by Sandra Balzo
Maybe a nice piece of tilapia. If I blackened it . . .
A red Probe suddenly darted out of Schultz’s parking lot, cutting us off. Sarah slammed on her brakes. The old Firebird didn’t have shoulder harnesses, but since I routinely keep one hand braced on the dashboard when I ride with Sarah, I was able to save my face.
‘Damn it, McNamara,’ Sarah screamed. ‘I have a sixteen-year-old kid who’s a better driver!’
The car windows being closed, this was lost on Kate McNamara, editor of The Brookhills Observer. Nearly deafened me, though.
‘She’s going to HotWired,’ I said, rubbing my left ear. ‘You just watch.’
Sarah glanced over at me. ‘Been losing customers to them?’
I shrugged. ‘Haven’t noticed.’
‘You haven’t noticed?’ She turned into the HotWired parking lot. ‘That’s hard to believe.’
I sighed. ‘To be honest, I’m trying not to notice. Caron says I’m driving people crazy. Sophie Daystrom didn’t come in for a week and I nearly gave her a stroke, questioning her about where she was. Turns out the poor old thing had been visiting her daughter in Florida.’ Sophie was one of the seniors who frequented Uncommon Grounds.
I undid the seatbelt and started to climb out of the car.
‘Sophie has two sons,’ Sarah said.
That stopped me. ‘No daughters?’
Sarah shook her head. ‘Nope.’
Great, not only were the seniors defecting, I’d managed to frighten an eighty-one-year-old woman into lying to me. Mom would be so proud.
I got out, slammed the car door and tried not to look at the other cars in the HotWired parking lot.
‘A Lexus, an Infiniti, two Hyundais and a Jaguar,’ Sarah reported as she got out the other side. ‘Extra points for the Jaguar, right?’
‘Double,’ I agreed automatically. Then I caught myself. ‘But I’m not keeping track.’
I have a nasty habit of counting vehicles in competitors’ parking lots to see how we compare. Sometimes I even factor in make and model (two Hyundais equals one Saab, or half a Jaguar convertible).
Sarah rolled her eyes. ‘You can’t help yourself, Maggy. It’s who you are.’
She had a point, which was one of the reasons I’d avoided the new HotWired until now. I figured if I started counting cars or scouting for our regulars, I’d end up bouncing back and forth between Uncommon Grounds and HotWired like some overly competitive, mathematically deranged ping-pong ball.
‘Kate’s Probe isn’t here?’ I asked. That was a relief, at least. Kate McNamara could be a pain in the butt, but she was a steady customer.
‘She hid it behind the building.’
‘Oh.’
I have to admit: I was hurt. First Sophie, now Kate. It was like when I found out Ted was cheating on me, but this time I’d been tossed aside for a bad cup of coffee. I took a deep breath. As Bonnie Raitt says, you can’t make someone love you. Or your coffee.
‘This HotWired is a carbon copy of the others,’ I said, trying to change the subject. ‘You’d think Janalee would push for a little originality.’
As I mentioned, Janalee had owned the first store of what was to become the HotWired chain long before she ever met LaRoche. Janalee’s Place was located in a big old house on the northern, less chi-chi side of town. That would be my side of town. The comfortably shabby original might be the genesis of HotWired, but it certainly wasn’t the prototype. In my opinion, it had twice the personality of the high-tech, Matrix-meets-mocha feel of the newer HotWired stores.
Sarah locked the Firebird. ‘I said “carbon copy” the other day to Sam, and he said I was dating myself, that nobody uses carbon paper anymore. “Clone” apparently is the in-word.’
‘I think the word “in-word” is out,’ I said. ‘Besides, isn’t a clone, literally, a “carbon” copy?’
As we made for the door, Sarah ignored my scientific input. ‘Besides, if Janalee was going to push LaRoche to do anything, it would be all that natural crap.’
All that ‘natural crap’, as Sarah put it, was Fair Trade and shade-grown coffees, along with dairy products that were free of growth hormones. Fair Trade coffees were beans that were certified grown in a way that was environmentally friendly and also provided fair wages for the people who grew and harvested them. Shade-grown coffees preserved forests that would otherwise be clear-cut to plant coffee.
From its inception, Janalee’s Place had been ‘a coffeehouse with a social conscience’ and Amy carried on that tradition. Social conscience, though, didn’t come without a price, and even if Marvin LaRoche hadn’t tinkered with Janalee’s Place, he’d put his own ‘green’ stamp – the one with dollar signs – on the new stores.
At Uncommon Grounds, there was always an undertone of conversation, punctuated by greetings for new arrivals. When we walked into HotWired, the undertone was the click-clack of computer keys, and the enthusiastic ‘Welcome!’ was followed by ‘You’ve got mail!’
I thought I heard a familiar voice in all the cyber hustle and bustle and turned just in time to see Sophie Daystrom duck behind a computer screen. I saw something else, too. A gray fedora lay on the stool that had been pulled out beside the computer.
‘That’s Henry’s hat,’ I whispered to Sarah. ‘The traitor. How could he do that to me? I reserved his chair. Put up a sign up and everything.’
Sarah grabbed my arm and tried to propel me away. ‘Rise above it, Maggy. Don’t let them know they’ve hurt you.’
‘Hurt, shmurt. That sign’s going down. Henry’s going―’
‘Look, Maggy, there’s Janalee.’ Sarah sounded like she was placating a crabby two-year-old. Which was probably about the right level of maturity for the way I was acting.
I turned reluctantly.
In the midst of all the high-tech activity, Janalee LaRoche was an island of calm. A tall, blue-eyed blonde, Janalee favored peasant skirts, vests in natural fabrics and espadrilles – those canvas sandals with the woven platform soles. I would have looked like Heidi in the get-up, but Janalee managed ‘chic’ even with a baby hammocked across her chest.
‘Is that a coffee bag?’ I asked.
The baby was in a sling-type carrier, seemingly fashioned from one of the burlap bags used to ship coffee beans.
Janalee came toward us with a smile. ‘Maggy, Sarah. How good to see you. And yes, it is a coffee bag, Maggy. One of the 154-pound bags from Columbia. Little Davy just loves it.’ She patted the baby’s red cheek. ‘Don’t you, sweetie?’
‘Little Davy’ looked like he wanted to be anywhere but in the bag. He let out a yowl.
‘I think he’s leaking.’ Sarah pointed toward a growing wet patch on the carrier.
Janalee reached around and felt it. ‘I’m afraid it’s one of the perils of using cloth diapers,’ she said. ‘But nothing but the best for my little boy and the world he lives in. Isn’t that right, Davy?’
She was talking in that annoying sing-song baby voice, the one I no doubt had used when Eric was little. Being a new mother is a little like getting drunk in public. It’s only in hindsight that you realize what a fool you made of yourself.
‘Don’t you use rubbers?’ Sarah asked.
‘Maybe Davy was unplanned,’ Janalee said, drawing herself up indignantly, ‘but―’
‘No, no.’ I elbowed Sarah in the ribs. ‘I think Sarah meant rubber pants.’
‘Ohhhhh.’ The smile came back. ‘Actually, Sarah, I use organic wool diaper covers, instead of rubber or plastic pants. The wool is not only more environmentally friendly, but it holds thirty percent of its weight in urine without feeling damp. The wool cover doesn’t lock in the wetness next to Davy’s little bum, like rubber pants would. When I’m at home, I let him go with just the cloth diaper. So freeing, don’t you think?’
Frankly, Sarah looked like she didn’t give a damn about freeing little Davy’s butt.
I jumped in. ‘Don’t disposables wick the moisture away?’ I asked in a mother-to-mothe
r tone.
Janalee’s hand went to her mouth. ‘Six thousand disposable diapers go into landfills for each baby. Can you believe that, Maggy?’
Well, Eric and I had certainly done our part. Somewhere there was probably a landfill named for us.
‘That is just a great baby carrier,’ I gushed, trying to steer the subject away from me and waste management. ‘Did you get it at Evram’s?’
Janalee gasped. ‘No, no – this is from Rene at Coffee Roasters of Las Vegas. You don’t buy anything at Evram’s department store, do you, Maggy? They use child labor from Third World countries.’
Way to go, Maggy. Right back in the toilet.
I turned toward the office, leaving Sarah to talk to Janalee.
It pained me to admit it, but Marvin LaRoche might well be a saint.
Chapter Four
Like I said, I’d never been to this particular HotWired, but since LaRoche valued the cookie-cutter approach to business, I knew where to find him: the loft.
HotWired shops were two stories high – airy and open to the roofline in the front, with a loft/office forming a partial second floor in the rear of the building. Large windows in the office overlooked the coffeehouse floor. It was a great layout for keeping an eye on your employees or picking off the enemy as she climbs the metal steps to breach your position.
I have a fear of heights. Did I mention that?
It’s not so much that I’m scared I’m going to fall, as I think I might just go crazy and toss myself over. Freud, Jung, Skinner: have a go at me. Bring your friends. If you have any.
Anyway, clanging my way up the iron-pipe stairway held together by assorted nuts, bolts and, I hoped, heavy-duty lock washers, made me nervous. As I climbed, I asked myself what I was doing there. Not only was LaRoche a worm, he made me feel stupid. And I hated to feel stupid. So why put myself through it? Maybe I should just leave.
Too late. The door above me opened abruptly and LaRoche stared down at me. Sort of. With a shock, I realized the man was slightly cross-eyed. How could I have missed that?
I’d always thought LaRoche was a little shifty-looking, even when he was being ‘faux friendly’ to us. Had I just been reacting to the fact he was cross-eyed? Maybe it made me vaguely uneasy, even if I hadn’t quite registered why.
Geez, if that was true, I was dirt. Insensitive, prejudiced dirt. I held out my hand to him.
LaRoche took it and turned it over to plant a kiss on the palm. ‘Coming to negotiate terms of surrender, Maggy?’ He grinned and turned away, leaving the door open for me to follow.
OK, he was dirt. Cross-eyed dirt. Smiling, cross-eyed dirt. I wiped off my hand on my pants.
‘Surrender?’ I asked, following him in. ‘Whatever do you mean, Marvin?’ I could be charming, too. Faux charming.
‘Do I smell a story here?’ a female voice asked. Kate McNamara, aforementioned editor and crappy driver, stood by LaRoche’s desk, sorting through papers in her briefcase.
More likely what she smelled was over-roasted coffee beans, but Kate probably wouldn’t know the difference anyway.
LaRoche shook his head. ‘I was merely teasing Maggy, Kate. I’ve been re-reading Sun Tzu’s The Art of War.’ He nodded to a slim book on his desk. ‘I’m afraid I have military maneuvers on my mind.’
And all over his office. On the shelves next to LaRoche’s desk, miniature toy soldiers did battle on three levels, the books behind them forming a backdrop. One tiny soldier was even tied to a string, apparently rappelling to the shelf below to land on a tome about the Battle of Normandy.
‘Guess he’s going up, not down,’ I murmured.
LaRoche seemed startled, then he saw what I was looking at. He tipped his head in approval. ‘Quite right. Scaling the cliffs of Normandy.’
The way he said it made me think of a professor who had just been surprised by a student he believed was a dolt. Little did he know I’d just watched The Longest Day on DVD the prior week.
Kate looked like a dolt herself for a second, but recovered nicely and handed LaRoche a paper. I figured she’d be Googling ‘cliffs +Normandy + toy soldier’ within five minutes of getting to her office. ‘Here’s your copy of the ad contract, Marvin.’
Kate turned to me. ‘You should be advertising, too, Maggy. Offering free drink coupons, like HotWired. People would love it.’
My first thought was that if we spent money on ads, it wouldn’t be in a glorified shopper like The Brookhills Observer. My second thought was, Free drink coupons?
LaRoche was nodding. ‘It’s a great way to get people in the door.’
Also a great way to bankrupt your competition. Free drinks for a week was one thing, but if HotWired gave them away for any length of time . . .
‘So, Marvin,’ Kate said, picking up her briefcase and crossing to the door, ‘we’ll just automatically renew in thirty days. You tell us when to stop.’ She smiled, all teeth and glossy black hair and freckles. I wanted to stomp her.
This was my worst nightmare.
Well, this and not being able to get to the basement before a tornado comes. My ‘I’m hurrying, but not getting anywhere’ dream. Now that Ted and I were divorced, the nightmare had devolved into an ‘I’m trying to get to the basement, but there is no basement’ dream.
Scary enough, but a competitor with pockets sufficiently deep to give away their product until they ran you out of business? That was right up there with tornadoes – with or without basements – believe me.
Sarah’s ‘Don’t let them know they’ve hurt you’ reverberated in my head. ‘Don’t shoot until you see the whites of their eyes’ was bouncing around in there, too, for some reason.
I smiled back at Kate. ‘I’ll think about that advertising. Thanks.’ In fact, I had a feeling I’d have trouble not thinking about the advertising. Especially around three a.m.
LaRoche said goodbye to Kate and closed the door behind her. He didn’t seem at all upset she had blabbed about the ads. Probably hoped I’d be intimidated.
He picked up The Art of War. ‘As I was saying, Maggy. If you’re a student of military gamesmanship, you really must read this.’
‘I’m afraid I don’t think killing, or being killed, is much of a game,’ I said dryly.
‘Such a female way of looking at it.’ He laughed, his blue eyes and white teeth flashing in contrast to his Fake n’ Bake tan. ‘It’s all about strategy, Maggy. Tactics. And that’s a game we play every day in business –’ a yowl from Little Davy downstairs – ‘or in our personal lives.’
I eyed Sun Tzu’s book, which I actually had read at the suggestion of a colleague twenty years ago. Two decades, but that was just a drop in the bucket for the Chinese general’s book. Sun Tzu had been born around 500 BC. Which just went to show you, nothing really changes. Especially human nature.
Flip-flop BOING, flip-flop BOING, fli-flop BOING. Janalee was coming up the stairs in her thick-soled espadrilles. I hoped the BOING wasn’t Davy’s head hitting the metal railing as the baby-sling swung with every step. Encouragingly, I didn’t hear crying, though I guess that could have meant either unscathed or unconscious.
Janalee tapped on the door and came in. Davy’s bulky carrier was under one arm. In the opposite hand, Janalee carried a big brown paper bag. The woman was a packhorse. How in the world had she scaled the steep steps like that?
Janalee divested herself of the brown bag – presumably the boing of the flip-flop BOING – and fished Davy out of the sling. She set him down on the pine-planked floor.
‘Janalee, dear,’ LaRoche said, eying Davy as the baby settled himself next to his father’s battle-shelves. ‘Can I help you with something?’
While the words said one thing, the tone said something altogether different. Something not very nice.
But Janalee just smiled. ‘Sarah told me that Maggy has volunteered to oversee the barista competition, and I wanted to thank her and turn over the files.’
I guessed that explained what Sarah needed to see Janalee
about.
‘Really?’ LaRoche turned to me. ‘That’s a marvelous idea, Maggy. It’s a very visible position, and Uncommon Grounds could certainly use the exposure.’
I hate this man, I hate this man, I hate this man.
I gritted my teeth and smiled – it’s harder than it sounds. ‘I would love to take over the competition.’ Especially if that competition was HotWired.
I was looking at Marvin when I said it, but Janalee answered. ‘Thank you so much, Maggy. You’re a lifesaver.’
She pulled a big stack of files out of the bottom of the baby sling. I wondered if she had a Volkswagen and clowns in there, too.
‘It was no problem doing the upfront arrangements,’ Janalee was saying, ‘but with Davy . . .’ She gestured to where the baby was now standing, having pulled himself up on the bookshelves to grab the dangling soldier. He’d left a puddle on the floor – apparently the ‘organic wool diaper cover’ had reached its thirty-percent organic wool saturation point. ‘. . .starting to get around, it would be impossible for me to get anything done.’ She handed me the files.
They felt a little damp, so I took them gingerly. ‘Thanks, Janalee. I’ll call you if I have any questions after looking them over.’
Which would be subsequent to drying and disinfecting them.
LaRoche nodded in approval. ‘I’m sure you’ll do a bang-up job, Maggy. I’m head judge, so don’t hesitate to turn to me for advice.’
Right. That had worked out so well once before. ‘Thank you, Marvin, but I was an event manager in my PR life, remember? I think I’ll be able to handle it.’
In truth, I hadn’t the faintest idea what to do. I’d only seen one barista competition in my life. Not that I was going to tell LaRoche that. As his hero, Sun Tzu, had said, ‘The opportunity of defeating the enemy is provided by the enemy himself.’ I didn’t intend to provide LaRoche with anything, especially information on my possible shortcomings.
But LaRoche wasn’t paying any attention to me. He was staring at the coffeehouse floor below us, where ground zero of the Battle for the Barista had just walked in.
Amy.
She was with a gray-haired man, who towered over the five-feet two-inch, rainbow-haired, multiply-pierced barista by a full foot. I recognized the man as Levitt Fredericks, president of EarthBean, a consortium of storeowners and roasters who worked for environmentally friendly trade practices.