by Ali Brandon
“James, I’m headed back up to the coffee lounge to meet with the committee,” she called to her manager, deliberately dismissing the other subject from her mind. When James nodded from his spot where he was arranging books at the bestseller table, she added, “Since this is our last get-together before the block party, we might run long. Can you handle things by yourself?”
“I believe I can cope,” was his wry reply as he looked about the nearly empty store. “And I certainly hope this event of yours helps business for all of us. I am not sure I have ever seen a summer here at the store quite this . . . quiet.”
“Don’t worry, James. After we knock it out of the park with our big bash on Friday, you’ll be wishing for quiet.”
Or so Darla hoped. She wasn’t prepared yet to tell her manager that though she’d run the June numbers every way she could think to do, bottom line was that they hadn’t hit their sales goal for the month. Even worse, unless the block party brought them the business boost she was hoping for, July was on track to end up much the same way.
Displaying more confidence than she felt, Darla headed upstairs. She saw that the other committee members had already gotten their various cups of coffee from Robert. Now, they were gathered at the big table where Darla had left her clipboard and drink, waiting for her to join them.
That was, all except one.
Penelope stood looming—as much as someone her height could loom—over the bistro table where the two teenage girls had been drinking their specialty coffees. The girl with pixie-cropped black hair sat frozen with her long coffee spoon halfway to her mouth, the blob of whipped cream it held gently dripping unnoticed onto the table as she stared up at Penelope. The other teen, with the mane of golden brown curls, was scrunched as low as she could in her chair, her expression one of outright misery.
“Emma, Allison, you know the rules,” Penelope clipped out, shaking her vaping pen at the pair in a threatening manner. “You want to be in my troupe, there’s no sweets, no junk food”—she paused and gave their coffee drinks a scornful look—“and no whipped cream with chocolate on top. Now, out of here, both of you.”
“Yes, Madame Penelope,” the pair obediently chorused. Grabbing up their purses, they shoved back their chairs and scampered for the stairway.
Penelope shook her head in disgust as she watched them go. Then, eyeing their abandoned drinks, she swiped a perfectly manicured finger through an untouched portion of whipped cream. To Darla’s amused horror, she plopped that sizable blob into her own mouth.
“What?” the dance instructor demanded as she turned back to the committee table and saw everyone’s attention was on her. Licking her finger clean, she explained, “The rules are for the girls. I paid my dues years ago, so nowadays I can eat this junk if I want.”
“Thank you, Penelope, for that unbiased review of our drinks,” Darla said with a wry smile, earning outright chuckles from the others. Then they got down to business.
“Three day left,” a smiling Steve Mookjai reminded them all with a celebratory lift of his logoed coffee mug.
Steve, the widowed, middle-aged owner of the Thai Me Up restaurant, had been Darla’s first recruit for the July Fourth committee.
It’s my favorite holiday, even before I finally become citizen a few years ago, he’d assured her, his words reflecting the faint accent that still colored his speech. Looking dapper with his short-cropped dark hair, very thin black mustache, and always spotless white chef’s jacket, he ruled his establishment with polite panache. But it was his delicious cooking that kept Darla and the rest of the bookstore gang returning there on a regular basis. Like Doug, he’d doffed his white jacket for their meeting, wearing instead a New York Yankees jersey with Derek Jeter’s number 2.
“Almost there, Steve,” Darla agreed with a smile of her own. Then she acknowledged the rest of her team. “Everyone finish their action items from last time?”
“Canopies and signs are all delivered and sitting in the dojo storeroom ready to go up on Friday,” Hank Tomlinson, the final member of the committee, confirmed with a satisfied nod that sent his short black ponytail bobbing. “Penelope, great job on the design. They look really professional.”
He leaned back in the delicate bistro chair, muscular arms with their “sleeves” of Asian-style tattoos crossed over his broad chest. In his late twenties and co-owner of the TAMA dojo along with his fraternal twin brother, Hank was just the sort of entrepreneur that Darla wanted on her committee. He could take orders as well as give them, and he wasn’t afraid to lay his opinion on the line. Not that she’d always gotten along with him; in fact, back when his late stepfather had been running the dojo, Darla had privately considered Hank and his brother Hal to be somewhat jerk-ish. But tragedy had brought out their better natures, and Darla now counted the pair among her friends.
“Perfect,” she replied, checking off another item on her list. “If you and your student team can handle putting them up in the designated spots, that will free up the rest of us to concentrate on other things. Penelope,” she addressed the dance instructor, “how are we doing on the rest of the decorations? Did those giant red, white, and blue pinwheels ever show up?”
Penelope took a drag on her e-cigarette and huffed out a vapor cloud that momentarily obscured her face. Darla resisted the reflexive impulse to wave away the fruit-scented mist, reminding herself that it wasn’t secondhand smoke like with a genuine cigarette. She’d noticed several former smokers in the neighborhood going the vape pen route of late. Even Jake, who still snuck the occasional cigarette despite her assurances that she had quit, had toyed with one of those devices recently.
“Not yet,” Penelope answered her question, “and I’ve been calling the idiot vendor every day this week. How hard can it be to ship a box of pinwheels? I finally had to go all Brooklyn on him. Scared him bad enough that he swore he’d send them out overnight tonight on his dime. So tomorrow, we’ll have everything.”
Darla smiled, while the men all chuckled in appreciation.
“Next time I have customer make trouble, I call you,” Steve declared, earning a high five from Doug. Then, sobering he went on, “I finish my action item, too. The snow cone truck will be here before noon on Friday. My nephew, Mike, he promise to bring all his specialty flavors.”
“Perfect,” Darla agreed. “Snow cones and the Fourth of July go together like—”
“Like doughnuts and more doughnuts,” Doug declared with a grin broad enough that his eyes almost disappeared into his red cheeks. “You should see the new firecracker doughnut I came up with. Blue icing topped with shredded coconut and red hots. It’ll be a bestseller.”
“Sounds pretty,” Darla agreed, not quite sure how well cinnamon candies and coconut would combine on the tongue but certain the visual would get lots of attention. “Will you still be giving away doughnut holes at your booth?”
“Absolutely. Oh, and my action item is done, too. The company will deliver first thing Friday morning while we’re setting up.”
“Portable potties, check,” Darla murmured with a nod as she made an entry on her list. Looking up again, she added, “Great job, everyone. We’re on track for a fabulous block party. The permits are all in place, and the police will start blocking off the streets around eight thirty on Friday morning. Just one last little bump in the road, though.”
Briefly, she explained to the group how Johnny Mack had cancelled that morning, leaving them without live music for the event. She also ran down Jake’s suggestion for filling in the audio void with boom boxes.
When she finished, Hank shook his head. “I guess that would work, but there’s nothing like live music. Heck, you can drive down the street and hear plenty of recorded tunes blasting out of cars. I’m not really feeling this, you know?”
“I’d prefer a band, myself,” Darla replied while the others nodded in agreement with Hank. “But we’re down to the
wire, here. Who can we possibly find to play on such short notice?”
“How about the screaming babies?” Robert piped up as, coffeepot in hand, he came over to the table intent on refills.
Darla slanted the youth an exasperated look. “Cute, Robert, but not much help.” Turning back to the committee, she went on, “Here’s a thought. Maybe if we all posted something on our social networks—”
“Seriously, Ms. P., that’s the band’s name, the Screaming Babies,” the youth protested as he poured her more decaf. “I know they don’t have a gig this weekend because I’m, like, friends with the lead singer, Pinky. You should hear them. They’re really sick.”
Which, Darla knew, was teen slang for really good. But given that Robert was a fan, chances were the Screaming Babies were a metal or goth band, not exactly the vibe she and they committee were looking for. Still—
“I don’t know, Robert. We wanted someone who could play something a bit more Top 40, plus we’d want some patriotic music,” she told him. “Any chance they could do something like that?”
“Heck, yeah. Sometimes they call themselves the Babies and just play covers of other groups’ hits.”
His tone enthusiastic, Robert went on to name several bands that the Babies presumably covered, none of whom Darla—a fan of eighties and nineties rock—had ever heard of before. And since most of them featured “blood” or “death” or “night” as part of their names, she doubted that said hits included anything that would be appropriate for a family event.
On the other hand, she told herself, Pinky and his screaming cohorts would probably make for perfect entertainment at a Halloween soirée.
“So what do you think, Ms. P.? Should I, you know, tell Pinky you’re interested in hiring them?”
“I don’t know,” she repeated with a questioning look at the others at the table. “What do y’all think?”
“Beggars can’t be choosers,” Penelope shot back. “I say, have this Pinky person come by for an audition this afternoon. If he can get through ‘The Star-Spangled Banner,’ hire him.”
“I second,” Steve said, raising a hand, while Hank and Doug both nodded their approval.
Darla shrugged. “I guess it can’t hurt to give him a tryout. Robert, can you call Pinky and see if he can come by the store later today? No promises, though . . . just to talk.”
“I’m on it,” was his cheerful response as he reached into his jeans pocket with his free hand and pulled out his smartphone. “It’s after noon, so he should be up by now.”
As Robert headed back to the coffee bar to make his call, Darla allowed herself a wry smile. She’d thought it odd enough that the committee had wanted what was basically a biergarten band for their entertainment. Now they were gung ho on someone whose specialty was heavy metal. Who knew what they’d agree to if the Screaming Babies weren’t a good fit?
“All right, that takes care of the action items. Now, a final bit of old business. One of our merchants still needs to pay up.”
“Let me guess,” Hank said. “It’s gotta be Mr. Perky himself, Brooklyn’s very own King of Coffee.”
THREE
“King of Coffee? More like the Baron of B.S.,” was Doug’s muttered response, drawing a stiff nod from Steve and a frown from Penelope.
As for Darla, she suppressed a wince. “King of Coffee” was the same inflated title that Mr. George King, owner of Perky’s, had given himself a few months earlier when she’d first made a courtesy visit to him before her coffee bar’s grand opening. He did rather resemble the paintings she’d seen of his almost-eponym, King George III. Like that ruler, he possessed a large nose, doughy cheeks, and extra chins, along with snowy hair receding almost to the halfway point of his scalp. But where His (historical) Majesty was usually portrayed with a calm gaze, this petty tyrant had roasted coffee beans for eyes.
I’m King of Coffee around here . . . me, Georgie King, he’d blustered in a heavy Brooklyn accent. You come waltzing around my kingdom, you’re gonna get crowned.
Teeth gritted, Darla had tried to politely point out to him that her new coffee enterprise was only a sideline for her bookstore. That explanation, however, had made him puff up even more.
Yeah, here’s an idea. How’s about I sell some of them trashy paperback romances here with my coffee—you know, just as a sideline?
While Darla had struggled with which to address first, the implicit threat to her well-being or his prejudice against romance novels, Mrs. King had made a tentative appearance from the back room. Half his girth and age, the gamine-featured Livvy King was a dark slip of a consort to her husband’s pale, portly ruler.
Georgie, she had ventured, patting the messy black braids pinned atop her head, some delivery guy is at the back. He won’t let anyone sign for the box but you.
While Georgie snorted and trudged off to handle the paperwork, Livvy had managed a tremulous smile for Darla. Sorry, he gets a bit snippy when his blood sugar is low, she’d said to excuse her spouse. Darla had politely accepted that bit of fiction even while she wondered how the unlikely pair had wound up husband and wife.
Ultimately, it had been Livvy she’d dealt with a couple of months later in drafting Perky’s to be part of the block party, and getting a deposit and signature on their merchants’ mutual agreement. It was only when the time had come to hand over his remaining share that George had gotten involved . . . and not to the betterment of everyone concerned.
Now, Darla replied, “That’s right, George King is our holdout. When I stopped by over the weekend to collect the rest of what he owes to the block party fund, he told me he’s not sure it’s worth his time or money to take part in something that, quote, unquote, ‘will probably turn out to be a big-ass bust.’ And as of today, he still hasn’t paid up.”
“Count on Georgie for that,” Doug replied. “Always gotta pee in everyone’s Cheerios. Heck, you should have seen him when I first opened the doughnut shop and he found out we served hot coffee. He accused me of poaching his business.”
“Ah, he’s not so bad,” Penelope began, only to be interrupted by a harsh laugh from Steve.
“Not so bad?” he broke in, repressed anger seeping past his usual air of friendly reserve. “You should hear what he say to my kids yesterday when they buy coffee at his shop.”
Darla knew both of Steve’s offspring: son Jason and daughter Kayla, all-American teens who worked part-time in their father’s restaurant. They came by Darla’s store on occasion as well, lured by their love of anime and recent friendship with Robert.
“They are good kids,” the man went on through gritted teeth. “All they want was lattes to go. No trouble, no nothing. But what he say to them . . .”
While Darla and the rest listened in dismay, Steve repeated the coffee shop owner’s subtly racist taunting as they attempted to place an order. While not blatantly derogatory, Darla could see why Steve was upset; the sly innuendo was just as cruel as any outright slurs.
“At first, they think he make bad joke, and they laugh. But when he keep on talking, they know he mean it. They run out, no coffee. The only reason they tell me is because I see that Kayla is crying,” he finished, hand clenching and unclenching in impotent outrage.
Grim faced, Hank shoved back in his chair, the tattooed koi on one bicep and the inked tiger on the other both bulging. “How about we take a little field trip down to Perky’s and explain to Mr. King that his kind of bigotry doesn’t fly in our neighborhood.”
“I’m in,” Doug agreed, looking equally irate.
“No need for violence, guys,” Darla clipped out, flipping back through her notes. “If my numbers are right, I think we have just enough reserve cash to give Mr. King back his deposit. As soon as we’re finished here, I’ll run down to his shop, pay him back, and tell him we don’t need a racist jerk like him taking part in our block party.”
“No, no, m
y friends.” Steve held out a restraining hand and shook his head. “Your support is appreciated, but I was wrong to speak up. This belongs to my family. If there are trips to be made and words to be said, I do them.”
“If you’re sure,” Hank grudgingly agreed, while Penelope gave Steve’s arm a reassuring pat.
“Maybe they misunderstood,” Darla heard the dance instructor whisper to him. “I don’t think Georgie, er, Mr. King, is really like that.”
Penelope’s unexpected vote of confidence notwithstanding, Darla frowned. “Well, there’s still no reason we can’t boot him out of the event, anyhow, since he hasn’t paid up.”
“No, Darla, not necessary.” Steve summoned a humorless smile. “Go see him, like you plan, and if you can get his money, take it. The party should not suffer because he is idiot.”
“Steve’s right,” Doug added, though his tone was still resentful. “Georgie-boy is already in all the advertising, so it would look strange if Perky’s didn’t have a booth on game day. Besides, making him pay his fair share would probably hurt more than anything else we could do.”
“Yeah,” Hank said with a smirk. “And knowing that jerk, even if he didn’t pay up, he’d probably still set up a booth outside his shop for the block party.”
Then, turning to Penelope, who’d said no more during the exchange, he asked, “You on board?”
“Hell, might as well let him stay.” She puffed out another stream of vapor and added, “Darla, are we done? I gotta rehearse my girls again and do a final costume check.”
Darla spent a moment looking over her notes and then set down her clipboard. “I think that’s it. See everyone bright and early Friday morning!”
With a few final words among them, the committee members got up from the table and headed toward the stairs.
Darla followed more slowly, feeling oddly guilty over the situation. She reminded herself that King’s boorish behavior had no connection to the event she’d spearheaded, and that he doubtless had been spouting his mean-spirited dogma ever since he’d opened the coffee shop a decade earlier. Then she frowned. If that last were the case, then his coffee really had to be outstanding to compensate for his business to continue flourishing. Remembering the two teenagers who’d earlier been singing the coffee shop’s praise, she decided she might do well to try out one or two of his blends to see just how good his product really was.