by J. J. Murray
Paddy wiped his face four times during the performance.
When Xavier finished, he said, “Sorry about that. It’s how I get my sound.”
Paddy sighed. “So you were only rapping when the officers walked by.”
“Yeah,” Xavier said. “I was up against a wall, better acoustics that way, kind of like a natural amplifier. Anyway, these two officers walked by, they stopped, and I kept rapping.”
Paddy shook his head. “How close did they get to you?”
“A little closer than you are now,” Xavier said. “They were laughing along with the crowd at the beginning. And then . . . they hooked me up.”
“Why didn’t you tell Kowalski this?” Paddy asked.
“He never gave me the chance,” Xavier said. “He opened my file, closed my file, and told me to plead guilty before he even introduced himself to me.”
“What do you think, Paddy?” Matthew asked.
“I could fine him for spitting in public,” Paddy said.
“Are you serious?” Matthew asked. “Oh, the public will love that. Name a Yankee who doesn’t spit during a game.”
“I can’t just drop the charges, McConnell,” Paddy said. “I may have to work with those officers in the future.”
Paddy hasn’t learned his lessons yet. “Hello, this is Channel Eleven reporter Matt McConnell with a breaking news story from the Ninetieth Precinct. Xavier Jones, a lifeguard and high school graduate who has a squeaky clean record, was exercising his right to speak in a public place and causing no disturbance of any kind when two of New York’s finest got too close to the performance and arrested XS, as he is known on the street, for assault on a police officer. What? A fine, upstanding black man exercising his freedom of speech is being arrested for assault? He was rapping? What was he rapping? It was a funny rap about his hometown? And it contained no cursing? Why on earth did they arrest that wholesome, clean-cut young man? Let’s ask ADA Paddy O’Day. Mr. O’Day, why on earth would—”
“I gotta do something, McConnell,” Paddy interrupted.
“Let him go,” Matthew said. “That’s what you can do.”
“I can’t,” Paddy said.
“The officers moved into his field of fire, Paddy,” Matthew said. “Xavier didn’t ask them to move to the front row. And won’t another performance of his rapping play well on TV? Can you see the camera lens, Paddy? Can you? I can.”
Paddy ran his fat fingers through his hair. “I can see the lens, McConnell.” He slid off the table.
I think I have just heard a table give an audible sigh of relief. “You’ll start the paperwork then?”
“I’ll start the paperwork. You two sit tight.” Paddy left the room.
“Xavier, you’re about to be famous,” Matthew said.
Xavier stood and stretched. “No offense, Mr. McConnell, but I already am, at least around here. I was kind of hoping for community service.”
“Why?” Matthew asked.
“For my rep, man,” Xavier said. “Though I was arrested for assault on a police officer. That might be enough to get my name farther out there.”
What a strange world we live in. “You will be doing a service to your community tonight,” Matthew said, “and this is what I want you to do . . .”
After Matthew explained his plan, Xavier asked, “Can I borrow some paper and a pen? I want to get started on that right now.”
Matthew dug the order book from his front pocket. “What are you going to rhyme with Angela?”
Xavier looked up. “Bella?”
“Angela isn’t Italian,” Matthew said.
“But she’s still fine, right?” Xavier said.
“Very,” Matthew said.
“I had a hard crush on that woman when I was ten,” Xavier said.
Is that what I have? A crush? Hmm. I have a crush on Angela. And tonight, I hope to be the lucky fella who sees Angela smile that bella smile of hers at the inaugural Angela’s Arts Adventures.
Hmm. Now when exactly should I tell her she’s hosting XS after she closes for the night?
I could just let it happen, you know, as if it happened kind of spontaneously. What do you know? A whole bunch of people just happened to show up to hear XS. What do you know about that?
Angela would never fall for that.
I’ll have to tell her, even though I have a feeling she won’t like it.
No. She won’t like it.
Or me.
I hope my soft sell skills have improved.
Chapter 15
“What took so long?” Angela asked as Matthew swept in.
“Where’s Mrs. James?”
“It was actually quick,” Matthew said. “Mrs. James is at home.” She actually enjoyed the ride in the cab. He pointed at a chocolate chip cookie. “Please?”
Angela wrapped one in a napkin and handed it to him. “Well?”
“Xavier is out, and he’s not out on bail,” Matthew said. “He’s out, free and clear.”
“Really?”
Matthew nodded as he tore into the cookie. “Sugar. I’ve missed you.”
“How’d you do it?” Angela asked.
“I got lucky again,” Matthew said. “Xavier uses lots of B’s and P’s when he raps.”
Angela peered up at him. “Huh?”
“When XS spits rhymes, he really spits,” Matthew said. “The cops got too close.” He wiped his lips. “You have any coffee for me?”
Angela poured him a small cup.
Only a small? She is so hard to impress. “I’ll tell you all about it,” Matthew said, “if I can take you out for ice cream or something after closing.”
“It’s the middle of February.” Angela turned away.
Matthew drifted down the counter to catch her eyes. “So the ice cream won’t melt. It may even taste warm in comparison to the air. We can go out after the show.”
Angela snapped her head toward him. “What show?”
“XS is going to perform here tonight at eight o’clock,” Matthew said.
Angela faced him completely. “But I close at eight.”
Matthew smiled. “Oh, that’s right. You do. That’s perfect timing, isn’t it? You close at eight, and we’re having a show at eight. Wow. It must be fate. Got any of those big coffee dispensers?”
Angela rushed around the counter. “No. Matthew, I’m not staying open past—”
“We are staying open,” Matthew interrupted. So much for the soft sell.
“No, we’re not,” Angela said, cocking her head. “I’ve had a busy day. I’ve been earning money. I need to get off my feet.”
Matthew looked at her feet. I’d like to sweep you off your feet if you’ll let me, Angela. “It’s too late. The word is already out on Facebook, and it’s spreading like wildfire. I believe there will be a nice crowd in here well before eight o’clock.”
“Not if I lock the door,” Angela said.
“You won’t.” He looked into her eyes.
“Why won’t I?” Angela asked.
“You’re curious about what would happen.” He nodded. “You’re the curious type, all right.”
Angela looked away. “It would have been nice if you had asked me before making this decision which affects me the most.”
He stepped into her field of vision. “You’ll be able to sit the entire time, I promise, and I’ll do the entire cleanup afterward.”
“Just this one time,” she said, zipping behind the counter again.
I won again? Wait a minute. That was too easy. Either I’m wearing her down or something else is going on.
Matthew leaned on the counter. “So, Angela, if we get one of those big coffee dispensers, it will make it easier for people to serve themselves during the performance. You know, the honor system. We’ll put the tip jar next to the dispenser.”
Angela groaned. “That’s not the way I do business. Customers aren’t always honorable.”
“Don’t you pour out what doesn’t sell at the end of the nigh
t?” Matthew asked.
“Yes, but—”
“So you’ll make money you wouldn’t normally make,” Matthew interrupted. “You can say, ‘Last call’ or something like that at seven forty-five, and you can put any coffee you have left in the dispenser. You could even mix it all together and call it Jamaican Mountain Blue Breakfast House Blend.” It makes perfectly logical sense.
“Dispensers aren’t cheap.” Angela squared her shoulders. “A dispenser is not in my budget this month.”
“I’m buying.” She can’t out-argue me.
Angela wrinkled her lips. “Okay.”
Matthew smiled. I won again! I won again! But why am I winning so easily now?
“But new, not used, Matthew,” Angela said. “I don’t want anyone else’s coffee contaminating mine.”
“I got this, Angela,” Matthew said. “I’ll even throw in some Styrofoam cups.”
Angela shook her head rapidly. “No Styrofoam. Drinking cups. Dixie. The ones especially for hot liquids, like the ones I already use.”
“Okay.” He sighed. “Relax. It’ll be fun.”
“It better be,” Angela said.
“It will be.”
Matthew spent most of the afternoon getting the “show” on the road. He bought a white ceramic coffee dispenser from Class Hostess on Flushing Avenue and a heavy box of white twelve-ounce Dixie cups from Ring & Bring on Lynch Street. He also made a deal with Soundhouse NYC on Broadway to bring a simple sound system to Angela’s at 7:30 by offering them free advertising.
After running home to shower, shave, and change into jeans and a clean hoody, he carried the dispenser and the cups into Angela’s shop at 6:30, and there were already people sitting and waiting.
Very cool.
Angela watched him remove the dispenser from its box. “White? Why’d you get white, Matthew? It’s going to stain.”
“I bought white to match the Dixie cups,” Matthew said, patting the top of the box of cups. “I got two thousand of these bad boys.”
“But white for a coffee dispenser? Really?” Angela shook her head.
Maintain your calm so she can calm down. “I didn’t think you’d like the green one. It was an eyesore and reminded me of my great-grandma Fiona. She was from Ireland, and everything in her house was green. It would have definitely clashed with your old-school decor. And doesn’t baking soda and vinegar get coffee stains out?”
“Yes, but . . .”
“You’re surprised I knew that, aren’t you?” Matthew asked.
Angela almost smiled. “Kind of, but . . .”
Matthew opened the top of the dispenser. “It holds forty-two cups and has a metal spigot with a rubber gasket up top. It’s built to last. I think the wrought-iron stand is kind of classy, too.”
“What’d you pay?” Angela asked, looking inside the dispenser.
“A hundred for the dispenser, seventy-five for the cups,” Mathew said.
“I’ll reimburse you.”
Wow. She has to have the upper hand at all times. “Angela, I still owe you more than three hundred more this month, right? It’s in the contract.”
“I don’t need your money, Matthew,” she said.
So serious. “I wish you had told me that earlier . . .”
Angela widened her eyes.
“I’m kidding.” He put his face in front of hers until she looked at him. “It’s no problem.”
Angela leaned back. “Okay, Mr. McConnell, where exactly will this show take place? He’s not dancing on my counter or walking around on top of my display case.”
He faced the front of the store. “I see him in the left corner near the window. He can stand on a table or two. That way the overflow crowd and people walking by can see him through the window.”
“He’s going to stand on my tables?” Angela asked.
“They’re sturdy, and he’s skinny,” Matthew said. “He’s been eating prison food for a few days, right? You might want to make a special batch of cookies just for him.”
She waved at the display case. “I have plenty. Now if this place fills up, how are they all going to hear him?”
“I have a sound system on the way.” He touched his head with a finger. “I thought of everything.”
She crossed her arms. “We’ll see about that. And don’t be running up my electric bill.”
He nodded toward the back. “Go . . . make some cookies.”
“I told you that I have plenty.”
No, you don’t. “A younger crowd has a sweeter sweet tooth.”
Angela blinked. “You’re right.”
“Every once in a while.”
“This . . .” She backed away toward the kitchen. “This better work.”
“It will. I promise.”
While Angela made more cookies in between constantly serving customers, many of them brand-new to her, Matthew watched a decidedly younger crowd gathering outside, many getting coffee and sweets and returning to the sidewalk.
It smells like heaven, Matthew thought. At least I hope this is what heaven smells like.
The sound system parted the crowd and rolled in at 7:20, and the Soundhouse NYC crew set up a large amplified speaker, a mixer board, and a wireless microphone near the front window in a matter of minutes. After a quick sound check, Matthew took and kept the microphone.
By 7:30, a mostly laid-back group of young people of every race, creed, and socioeconomic status filled every chair and booth except the middle booth, where Matthew had Mr. and Mrs. James sit with him to watch the show.
“That boy told me he wouldn’t be late,” Mr. James said.
“He’s out trying to get his job back,” Mrs. James said.
“I doubt it,” Mr. James said. “He’s just trying to make a grand entrance. He gets that from your people.”
“Drink your coffee, old man,” Mrs. James said.
“Did Xavier tell either of you anything about tonight’s performance?” Matthew asked.
“No,” Mr. James said. “Or he might have. I can’t understand the boy half the time.”
“He told me he was doing his community service tonight,” Mrs. James said.
Matthew looked out to the sidewalk. I hope the police are kind to us tonight. They look at least six deep out there.
“Last call for coffee!” Angela yelled.
I didn’t know she could yell like that! He checked the time on his phone. And it’s exactly seven forty-five. She listened to me. I am having a great day.
As a line formed quickly at the counter, Xavier sneaked in and slid into the booth. He wore black jeans, black boots, a plain black hoody, a solid black baseball hat, and not a glint of bling.
“Ready?” Matthew asked.
“There’s a lot of people here, man,” Xavier said.
“Where you been?” Mr. James asked.
“Did you get your job back?” Mrs. James asked.
Xavier smiled. “They were trying to call me all afternoon. Word got around fast. I even get my old shift back. Where do I set up?”
“Your stage,” Matthew said, “is on those corner tables near the window. I have your mike. Do you mind if I introduce you?”
“No offense, Mr. McConnell,” Xavier said, adjusting the bill of his cap, “but I don’t need an introduction.”
“Let him introduce you,” Mr. James said. “He’s the reason you’re even here.”
“Work with me, Xavier,” Matthew said. “This may be my only brush with your greatness. I have to do a little advertising first to help pay the bills. Then the next hour is yours.”
Xavier nodded. “All right. That’ll work.”
At 7:55, Matthew waded through the crowd to the tables in the corner, climbing up in time to see Angela filling the dispenser and getting the tip jar ready. He turned on the mike. “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, and welcome to Angela’s Arts Adventures, the first of what we hope will be many live shows at Smith’s Sweet Treats and Coffee.” He smiled at Angela, who sat on a hig
h wooden stool to the right of the counter. She’s rolling her eyes at me.
“Let’s give a hand to the woman who is the most beautiful coffee brewer and server in Williamsburg,” Matthew said, “and please don’t ever call her a barista. Give it up for Miss Angela Smith!”
Angela shook her head throughout the ovation.
But she looked at me the entire time. I like keeping her attention. I like that she pays attention to me. Sometimes.
Matthew also detected a small smile on her beautiful red lips.
“Tonight’s show is brought to you by Soundhouse N-Y-C, which is providing this incredible sound system. You want to be heard—Soundhouse N-Y-C is the word.” Okay, that’s one word and an abbreviation. “Tonight’s show is also brought to you by the law firm of Matthew McConnell, and that would be me, and the state of New York and the Ninetieth Precinct for realizing the error of their many, many ways by releasing tonight’s performer about five hours ago.”
Matthew heard some laughter.
Matthew detected a larger smile on Angela’s beautiful red lips.
“Here to share some wisdom with you this evening,” Matthew said, “please give a warm welcome back to freedom to Williamburg’s own street poet . . . X-S!”
Xavier bounced through the crowd as the applause rose, getting dap and hugs from dozens of adoring fans.
After jumping down and handing Xavier the microphone, Matthew weaved through tables to stand next to Angela.
“I knew you were a ham,” she said.
“I know how to bring home the bacon,” Matthew said. “I thought it went very well for my debut, don’t you?”
“Shh.”
Once Xavier was up on the tables, the crowd seemed to lean in. “What up, Billyburg?” he asked.
Now that is a cheer. It’s definitely not a Bronx cheer. Brooklyn people know how to make windows rattle.
“Hey y’all, I used to work here,” Xavier said. “Really. Miss Angela gave me my first job, and trust me, she worked me to death. Y’all clean up after yourselves, okay? I don’t want her naggin’.” He opened a sheet of paper. “Y’all know I don’t normally write anything down, but I had to write this one down. This one’s for my favorite boss, Miss Angela. I call it ‘Dignity’ . . .
Flour on her face, her arms, her palms,
At Smith’s Sweet Treats, she is da bomb,
