To her boss Vivian’s delight, Moe’s coverage was reposted widely. Vivian started selling ads to national accounts. Money was coming in and Moe was getting a bonus.
Moe finishes forcing the ice into the already full coolers. She watches Francis at the grill, tongs in one hand and a beer in the other. He chats easily with Cynthia, sharing his closely guarded grilling secret of lump charcoal from a specific combination of hardwoods. Cyn looks beautiful in a floppy hat, sundress, and a lot of exposed skin. Moe feels foolish at her initial reluctance to invite her.
“I’d love to meet your family,” Cyn had said. “What’s the big deal?”
“My father, he is … traditional.”
“It’s not a secret you’re gay? I don’t have relationships with people who aren’t out.”
“I’m out. He knows. But I’ve never introduced him to people I’ve dated. My personal life has always been … partitioned.”
“It’s a lot easier to be your whole self all the time. Being a different Moe for different people must be exhausting.”
“It’s how I’ve always done it.”
“Consider this an opportunity to simplify. Besides, fathers love me,” Cyn had told her.
“Hey, cousin,” Whistler calls. Moe didn’t know he’d arrived. “Your girlfriend is nice. Smart too. And white. She may be the whitest woman ever in this yard.” He carries a big tray covered in aluminum foil. “Clear a spot, would ya? This thing is hot.”
Moe makes room and Whistler sets the load down fast. “Oh man. Hand me a beer.” She reaches in the cooler, digs through far too much ice, and passes him a bottle. He rolls it over his forehead and the back of his neck. Moe can see the place where hair is growing over the fresh scar.
“Where’s Uncle Sebastian?” Moe asks.
“He stopped for fresh tortillas. He sent me with the tamales. He’ll be here.” He twists the cap off his beer. Moe knocks her bottle against his and they drink.
“What about that tall blonde you were going to invite?”
“She’s engaged to an actuary.”
“Hmm. Too bad. What’s an actuary?”
“I think it’s the study of the cost of risk. Something like that. He’s a numbers guy for an insurance company. He’s boring, but he’s tall.”
“Too bad. Oh. I bought you something.” She produces a circular box. “Because you’re a detective and that’s a big deal. And you closed your first case.”
“That’s what the hot shrimps were for.”
“No, that was because you tried to save me. As if I need saving. And because we survived.”
“I see.” Whistler pulls the top off the box. Inside, the most beautiful short-brimmed, upturned fedora he has ever seen. He lifts it carefully, puts it on his head. “How’s it look?”
“Like it was made for you,” she says. “Because it was. There’s a Cuban guy in Albany Park. I told him to make it look tough.”
“I love it.”
“It’s your signature look,” she says.
The back gate opens and a petite Asian woman steps in and waits. Moe admires the way she’s put together. I wish I were a dress girl. Someone joins the woman in the dress; he stands exactly the same height, and is dressed like he’s misplaced his golf bag.
Whistler barks, “Zucchini.”
“Partner!” Suzuki calls. He and his wife come over. Introductions are made. They talk lightly and swig beers. Cynthia joins them and holds Moe’s hand, introduces herself. The back gate opens again. Jerome holds it for his suburban fiancé. Dale and Loni walk in moments later. Jerome and his date take the momentary commotion as a chance to wander away and smoke a few cigarettes.
“Food’s ready,” Francis says. He proudly carries a platter piled with meat.
“You didn’t have to throw this party for me,” Suzuki jokes. “I know I arrested the strangler, rushed to his house, and arrested his wife before she could escape. I retrieved my partner’s firearm and still had energy to get lucky when I got home.” Suzuki pats his wife on the ass.
Everyone’s side conversations stop, not so subtly anticipating Mrs. Suzuki’s reaction.
“He wishes,” she says. “He fell asleep on the couch watching The Great British Bake Off. Like he does every night.”
Everyone laughs. Moe watches Cyn’s brow crinkle in that special way. She glances around to all the smiling faces, with the exception of Suzuki. Apparently he hadn’t enjoyed his wife joking at his expense.
Reopening
The grand reopening of Coffee Girl takes place on a Monday. Calvert, having lost his job at approximately the moment Rosa broke a chair over Gladsky, has been helping out part-time. It’s twenty minutes to six, and he’s brewing coffee for the morning rush while Rosa makes them each a cortado. They move in a comfortable waltz within the narrow space behind the counter.
Either Calvert is no longer dead, or he never was. He’s still deciding how best to frame the entire episode. His memory continues to improve. With his recent resurrection came the knowledge that Rosa is a young, beautiful woman, and he is a man in his fifties. On the face of it, they are a poor match, only marginally better a paring than he and Kati had been. Furthermore, Rosa’s affection for him does not reach a romantic level. He’s learning to live with that. However, the realization has allowed him to avoid the embarrassing confession he’d intended to make. Since she is not his love match, he has license to keep his secrets.
“When I’m done with the coffee, I’ll put out the baked goods,” Calvert says. While Rosa was recovering, she enlisted her mother as official baker for Coffee Girl. Each morning Rosa drops Thomas with Consuela and picks up an order of flavored conchas, bow-tie Danish, and cream cheese–filled bear claws.
Rosa says, “I left them in back.”
He’s taken inspiration from Barney, his neighbor. He committed himself to a life of celibacy. ‘Committed’ may be too strong a word. He’s also begun learning the craft of letterpress printing. In Barney’s studio, and with his friend’s help, he’s begun to print small posters on tan chipboard. His first print had been a quote from Nikolai Gogol: “Whatever you may say, the body depends on the soul.”
“That’s a good print,” Barney said. “What’s next?”
“I’d like to hand-set my obituary.”
“That’s twisted,” Barney had said. “I like it.”
Calvert pushes the door to the storeroom, and Daisy sits up in her dog bed.
Allen and Jackson, the two remaining employees of Bug Off, had pooled resources and purchased the extermination company for a fraction of the value. The new Bug Off would maintain existing contracts. The two of them, along with Jackson’s dog, Buddy, will continue checking a block of rooms five days a week on a rotating schedule for good money.
Allen had stopped by Coffee Girl the previous week. “Jackson told me to take this bitch to the pound ‘cause we only need one dog,” Allen explained. “But I thought, That crazy professor might like to have her. So I brought her by. What do you think?”
“It depends what Daisy wants,” Calvert said. Hearing her name, Daisy walked over to flop on Calvert’s feet.
“That settles it,” Allen said. “Good luck, Professor. Stay crazy.”
“Do I have a choice? You be good, Allen.”
“Where’s the fun in that?” He had turned and walked away.
Now Calvert says, “Daisy, stay,” and she settles back down. He pats her side a few times. “Who’s the best guard dog?”
He washes his hands over the sink and takes the baked goods to the pastry case, where he arranges them for maximum appeal.
“Come sit,” Rosa says.
Calvert checks the time. Ten more minutes. He’s anxious for the day to go well. He sits across from Rosa. “I’ll take Daisy to the park for a minute before we open.” The park has become one of his favorite spots. It has cast cement benches with raised backward letters as if set for letterpress printing. The benches rest at perfect angles for watching Daisy play and sniff her do
g friends.
Rosa lifts her cortado.
He lifts his. He loves how easy it is to be in her presence. In truth, he hopes that somehow, with the passage of time, she may begin to have stronger feelings for him than she does now. He taps the bottom of his tumbler on the top of hers. “To starting over.”
“To new beginnings,” she responds.
He tips the coffee to his lips. It’s silky and rich. The aroma surpasses words; it speaks to the structures of his brain that predate language and logic; it nurtures his very soul. He takes a tiny sip while looking into Rosa’s face, catching the soft smile at the corners of her mouth, at the edges of her eyes. It’s not the smile she first showed him, the one that brought her whole face alive. It’s quieter, guarded, and betrays a cautious worldview. But it’s honest and speaks to the toll life takes if you live long enough. And she chooses to share it with him.
He sets the coffee down between sips, to make it last as long as possible.
ALSO AVAILABLE BY BRANDON GRAHAM
Good for Nothing
Missing People
Author Biography
Brandon Graham studied visual and written narrative at Columbia College, Chicago at the Center for Book and Paper Arts. He is a visual artist who writes.
This is a work of fiction. All of the names, characters, organizations, places and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real or actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2021 by Brandon Graham
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Crooked Lane Books, an imprint of The Quick Brown Fox & Company LLC.
Crooked Lane Books and its logo are trademarks of The Quick Brown Fox & Company LLC.
Library of Congress Catalog-in-Publication data available upon request.
ISBN (hardcover): 978-1-64385-822-7
ISBN (ebook): 978-1-64385-823-4
Cover design by Patrick Sullivan
Printed in the United States.
www.crookedlanebooks.com
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First Edition: August 2021
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