. You kind of remind me of him. He’s my mother’s brother, not my dad’s brother, of course.” She laughed loudly. “You don’t look anything like my dad’s brother!”
The men at the bar still stared.
“Oh, yeah,” Matthew said. “I kind of figured that.”
“Do you like children?” Allison asked.
From my prostate to children. I’m sure it’s a logical sequence in her mind. “Sure.”
“I want four little girls named Amaryllis Anne, Bethany Barbara, Carrie Clarissa, and Daphne Danielle,” Allison said. “You see what I just did with their names?”
“Not really,” Matthew said.
“I’m going to name my children alphabetically,” Allison said.
Oh yeah. Neat.
She drew the letter A in the air. “Amaryllis Anne. Two As in a row. Isn’t that the most organized thing to do?”
Organized? Well . . . “I guess.”
Allison gulped most of her fifth beer the moment the server brought it to her. “Oh, and they’ll just have to go to school out on Long Island. They can’t go to the wretched schools in Brooklyn.”
“They aren’t that wretched,” Matthew said. “Some are quite excellent, especially the Catholic—”
“No, they aren’t!” Allison interrupted. “Not compared to the ones in Manhasset. The dumbest kids in my school could be valedictorians in Brooklyn schools.”
Angela has a good ear for accents—and unhinged women.
“I don’t know how anyone in Brooklyn can get a good job going to those schools,” Allison said.
The server brought her another beer.
That would be number six. I hope it stays full.
“No wonder Pfizer left,” Allison said. “They couldn’t get any intelligent help.”
They actually weren’t making enough money, but I won’t argue with her. “The Pfizer plant is coming back to life. Brooklyn Soda Works, McClure’s Pickles, and Steve’s Ice Cream have moved in. Have you ever had Kombucha? They make it there, too. It’s really good.” And better for you than your beer.
“Kom-what?”
“Kombucha is kind of like carbonated tea. It detoxes you and makes your intestines happy.” And gives you a healthy buzz.
“Oh, and I want a big house,” Allison interrupted.
That was totally random. From kombucha to a big house.
“You like doing yard work, don’t you, Boo?” Allison whined.
I could do without that whine, and please pull down your shirt! The man on the end of the bar has taken at least four pictures of your stomach with his cell phone. “I’ve really never had a yard to tend.”
“You’ll have to learn then, huh?” She finished beer number five and sipped from beer number six. “I can see you out there cutting our grass while I flower the weed garden.”
I will not correct her. That might be what she actually does in her garden.
Allison
drained her sixth beer. “This is so exciting. Oh, we need to go.” She threw three twenties onto the table, her shirt finally covering her stomach. “Come on! We’re missing the game!”
They weren’t good seats. They were great seats, in VIP Rinkside section 4 a sneeze from the scratched and scuffed Plexiglas.
These seats cost at least nine hundred bucks apiece! Bloomingdale’s must pay very well.
“These are great seats, Allison,” Matthew said, watching the action.
“Kick some Bruin ass, Rangers!” Allison yelled. “Did you say something, Boo?”
“No.”
“Take his stupid head off!” Allison yelled while pounding on the Plexiglas.
I’m sure Allison also likes WWF and MMA.
She stood and blocked the view of the couple directly behind them. “I dated . . . that one. Number ninety-eight.”
“Down in front!” someone yelled behind them.
Allison sat. “He’s Canadian. He was very nice, but he’s not as nice as you are, Boo. Oh, but he drank too much Molson. He said Heineken tasted like pee. You don’t drink Molson, do you, Boo?”
“No, I—”
“I need another one.” She flagged down a vendor and sucked one down while paying for three more. “For me and my friend,” she told the vendor.
Matthew had to show his ID.
Matthew would never get a sip of those beers.
Allison set her cups down and pounded on the glass. “C’mon, Rangers! Kick some Bruin ass!”
Whenever players zipped by the boards, Allison went off, slamming her fists into the Plexiglas and cursing. When a fight broke out in front of her, she nearly climbed over the glass to join them.
Matthew calmly held her hips and brought her back to her seat.
A few men behind him groaned. Allison had given them all an outstanding view of her booty.
She’s rabid, drunk, bigoted, and looking for a husband who does yard work. Her fists have become bruises. If I had let her finish her climb, she would have gotten on SportsCenter. Yeah, I know how to pick ’em. I should have listened to Angela.
When the Rangers fell behind 6–2 late in the third period, Allison started booing loudly and tried to get the fans around her to join her.
They wouldn’t.
How do I get out of this? Do I put her in a cab and hope she gets home okay? I can’t do that.
