Through The Grinder cm-2 Read online

  “You hate and despise human beings, and at the same time you can not be happy without them…”

  A consultant of some sort, Kira was recently divorced, living alone, and approaching fifty. She’d started coming by the Blend pretty frequently about six weeks ago. When I first saw her, I thought she was a striking woman with refined features, beautiful cheekbones, and an admirable head of long dark hair. Lately, however, I noticed she’d started letting herself go. Her usually creamy skin looked blotchy and wind burned, her body looked far too thin, like she wasn’t eating enough, and she’d even stopped dyeing her hair. It now hung in a long gray braid down her oversized blue sweater.

  Kira’s usual Sunday ritual was the Travel and Leisure section, then the crossword puzzle, accompanied by a grande cappuccino and a butter croissant. As a regular, she didn’t need to tell me her order. She just needed to appear.

  I half-filled the stainless steel pitcher with whole milk, then opened the valve on the steam wand, warming the milk on the bottom and foaming it on top. Then I set aside the pitcher, ran the ravishingly oily espresso roast beans through the grinder, dosed the ground coffee into the portafilter cup, tamped it tightly down, and, after sweeping excess grinds from the rim, clamped its handle into place.

  With the start of the extraction process, I checked the espresso’s viscosity, making sure it was oozing out of the machine (yes, it should ooze like warm honey — if it gushes out, the machine’s temperature and pressure is off, and it’s not espresso but a brewed beverage).

  Our machine is semi-automatic, which means the barista (that’s me) must manually stop the water flow between eighteen and twenty-four seconds. Any longer and the beverage is over-extracted (bitter and burnt-tasting because the sugars have deteriorated). Any shorter and its under-extracted (weak, insipid, and completely uninspiring). Like a lot of things in life, making a great espresso depended on a number of variables — and timing was certainly one of them.

  “It’s not a real channel anyway, is it — New York 1?” asked Joy. “I mean, it’s one of those community service deals, right?”

  “Right. A tax write-off for Time Warner,” said one of my part-timers, Esther Best (shortened from Bestovasky by her grandfather), an NYU student with wild dark hair currently stuffed into a backward baseball cap. She was swabbing one of the few empty coral-colored marble tables with a wet towel. “I’ve got a friend whose sister works there. Apparently, they have a saying in the newsroom — you can get on New York 1, but you can’t get off.”

  “What does that mean?” asked Joy.

  Esther shrugged. “It’s because they run the stories so often. But you can’t blame them. Because of their budget, their staff is, like, miniscule, I mean compared to an outfit like CNN.”

  Joy shrugged. “All I know is, my favorite segment is that one they repeat every hour in the morning, the one where they read you the headlines. It really rocks.”

  “True,” said Esther. “I myself can’t get out of bed in the morning till I hear Weather on the Ones, and that hottie anchor Pat Kiernan reads me the headlines from all the New York papers.”

  “Word,” said Joy.

  (Eavesdropping on the college crowd, I’d long ago assumed, contextually, that word was vernacular hip-hop for “right on” or “and how” — or something along those lines.)

  Tucker made a sour face. “You ladies think Kiernan’s a hottie? With that baby face and those insurance salesmen suits?”

  “Sure,” said Joy. “He’s nerd hot.”

  “Yeah, like Clark Kent or something,” agreed Esther, adjusting her trendy black-framed glasses.

  My eyebrow rose. Joy’s last boyfriend was anything but “nerd hot.” With his long dark ponytail, olive complexion, barbed-wire tattoo, and flashing arrogant eyes, Mario Forte looked more like Antonio Banderas’s younger brother. My ex-husband, who shared many of these features, had hated him on sight.

  So what happened to Mario? I was dying to ask my daughter. But I’d already read The 101 Ways to Embarrass Your Daughter and Piss Her Off for Decades handbook — and I figured it was better left unasked…for now.

  Instead, I poured Kira’s freshly drawn espresso shots into a grande-size cup, slid in the steamed milk, topped it with foamed milk — and changed the subject. “So did Clark Kent Kiernan cover that suicide story this morning?”

  “Are you kidding?” said Esther. “He was totally all over it. Pat doesn’t usually do the weekend anchor thing. He’s the weekday guy, but I got lucky this morning. And lemme tell you, my pulse was on overdrive. It felt like he was talking about me.”

  “Excuse me, Miss Six Feet Under,” said Tucker, “but since when do you identify yourself as a corpse on the tracks of the Union Square R train?”

  “Excuse me, Mr. Queer Eye,” Esther snapped right back. “I meant the Village Blend part. I work at the Blend. He talked about the Blend. Hello? Get it?”

  “Yes, sugar-lumps, I got it.”

  “Good.”

  “Here you go,” I told Kira, handing her the steaming cappuccino and a small plate with a warm croissant.

  “Thanks, Clare. You know, I’ve got all the papers this morning if you haven’t seen them yet.” Kira held up a big Lands End canvas carryall. Inside was enough newsprint to wrap dead fish through a nuclear winter.

  I hesitated a moment. Since Madame’s predawn phone call, I’d tried to put the gruesome news out of my mind and just focus on serving the rush of regulars that came in on Sunday, which was much different than the weekend crush of office workers and commuters.

  Today we’d see mostly dog-walking residents, straight and gay couples sharing fat editions of the Sunday Times, and well-dressed worshipers from the many nearby churches. Interns and staff from St. Vincent’s Hospital would come in around noon, and NYU students would take over most of the tables after that, with their laptops and cell phones.

  “Mom, we should probably take a look,” said Joy.

  I nodded and poured myself a cup of the house blend — a unique mix of beans that changed annually, depending on my ex-husband’s recommendations.

  Matteo Allegro, apart from being Madame’s son — and my ex — was an astute coffee broker, the Blend’s coffee buyer, and the descendant of Antonio Vespasian Allegro, the man who’d originally opened the Blend. He was also a pain in my ass — and, thank goodness, currently in East Africa, chasing a primo crop of Sidamo, if not shapely legs and long-lashed eyes, which was why I’d applied the prefix “ex” to my husband in the first place.

  “What’s wrong?” asked Joy as she watched me bolt half the cup of java.

  I shrugged, pouring more and moving around the counter. “Death isn’t something a person should face without a fortifying hit of caffeine.”

  Two

  I didn’t notice when he’d arrived. Not right away. Which was very unusual. Because ever since he’d first walked through the Blend’s front door a few months back, I’d always noticed.

  Today, however, I’d been especially distracted. So when I finally did realize that Detective Mike Quinn of the Sixth Precinct’s detective squad had entered the coffeehouse, crossed the sun-washed room, and wandered up behind the huddling group of us, I was caught by surprise and actually became a little flustered.

  The main floor of the coffeehouse was rectangular in shape, with a row of tall, white French doors lining one side. In summer, these were thrown open for sidewalk seating, but on this chilly autumn day they were shut tight. At the room’s far end was an exposed brick wall, a working fireplace, and a wrought iron spiral staircase leading to the cozy second floor. (This staircase was for customers. The staff used the service stairs near the back door behind the pantry.)

  At the moment, the Sunday papers were spread out across one of the circa 1919 coral-colored marble-topped tables near the coffee bar. The Times, with their usually restrained reportage, had tucked the story of Valerie Lathem’s suicide on the inside of the Metro section. The Daily News and New York Post, however, had splash
ed lurid leads across their tabloid fronts.

  “Final Cup of Coffee” and “Jumpin’ with Joe” headlines were accompanied with nearly identical front-page photos of a Village Blend cup lying in the middle of grimy subway tracks. Because of the subway train’s height, the paper cup had been left eerily unmolested between the rails — unlike Valerie herself, whose blood had been splattered everywhere. This bizarre contrast had clearly piqued the morbid interest of the photographers.

  A color photo of the pretty young woman had been inset next to the stories on her suicide. Apparently, reporters had borrowed the picture from her grandmother, whom they’d visited for quotes before filing.

  “Any of you know Ms. Lathem?” the Detective abruptly bit out.

  Even on good days Mike Quinn’s manner wasn’t the warmest. On days like this, however, days after a particularly tragic death, the man had a voice like stale coffee — wrung out and bitter.

  I turned to find his twilight blue eyes on me, his square jaw sprouting the shadowy stubble of a beard. His clothes were relatives of the family Beige: brown pants, a gold printed tie hanging from a loose knot, and a winter coat the color of a cinnamon roast bean. From experience, I knew that beneath that coat, strapped across muscular shoulders, was a brown leather holster that held a gun the size of a howitzer.

  Under his bloodshot eyes, I noticed shadowy crescents. He’d probably been up half the night.

  “Let me get your usual,” I told him.

  He nodded, and I noticed his dark blonde hair, which was usually trimmed fairly short, was looking a little shaggy.

  The conversation around the table continued as I pulled the fresh espresso shots and steamed the milk for Quinn’s latte.

  “I’ve seen her come in here,” Esther Best told Quinn. “But I didn’t know her.”

  Tucker, Joy, and Kira all concurred. Each had recognized Valerie Lathem as a regular customer, but that was it.

  “The typical Manhattan existence,” said Tucker. “Many recognize you, but no one knows you.”

  “It’s awful,” I said, when Quinn moved to the coffee bar to take his latte. “She was so young.”

  “Twenty-seven,” said Quinn, leaning on the blue marble counter. He took a sip from the paper cup and closed his eyes. For the briefest moment, his features relaxed and his load seemed to lighten.

  When I’d met the detective a few months back, he’d been on a steady diet of stale Robusta bean crap, poured from a stained carafe at a Sixth Avenue bodega. I’d converted him into a regular with one good mug of Arabica house blend, followed by a freshly drawn latte. Ever since, I’d been savoring these brief flashes of surrender that would cross his routinely haggard face.

  My ex-husband seemed to think Quinn’s interest in me went beyond my ability to mix perfect Italian coffee drinks.

  I begged to differ.

  Quinn was a married man and our conversations rarely went beyond the level of a coffee barista bantering with her customer. On the other hand, if this truly was the only time the detective allowed himself to surrender to pleasure in the course of his day — I really did wonder what that said about our relationship.

  “Do you remember what she ordered?” Quinn asked me, suddenly opening his eyes. “As her final cup?”

  “What you’re having,” I said. “A double tall latte.”

  Quinn nodded.

  “It’s our most popular drink — which isn’t surprising. It’s the most popular drink at most specialty coffeehouses in America.”

  Quinn raised a questioning eyebrow.

  “Part of my research for an article I did last year for Cupping magazine,” I explained.

  He nodded.

  Behind the coffee bar, I prepped the espresso machine for its next shot, unclamping the portafilter handle and dumping the packed black grounds, knocking the cake-shaped debris into the under-counter garbage can.

  “So, Valerie Lathem’s death was a suicide then?” I asked. “I mean, according to the newspaper reports, the transit police are calling it a suicide. You’re not involved in the investigation, are you?”

  “It’s transit’s case. But Ms. Lathem was a Village resident, so my partner and I have been assigned to assist my transit brethren,” he said. “Search her apartment and such.”

  The caustic tone was subtle. Although you could never be sure with Quinn, I assumed he was not entirely happy with the course of the investigation.

  “You searched her apartment?” I repeated softly, pausing before I rinsed out the filter.

  Quinn nodded.

  “What do you think?”

  Quinn took another sip of his latte.

  Before he could say more — and, knowing Quinn, he certainly wouldn’t have said much more anyway — he was distracted by the increasing volume of the conversation at the table I’d just left.

  “…and the Post reports at the end of the article that she was just promoted,” said Tucker.

  “Where did she work?” asked Joy.

  “According to the Post…Triumph Travel,” said Tucker, examining the page.

  “Triumph has a lot of contracts around the city,” noted Kira. “They specialize in booking business trips for CEO-level execs.”

  “Really?” said Tucker, skimming the page, then looking at another paper. “How do you know that, Kira? Nobody mentions it.”

  Kira shrugged. “Easy, Tucker. I’m a genius.”

  “Why would she kill herself, do you think?” asked Joy.

  “Why does anybody kill themselves,” said Esther with a shrug. “Love.”

  “Love?” said Tucker. “And this from you, our Goddess of the Jaded?”

  “It’s only, like, monumentally embedded in our literary history,” Esther said. “Don’t you know that?”

  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.