Through the Grinder

by Cleo Coyle

  Tucker rolled his eyes, then loudly cleared his throat and clapped his hands. “People! People! I have a question—”

  I tensed as the entire coffeehouse of customers looked up.

  Esther should have known better. As an NYU English major, she liked to display her literary attitude on her sleeve (such as her frequently announced reason for working here—Voltaire and Balzac both supposedly drank over forty cups of Joe a day). But to imply that Tucker, a playwright and actor, wasn’t acutely aware of the myriad causes of human angst was practically daring him to make a scene.

  “Show of hands please!” shouted Tucker. “Who in this room can trace their pain to (A) their parents? (B) Events that happened in the school or peer arena? (C) Genetics?”

  The customers blinked and stared.

  “I trace my pain to my bad mattress.”

  The place erupted in peels of laughter.

  Tucker turned and gave a little bow to the woman who’d made the quip—a strikingly elegant brunette standing by the front door in a gorgeous floor-length shearling.

  Like Valerie Lathem, I’d seen Shearling Lady a few times before, but I’d never gotten to know her by name. Tucker took her order as she approached the counter.

  “I don’t care what you think,” Esther called to Tucker. “I still say it was love.”

  “Word,” said Joy. “Someone might have broken her heart.”

  Oh god. My daughter had finally mentioned the subject of broken hearts.

  “A guy just dumped me,” Joy told Esther rather matter-of-factly.

  Now I was really tensing.

  “If I had loved him, I think it would have been really devastating.”

  I sighed with extreme relief, grateful to hear that Mario Forte hadn’t caused my girl any real pain.

  With her cute heart-shaped face, bouncy chestnut hair, and equally bouncy personality, my daughter had gone on her share of dates in high school, but she had yet to fall—really fall—in love.

  As a woman, I certainly did want Joy to experience the exhilaration Juliet felt for Romeo. But as a mother and ex-wife, I was acutely aware of that character’s completely screwed position at curtain’s close—so you’ll have to excuse my being profoundly happy that my daughter had just announced she had not in fact experienced the L word.

  “What if it was a lack of love—lovelessness,” suggested Tucker as he coated the bottom of a cup with chocolate syrup for Shearling Lady’s Café Mocha.

  “What are you implying?” I asked. “That Valerie Lathem was so lonely she leaped in front of the Broadway line?”

  “Not having a man is a pretty common issue for women in this town, you must admit,” said Tucker. He added a shot of espresso, splashed in steamed milk, then stirred the liquid to bring the chocolate syrup up.

  I frowned.

  “He’s right,” said Shearling Lady. “According to the latest Census figures, there are four hundred thousand single women in New York City between thirty-five and forty-four, compared to three hundred thousand in a traditional marriage. And there are three times as many divorced women in the city as men.”

  “I have more bad news,” said Tucker. “Désolé. Not all of those men are straight.”

  Shearling Lady’s perfectly shaped raven eyebrow rose. “Neither are all the women.”

  I took a closer look at Shearling Lady, wondering whether she were gay, too. Mid-forties was my guess. Her short raven hair, a rich black color with reddish highlights, was cut in the kind of trendy, feathery style I’d only seen on models. Her makeup was flawless. I was dying to ask where she’d gotten the coppery lipstick with a matte finish that perfectly set off the cream of her complexion—but I didn’t bother. I could tell by the coat and the hair that I probably wouldn’t be able to afford it, anyway.

  “What are you? A Census taker?” Tucker asked the woman.

  Shearling Lady smiled and shook her head. “Just a lawyer with a good head for stats. And recently divorced myself.”

  That explained the money. Obviously, she was a highly successful lawyer. It also explained why she’d moved to the Village. Same reason as me—to start over, whether with a man or a woman. For my part, there was no wondering. Men were my cup o’ tea…as long as they were coffee lovers.

  “I’m Clare Cosi,” I said, extending my hand. “Thanks for patronizing us.”

  “Winslet’s the name,” said the woman. “Just call me Winnie.”

  “You know what I think?” said Kira from her table. “A good cup of coffee is better than any man…it’s warm, satisfying, and stimulating. And it won’t cheat on you.”

  “Amen,” said Winnie.

  Tucker finished the Café Mocha with a dollop of whipped cream, shaved chocolate, and cocoa powder.

  “Girls,” he said, handing Winnie her drink. “You’ve got it all wrong. A good man may be hard to find, but a hard man is definitely the best find of all.”

  I smiled. Detective Quinn didn’t.

  “Clare,” he said, quietly motioning me over as the coffeehouse conversations continued.

  “Another?” I asked, seeing him hold up his nearly empty cup.

  “Do you have anything stronger?”

  I smiled. “You want a Speed Ball?”

  Quinn choked on his last sip of latte. “You got heroin back there?”

  I laughed. “Our Speed Ball is a grande house blend with two shots of espresso. It’s like a Boilermaker with coffee instead of beer and whiskey.”

  “Speed Ball,” he muttered. “And I thought I’d encountered every street drug alias there was back when I was in uniform.”

  “You want?” I asked.

  “Set it up,” he said, and I did.

  “You know, the same basic mix is called a Red Eye in L.A.,” I told him as I pulled the espressos. “I’ve also heard it called a Depth Charge, a Shot in the Dark, and a Café M.F.”

  “Thanks for the street-slang briefing, Captain.”

  “No sweat, Detective. And don’t forget”—I handed him the Speed Ball—“this drug’s legal.”

  He took a healthy hit and his eyes widened. “Maybe it shouldn’t be.”

  “I’m warning you, Quinn. Don’t mess with my fix.”

  He smiled—for the first time since he’d walked in, and I wanted to keep it there.

  “I’ll bet you didn’t know that Germany’s King Frederick once hired a special coffee police force known as Kaffee Schnufflers,” I told him.

  “Coffee police?”

  I tried my best to affect a cheesy Gestapo accent. “Yavolt. To sniff out unauthorized coffee roasters. He didn’t think coffee-drinking soldiers could be depended upon…Fortunately for the Germans, he failed.”

  Quinn shook his head, but I was happy to see the smile remain.

  “So, Miss Census,” said Tucker, still conversing with Winnie Winslet. “I’m curious. Now that you’re divorced, are you having trouble finding a man?”

  “Me?” She laughed. “I don’t find men, darling, men find me. But the truth is, the signature on my divorce papers isn’t even dry yet, so I’m not actually interested in being found. Not yet anyway.”

  “Well, when you’re ready, you should look into our Cappuccino Connection night,” said Tucker.

  “And that is?”

  “A local church group puts it on twice a month on our second floor. You just sign up and show up.”

  “Which church?” asked Winnie skeptically.

  “It’s nondenominational,” said Tucker. “Just a way for single straights to meet. They even do that ‘Power Meet’ thing so you’ll meet a lot of men in one night.”

  Winnie shook her head. “No thanks. If I were actively looking, which I’m not, I’d probably go with the e-dating thing.”

  “Ohmygod!” cried a new voice. Inga Berg walked up to the counter. “I totally don’t know how I met men before the on-line thing.”

  An assistant buyer for Macy’s, Inga had just been promoted to buyer—and the raise had given her the income to move
out of her rental share off Seventh Avenue and purchase a condo in one of those new buildings overlooking the Hudson River.

  “Inga, you can’t tell me you ever had trouble meeting men,” I said. She was a bubbly woman with a curvy figure, nearly waist-length golden hair, and dark eyes, so frankly it was hard for me to imagine.

  “Oh, Clare, you just don’t get it. The on-line thing opens up a whole new world. I mean, it let’s you brrrrrrrowse.”

  Now she sounded like Catwoman.

  “Inga,” I said, “you make it sound like a shopping spree.”

  “Exactly! And you know shopping is totally my life!”

  O-kay. “So what can I get you this morning?”

  Inga was a regular but she didn’t have a “usual.” She ordered something different almost every time she came into the Blend—which, now that I’d heard her approach to dating, helped me understand her ordering philosophy in a whole new way.

  “Hmmmm…let me see…what do I feel like…how about a Café Nocciuola?

  “Coming right up.”

  Nocciuola, which is Italian for hazelnut, was basically a latte with the addition of hazelnut-flavored syrup.

  (We didn’t have a liquor license, but I did keep a bottle of Frangelico, a lovely Italian hazelnut liqueur, hidden under the counter for the occasional spike—for a few very special customers upon request. When Matteo was around, he preferred to mix his own cheeky version, which he called a “Coffee-Hazelnut Cocktail,” a combination of Kahlúa, Frangelico, and vodka—hold the espresso. He especially liked to whip these up for the staff after closing on Saturday nights.)

  “You know, I’ve been thinking of trying the on-line thing out,” said my daughter, approaching the counter. She turned to Winnie and Inga. “Can you recommend any sites?”

  I tensed.

  The last thing I wanted to hear was my daughter, my innocent Joy, inquiring about signing herself up for the shop-and-drop grinder of this city’s computer dating scene. Not that I knew about it firsthand—but I’d heard quite enough war stories from the front lines.

  Still, what could I say? The last thing my daughter wanted to hear was advice from her mother, telling her to stop before she’d started. So zip it, Clare, I counseled myself. Joy doesn’t want your advice…She doesn’t want it…She doesn’t—

  “Joy, aren’t you busy with your culinary classes?” I blurted out. “I mean, computer dating doesn’t sound like something you’d have a lot of time for.”

  Joy gave me a look I can only assume was also used on heretics during the Spanish Inquisition.

  “I’d really like to know,” my daughter told Winnie, ignoring me completely.

  “Um…I don’t know,” said Winnie, glancing uneasily from Joy to me and back again.

  “SinglesNYC.com,” said Inga without hesitation. “I’m on it, like, 24/7, you know, to check out the new guys.”

  “Thanks,” said Joy. “I’ll register this afternoon.”

  God, Joy, sometimes you’re as stubborn as your damned father!

  “You know what,” I said. “I’m going to register this afternoon, too.”

  “You!” cried Tucker.

  “You?” cried Esther.

  Then everyone stared.

  “Why not?” I said.

  “Because…” said Tucker, “for one thing, you’ve never even attended the Cappuccino Connection.”

  “And that goes on right upstairs!” added Esther.

  “True. But I feel differently all of a sudden.” I threw a pointed glance at Joy. “Like computer dating might be worth a try.”

  Joy rolled her eyes. “Okay, Mom, first of all, it’s called on-line dating. Not computer dating. ‘Computer dating’ was like something somebody did with punch cards in the stone age. But, you know what, go ahead. You register, too. In fact, I’ll help you with the profile. Maybe you’ll finally see there’s nobody better than Daddy out there.”

  “I sincerely doubt that,” I told her.

  I also sincerely doubted I’d actually meet anyone of romantic consequence. But, for my daughter’s sake—or maybe my own peace of mind where my daughter was concerned—I was going to make sure any service she used was legit.

  A few minutes later, a crew from St. Vincent’s Hospital came in looking for their caffeine hits, and Tucker and I were swamped.

  “Got that lat?”

  “Got it!”

  “Skinny cap with wings!”

  Cappuccino with skim milk, extra foam.

  “Dopey X!”

  Doppio—aka “double”—espresso.

  “Caffé Carm!”

  Caffé Caramella—a latte with caramel syrup, sweetened whipped cream, and a drizzle of warm caramel topping.

  “Americano!”

  Espresso diluted with hot water.

  “Grande skinny!”

  Latte with skim milk.

  “XXX!”

  Triple espresso.

  “Cap, get the lead out!”

  Cappuccino with decaf. I shuddered—decaf drinkers truly gave me the creeps.

  “Clare,” called Detective Quinn, approaching me behind the counter. “I have a question for you before I go.”

  With his grim expression back, I expected a query concerning Valerie Lathem…or at the very least one about the list of coffee drinks that seemed to constantly perplex him. But to my stunned surprise, he didn’t mention either one.

  “Are you free for dinner Thursday?”

  THREE

  SHE lived in one of those high-priced new buildings they’d put up near the river with rooftop parking and a view of the Jersey swamps.

  HUDSON VIEW read the white metal sign bolted to the red brick building. “CONDOS AVAILABLE, INQUIRE IN-SIDE.”

  The bricks were new, the cheap chrome light fixtures shiny as a drawer full of QVC cubic zirconias, but the building had no style, no character, and no history. A nearly featureless rectangle, which, in the Genius’s view, would succinctly describe the woman inside—if you added a pair of pathetically second-rate breasts.

  Her SinglesNYC.com profile had lied, of course.

  “All of them lie,” whispered the Genius. “All of them…”

  From the building across the street, the Genius watched the woman prepare for her Thursday night date. With her drapes left wide open, the blonde probably assumed no one was peeping. An easy mistake, since she was fifteen floors up, the office building directly across from her condo was only half leased, and the space where the Genius now stood appeared unlit and uninhabited.

  Through the dark window, the Genius watched the woman drop her white towel and step into a lacey pair of black panties.

  “Well, well, well, I see our hair color’s a dye job…”

  Next came the bra—a push-up lace number that matched the black panties.

  “That’s it, honey, work what you’ve got,” whispered the Genius, disgusted by the woman’s attempt to disguise her second-rate breasts.

  Then came the little black dress, the shoes, the jewelry, the makeup. And…what’s this? The Genius peered through a pair of binoculars to find the woman moving toward her laptop. After punching up the SinglesNYC Web site, the woman stared at the photo, reread the profile.

  “Yes, and what do you think of tonight’s date? Quite a catch isn’t he?”

  Inside her apartment, the woman strode confidently to the mirror to survey herself. Then, giving herself a dirty little smile, she reached up beneath her skirt and slowly pulled off her panties.

  “No panties for the big date? Hmmmm…another bad girl.”

  “So what’s bothering you about it?” I asked Mike Quinn that Thursday evening.

  “Something doesn’t sit right,” he said. “I mean apart from the fact that the transit boys let the news vultures snap away before the blood was swabbed up.”

  “Those front page photos were…unfortunate,” I said. “I can’t imagine how Valerie Lathem’s poor grandmother felt, seeing her granddaughter’s blood on the tracks like that. Splashed
all over the newspapers.”

  “You got it,” said Quinn on an exhale of disgust. “You got it.”

  I put down the salad bowl of fresh mesclun, raddiccio, and grape tomatoes, glistening in a dressing of olive oil, aged balsamic, and freshly ground sea salt, the shaved Pecorino Romano cresting over it all in creamy curling waves. Then I sat next to the detective in the cozy dining room of my duplex, which was located in the two floors above the Village Blend.

  I’d set the antique Chippendale table with care, using the handmade lace cloth Madame had purchased in Florence and the candleholders of blown Venetian glass. Before Quinn arrived, I’d lit the candles and lowered the chandelier’s wattage, so the flickering glow of candlelight would reflect itself in the polished wood sideboard and bring a feeling of warmth to the room.

  Earlier in the day, Quinn had offered to take me out to a nearby restaurant, but I told him it was a better idea for me to cook dinner for him at my place. No mental slouch, he understood.

  Quinn was a married man. A lot of people knew us in this neighborhood. Since I had nothing prurient in mind—and I sincerely doubted he did, either—I didn’t think we should take the chance of giving the wrong impression to some passing acquaintance. Ours, or worse, his wife’s.

  Better, I thought, to keep our private friendship just that—private.

  “Wine?” I asked.

  He’d thoughtfully brought a bottle of Pinot Grigio, and I’d been letting it breathe on Madame’s Florentine tablecloth for the last ten minutes.

  “Let me,” he said and poured for us both.

  I was relieved to see him take a glass because, from the moment he’d entered the apartment, he seemed tense, making me wonder if I really had made the right decision to entertain him privately.

  Maybe the wine would relax him.

  “So is that why you were unhappy with the transit police?” I asked. “Because of the news photos?”

  “Something doesn’t sit right,” he repeated.

  I studied Quinn’s face, all freshly shaved angles, shadows still present under winter blue eyes. As usual, his expression was unreadable.

  We sat in silence a few moments.