by J. J. Murray
“Apple sounds good.” Felisa turned and saw Matthew. “May I join you?”
Matthew looked at Angela. “No comment.”
Angela smiled.
Felisa walked over to him. “You’re no fun.”
“And I intend to stay that way,” Matthew said. “I have been instructed by my client not to talk to you. Why not interview some real customers?”
“You’re not a real customer, Mr. McConnell?” Felisa asked.
Matthew smiled at Angela. You haven’t defeated me yet. “You know, Felisa, I am becoming a regular fixture here.”
Felisa wrote it down.
“Oh no, Angela,” Matthew said. “She wrote down what I just said. What will she write down next?”
Angela’s mouth parted slightly.
I have her attention. Good. “Felisa, I love this place. It has atmosphere. It has soul. It’s open from six until eight, while those knuckleheads across the street are open seven to seven and are closed all day on Sundays.”
Angela mouthed, “Really?”
Matthew nodded.
Felisa finished writing. “And how long have you been a fixture here?”
“I can’t get the man to leave,” Angela said.
Now Angela jumps in, Matthew thought. This is going to be some story.
Felisa laughs. “This is good.”
“Angela,” Matthew said, “tell her why I can’t leave.”
Angela’s eyes blazed briefly before softening. “Because . . . because that booth you’re sitting in is his office.”
Victory is within my grasp!
Felisa looked up from her notepad. “This booth is your office.” Matthew shrugged.
Angela shook her head.
Matthew smiled.
Angela sighed, closed her eyes, and nodded.
I won! Victory is mine!
“Yes, indeed it is,” Matthew said. “I am a coffeeshop lawyer, a barrister for the sweetest barista who ever lived. Oh, but don’t write that Angela is a barista. She’s not a barista. She brews and pours coffee.”
“So how’s business in this booth?” Felisa asked.
Well, my business is so new I haven’t actually had any. “The first consultation is always free, provided, of course, that you buy a cup of coffee.”
Felisa turned to Angela. “So you two are business partners.”
Angela approached the booth. “Unofficially. I have yet to see a written contract.”
One of these napkins will have to do. “Soon, Miss Smith, soon.”
“I want to see that contract today, Mr. McConnell,” Angela said. “Before the close of business.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Matthew smiled.
Angela scowled.
While Felisa interviewed other customers, Matthew wrote a simple contract on a napkin:
I, Matthew Mark McConnell agree to pay Angela Smith $500 a month starting today for the right to conduct business as a lawyer in the third booth of Smith’s Sweet Treats and Coffee on Driggs Avenue, Williamsburg, Brooklyn, New York, USA.
He took it up to her. “Here’s the contract.”
Angela read it quickly. “I don’t need payment now, remember? I need it in June when my rent goes up.”
“Take it while you can get it, Angela,” Matthew said. “I may not have all of it in June. And this will provide the money for our upgrades.”
“What upgrades?” she asked.
“Wi-Fi for starters,” Matthew said. “And music. And more seating for open-mike night.”
“What open-mike night?” Angela asked.
“You want some of that trendy, hipster money, don’t you?” Matthew asked. “Trendy hipsters like to spend money on poetry readings, book talks, and solo musicians. They also like groups like Floetry to serenade them with words. We’ll need to get a decent sound system, too.”
Angela blinked. “Absolutely no karaoke.”
“I heartily agree,” Matthew said. “That would lower property values from here to Bushwick.”
“Do we really have to do all that?” Angela asked.
“Yes,” Matthew said. “You said something about the lack of an arts venue in this neighborhood. This could be that venue.”
“But that would mean later hours,” Angela said.
“But only one night a week, say, Friday or Saturday, and maybe only once or twice a month,” Matthew said. “This place could fill a void in this neighborhood.”
“Cameo is six short blocks away,” Angela said.
“You ever been to Cameo?” Matthew asked.
Angela shook her head.
“It’s small,” Matthew said. “You know how many people you could get in here on a Friday night?”
“We’ll talk more about this later,” Angela said.
“I like talking to you, partner,” Matthew said.
“Oh please.” Angela looked at Felisa. “Is she your type?”
In another life, yes. Today . . . “No.”
“She’s Cuban or Italian or both or something,” Angela said. “I thought you liked that nice, creamy, tan skin.”
I do. “She’s too perky.”
“Perky?” Angela said.
“She’s too perky, energetic, and outgoing,” Matthew said. “I’m beginning to prefer nervous, brooding, and worried.” He looked into her eyes. “And brown. Most definitely brown.”
Angela looked down, a small smile creeping across her lips. “You know anyone like that?”
“I work for her,” Matthew said. “She makes me mop the kitchen twice because I use too much bleach.”
“She sounds evil.” Angela quickly signed the napkin.
“She’s not so bad, once you get to know her,” Matthew said, “and she has a brilliant smile.”
Angela handed the napkin to Matthew. “You still owe her two nights’ work.”
“Only two? I promised to help you clean up every night.”
“Yes, you did, didn’t you?” Angela said. “It’s not on this contract. All I get is money, Matthew Mark. Do you have a brother named Luke John?”
“Luckily, I’m an only child,” Matthew said. “I would have hated to have a sister named The Acts Romans. We will add an addendum to our contract. Miss Smith, what is your middle name?”
Angela closed her eyes. “Simone.” She opened them. “And don’t give me any lip over my initials.”
“I wasn’t going to say a thing.” He flipped over the contract, writing as he said, “I also promise Angela Simone Smith, who has an extremely nice, firm set of initials, to help her close the shop nightly.”
Angela looked at the napkin. “You didn’t write that.”
Matthew turned the napkin around.
“You wrote that.” She picked up the napkin. “You really wrote that.”
“Because it’s true,” Matthew whispered.
Angela slipped the napkin into her apron pocket. “You don’t write all your legal contracts this way, do you?”
Is she blushing? I can’t tell. I hope she is. “Only this one.”
Angela turned away to the register and wiped some dust from the screen. “Good.”
After Felisa left with the promise to run the story in the next edition, the Friday rush became a trickle. Matthew sipped another cup of coffee while Angela moved back and forth from the kitchen to the display case restocking her sweet treats.
Ah. This is peace. This is a quiet place to think. A great cup of coffee, one more pastry, and—
A thunderous pounding sounded from the kitchen.
Angela literally jumped, and she seemed to frown. “It’s my weekly delivery.”
“You don’t go shopping for all your exotic ingredients?” Matthew asked.
Angela wiped her hands with a towel. “I don’t have the time. Everything is closed by the time I’m closed. I’ll be in the back putting things away.”
Matthew left the booth. “I could do it for you.”
“Yes, but I know where everything goes,” Angela said.
The poundin
g continued.
“I could watch and learn,” Matthew said.
“Just . . . come get me if anyone comes in.” She pointed to the counter.
Matthew went behind the counter. “I could serve them.”
Angela shook her head. “Just come get me, and I’ll do the serving. Agreed?”
“Okay.”
An older black woman breezed in a few minutes later, squinting up at Matthew. “Where’s Angela?”
“In the back,” Matthew said. “She has a delivery.” Do I get Angela? No. I can do this. “How may I help you?”
The woman pointed at the tray of turnovers. “A half dozen of those, what are they, raspberry?”
“Blackberry,” Matthew said.
“A half dozen of those, a half dozen apple turnovers—are they fresh?”
“Just baked half an hour ago.” I know how to do the soft sell, too.
“A half dozen of those and . . . two dozen chocolate chip cookies,” the woman said. “You work here long?”
“This is my first day.”
Matthew expertly collected, wrapped, and bagged her order. “That will be . . .” He checked the price list taped to the counter. “Twenty-six dollars even.”
“Twenty . . . six?” The woman’s eyes popped.
“Yes, ma’am.”
The woman handed him a twenty and a ten.
“Would you like some coffee to go?” Matthew asked, ringing up her order and pulling out four ones. “The house blend is especially delicious today.” He handed her the money.
“No, thank you.” The woman looked around him.
“Is something wrong?” he asked.
The woman shrugged. “No. I’ve just never seen anyone but Angela or her parents working here, that’s all.”
Matthew smiled. “I’m Matthew.”
“Hello.” The woman took her bag. “Tell Angela that Bet was here.”
“I will,” Matthew said. “You have a great day.”
Bet nodded. “You, too.”
Piece of cake. I could do this all day and all night.
Angela returned to the counter ten minutes later. She stared into the showcase. “Have you been eating on the job?”
“Bet was here,” Matthew said. “She likes your pastries, too.”
“How much did you charge her?” Angela asked.
He pointed at the price list. “What it says here.”
“Oh no!” Angela cried. “Did she just leave?”
Uh-oh. “About ten minutes ago. Why?”
Angela bumped her hip into his thigh. “I told you to come get me.”
“Did I do something wrong?” Matthew asked.
Angela sighed. “Bet is one of my mama’s oldest friends. I have never charged her full price.”
Oops. “I’m sorry.”
“What she must think . . .” She shook her head. “It’s not your fault. You didn’t know.” She looked into his eyes. “And she didn’t fuss about paying?”
“Not at all.”
Angela smiled. “I’ve been undercharging that woman for ten years at least. You done good, McConnell.”
“Thank you, Angela Simone.”
“Hush.”
Later that evening, after he swept and mopped the kitchen in four minutes, he leaned on his mop and watched Angela polishing the glass in front of the display case.
Angela is a good woman. She’s . . . good. Kind, down-to-earth, real. She takes care of family friends. She doesn’t give up easily. She works so hard.
And she does have an excellent set of initials. I like the way it wiggles from side to side while she polishes—
“You lose something?” Angela asked.
Just my train of thought. “No.”
“Wipe some tables, man.”
“Wiping.”
While Matthew turned the tables into virtual mirrors of dark wood, Angela counted down her register.
“Did you have a good day?” Matthew asked.
“This doesn’t make sense,” Angela said. “I made about the same for a normal Friday. Maybe a little more.”
Matthew polished away. “And on the day La Estrella had its grand opening. What do you know about that?”
He glanced at Angela and found her smiling.
“It’s only because you overcharged Bet,” Angela said.
“Oh,” Matthew said. “I’m sure that’s the reason.” He leaned on the counter. I want to ask her out so badly, but she looks so tired. “Same time tomorrow?”
“Same time tomorrow.”
Matthew stuck out his hand. “Thanks, partner.”
Angela shook his hand once and dropped it. “I’m still not exactly sure how you did that to me. I’m not normally manipulated that easily.”
“Do you regret taking me on?” He untied his apron and took it off.
“No, and don’t you ever give me a reason to regret it,” she said.
“I won’t.” I have the overwhelming need to hug her, but there’s a counter between us. “Good night, Angela Simone Smith.”
“I never should have told you my middle name,” she said softly. “Good night, Matthew Mark McConnell.”
“Will you walk me to the door?” Matthew asked.
Angela came around the counter and went straight to the door. Matthew had to hustle to catch up. She opened the door, Matthew stepped out, and she shut and locked it rapidly behind him.
“Good night,” he said.
Angela nodded.
Matthew watched her walk back to the counter, bag her money and receipts, and turn off the lights before disappearing into the kitchen. A few moments later, the kitchen light winked out.
Matthew’s heart sank as he looked into the darkened shop. Why am I feeling this? I know I’ll be back tomorrow, but there’s something . . . sad about a dark coffee shop.
No. That’s not why my heart hurts.
I’m already missing Angela’s smile. Is this what lonely feels like? I haven’t felt it for so long.
“Good night, Angela,” he whispered.
I didn’t really know how lonely I was until I saw your smile.
Chapter 14
Matthew had barely sat down in his booth and was about to devour a stack of pancakes and crispy bacon early Saturday morning when a middle-aged black woman wearing an oversized overcoat and carrying a huge purse burst through the door, yelling, “You the lawyer I read about in the Daily Eagle this morning?”
The story is out. But how? The Daily Eagle only comes out Monday through Friday. “You read it in the Eagle?”
“Yeah, the online one,” the woman said. “It was the first story on the page. So are you the lawyer or aren’t you?”
Thank you, Felisa. Matthew put down his fork. “Yes, ma’am. I am Matthew McConnell, attorney-at-law. Please sit. Would you like some coffee?”
“I’m good.” She sat across from him. “You don’t look like a lawyer.”
I knew I shouldn’t have worn plain gray sweats and my Chucks today. “It’s Saturday.”
Mrs. James blinked.
“How may I help you?” Matthew asked.
“The police have my son,” she said.
I should be taking notes. Why didn’t I bring my briefcase or any legal pads? I should have had more faith. “One sec.” He went to the counter. “Angela, do you have a pen and some paper I can borrow?”
Angela handed him an order pad and a pen. “And you call yourself a lawyer,” she whispered.
“Thanks.”
He picked up the order pad and pen, and as he slid into the booth, he snatched and ate a slice of bacon. “Forgive me. I’m hungry. What is your name, ma’am?”
“Toni James, with an I.”
Matthew wrote it down. “And your son’s name?”
“Xavier.”
Matthew wrote it down. “What is he being charged with?”
Mrs. James looked side to side and whispered, “Assaulting a policeman.”
He wrote it down. “How exactly did he assault the polic
eman?”
“They said Xavier spit in his face,” Mrs. James said, “but the only thing my boy does is spit rhymes. He goes by XS. Everybody around here knows him by that name. He’s only eighteen.”
Angela brought over a mug of coffee.
“Thank you, Angela,” Mrs. James said.
“You’re welcome, Mrs. James,” Angela said. “It’s been a while, huh?”
Mrs. James sipped her coffee. “Mmm. Your coffee is still as good as gold. How’s your mama doin’?”
“She’s fine,” Angela said. “How’s Mr. James?”
“Same ol’ badass as always,” Mrs. James said.
Matthew blinked at Angela, and Angela rolled her eyes and returned to the counter.
“Mrs. James, you say Xavier spit in an officer’s face,” Matthew said.
“That’s what they said he did,” Mrs. James said. “He was over at Artist and Fleas on North Seventh with his boys free-styling, you know, rapping, two nights ago. They get a big crowd most nights. Sometimes people even give them money. Tourists, mostly. Two nights ago, two cops got too close to my son. Xavier ain’t a bad kid. He would never do such a thing on purpose.”
“Do they have any evidence?” Matthew asked.
“They say they got Xavier’s DNA and two eyewitnesses, one of them the cop’s partner,” Mrs. James said. “I couldn’t afford the bail, and his court-appointed lawyer wants him to plead guilty and get eighteen months. Can you believe that shit?”
Matthew circled Xavier’s age. “Has he ever been in trouble before?”
“No.”
“Before we go any further, Mrs. James, you have to know that I don’t have a lot of experience with criminal cases,” Matthew said.
Mrs. James sat back. “You got some serious charges dropped over in Queens, didn’t you? And that girl broke a cop’s nose.”
News travels fast. Thanks, Jade. “I was really lucky with that case.” The cop luckily grabbed Jade’s ass.
“Well, I need some more of your luck,” Mrs. James said. “And besides, anyone is better than the lawyer he’s got. The man didn’t even read Xavier’s file, just told Xavier to take the deal.”
“What’s his attorney’s name?” Matthew asked.
“Marty Kowalski.”
Farty Marty “Take the Deal” Kowalski is still at it. Xavier doesn’t have a prayer if Marty’s “working” the case. “Mrs. James, you enjoy your coffee while I consult with my business partner.”
