The Barista’s Guide to Espionage

by Dave Sinclair

  “Bugger me, he’s been shot. Call the bobbies!”

  “Call an ambulance!”

  With a man bleeding on the floor, her floor, Eva pulled out her phone. Hand hovering over the keypad she couldn’t understand why she hesitated. Surely this was someone else’s issue. Why then did she feel somehow responsible?

  “Uh Eva,” Anchor said quietly in her ear. “I think he is dying. You might want to call a someone. The after work rush is coming, customers doing the step over dead guy is much bad for business.”

  “How do they manage to squeeze every conceivable ounce of happiness out of the designs of hospitals? There must be course on it someplace. Someone somewhere has a Masters in joy sucking.” After a moment Eva said into her phone, “That sounded better in my head.”

  Nancy giggled on the other end of the line. “Paul I’ve already got one of those.”

  Eva snorted. “Eww, there are certain things I don’t need to know!”

  “I made you laugh, my work here is done.” After a moment Nancy’s voice turned less jovial. “So how long are you going to hang around?”

  Eva glanced over at the man on the hospital bed, hooked up to an IV line and monitors. “Not sure. The doctor’s said he’s stable, should be okay. He even quoted the Black Knight, ‘’Twas but a flesh wound’. So, I’ll probably be over at yours soonish.”

  “Alright, you be careful, Hon. I think it’s noble of you to be looking out for him, but you’re not married to the guy. There are professionals for that, doctory types, you know? You call me if you need, yeah?”

  “Of course. Give my best to the big twat. See you in a couple. Loves.”

  Hanging up, Eva wondered why she was still there. She’d done the right thing and called an ambulance. The fact that the cops turned up as well wasn’t her doing. Then again, the mention of ‘gunshot wound’ may have piqued their interest. The fact that he was handcuffed to the bed and an officer was stationed outside the door meant they took the whole situation seriously enough. That they let her stay in the room indicated it wasn’t too serious.

  She didn’t know anything about the guy apart from the name he’d given her. Harry. It was a friendly name. Not one you would normally associate with people having guns held to their head. That was more of a Nigel thing.

  He had no identification on him. None at all. In this world it was as amazing as it was alarming. No credit card, no driver’s licence, not even a Subway loyalty card.

  “I suppose I should thank you.”

  Eva twisted to see Harry sitting up and admiring his new police-issued jewellery. She hadn’t even heard him stir.

  “I’m sorry, they–”

  “No, no, it’s fine. I wasn’t having a go. Standard operating procedure in the instance of a suspected firearm offence. It’s fine, really. And thank you, sincerely.”

  Eva smiled awkwardly. She’d never been one to accept thanks well. Or compliments. There were so many questions, but she had no idea how to broach the subject. So, are you a drug dealer? A terrorist? How the hell do you talk a guy out of killing you?

  “I should thank you properly.”

  “You already did, remember the tip? I think you’re okay for a while.”

  “No, I mean properly.”

  Eva snorted. “What, like buy me a car or something?”

  “What style would you like?”

  She wanted to offer a reply but decided to remain mute. She wasn’t willing to say any more in fear of him actually following through with it. He is a drug dealer.

  “The doctors say you’ll be fine. They patched you up, you’ll be right to go in a day or so–” Eyeing the handcuffs, she added, “Uh, from the hospital, that is.”

  He grinned confidently, apparently unfazed by being bound to a hospital bed. Was he used to that sort of thing? Eva had plenty of experience with handcuffs herself, but in a recreational rather than professional capacity.

  “Can you–?” He shook his head. “I don’t even know your name.”

  “Eva, my name is Eva Destruction.” She held up a hand. “Don’t, I’ve heard them all.”

  “I like it. Suits you. Something pedestrian like Susan wouldn’t cut it.”

  Alright, every one but that.

  “Eva, can you tell me what happened after I came into your shop. That’s the last thing I remember.”

  “I called an ambulance after you fainted.”

  “No I didn’t.”

  “Yeah, you kinda did, Dude.”

  “No, I blacked out. That’s far manlier.”

  “Oh, right. My mistake. So what caused this manly blacking out spell? Why would some Bulgarian guy shoot you?”

  “How did you know who shot me?”

  Shit. Shitty shit McShit.

  “I might have seen something in the alley before you came in. Briefly. Hardly saw a thing.”

  “Right.” A wry grin. His assessment of her wasn’t malevolent, just curious. “Who knows why he wanted to take a shot? It’s an odd world. Why do good people do bad things? Why do bad things happen to good people? Why can I only get hot cross buns up until Easter? Why is there no word in the English language for when you keep accidently glancing at someone and they think you’re staring at them? How can Celine Dion have sold more records than AC/DC? The world can be messed up.”

  Against her better judgement, Eva chuckled. How could he be so blasé?

  “Why me?” she asked. “Why my shop? Why did you come back?”

  “I had to find someone I could trust.”

  “I told you to fuck off.”

  “All the more reason to trust you.”

  “Those drugs have kicked in now, huh?”

  “No, I mean it. You had the fortitude to renounce a tip because morally you thought it disproportionate. You stood your ground, listened and were not afraid to share your opinion.”

  “I tend to do that.”

  “Don’t apologise.”

  “I wasn’t.”

  “Good, you shouldn’t. The world’s changing, Eva. The new Russian revolution, rumblings elsewhere in Europe. Things are finally changing for the better. People are demanding more of their governments, but their governments aren’t listening. It takes people like yourself to shout until you’re heard. Your voice should rise above the pettiness of politician’s self-interest and fringe loonies like Freedom First. When I met you, you struck me as someone with morals, strong and kind. I make my living by trusting my instinct about people. I’m hardly ever wrong. So, I gravitated to you when I needed aid, so thank you.”

  Eva suspected she was glowing a little red. “You’re welcome. But in your little list there you forgot, ‘and makes a kick arse cup of coffee’.”

  “And makes a kick arse cup of coffee, most definitely.”

  They let that hang in the air for a while.

  Eva rubbed her legs. “I think I’ll go. You seem okay, surprisingly okay, so I’m going to nick off. They’ll look after you, they seem to know what they’re doing.”

  “Well, yes, but I’ll be happy when the NHS is funded adequately and staff are paid proportionately for their work. Like education, for example. Politicians seem to have forgotten who they’ve been elected to serve.”

  She gave him a frown. “You sound like a brochure.”

  “I’ve been accused of that before. I’ve been accused of many things.”

  She picked up her handbag. “You’re a weird cat, Harry The Big Tipper.”

  “That, I don’t think I’ve been accused of, but I like it.”

  A rush of blood to her cheeks and Eva let out a giggle.

  Mesopotamian crap buckets, I’m giggling. Kill. Me. Now. Next Eva thought they’d be having disagreements over who should hang up the phone first. She needed to leave before they started arguing over which one should be called Schmoopy.

  “Mind if I ask you a question, Eva of the Kick Arse Coffee?”

  She said, “Shoot” and instantly slammed shut her eyes in embarrassment.

  “Why are
you here, Eva? If you realised I was shot, wouldn’t you want to distance yourself as much as possible?”

  “I wanted to see if you were alright.”

  “They have phones for that.”

  “I guess–”

  She slipped out the door quietly, giving the officer stationed there a brisk nod.

  It was a damn good question. Why was she there? Walking down the starkly painted hallway, Eva knew the answer. She didn’t want to admit it, but she knew.

  She’d told herself that Harry was far too much of a pretty boy for her tastes. It didn’t matter. She was already smitten. He was smart, had strong moral fibre, and was well read and self-confident. These ticked some good boxes, but that wasn’t what had flicked her switch. Deep in her chest, and further south, Eva knew why she’d come to the hospital. Underneath his classic attractiveness, Harry was a bad motherfucker. He’d taken on a gunman and made him run away in abject fear. He’d shaken off being shot like a piddly little knock to his arm. Nothing seemed to faze him. There was a dark black bad-boy streak in Harry and Eva wanted to see more.

  Am I falling for a drug dealer? She’d dated worse.

  Nancy upended another bottle of cheap French red into her glass and hooted her infectious laugh. Eva was cross-legged in front of Nancy and Paul’s coffee table in their tiny welcoming flat. Indian takeaway boxes were strewn across the room. As always, the TV glowed in the background showing the news service Paul always had on. Two empty bottles adorned the mantle above a crackling fire.

  “Oh beautiful husband of mine bought this from a guy in the pub.” Nancy drunkenly motioned to Paul with the elbow of her pouring arm, managing not to spill a drop. “A good deal he said. Didn’t drink it first, though, did he?” She shook her head.

  “Tastes alright.” Eva nodded encouragingly to her best friend’s husband.

  “Yeah, but you wait till tomorrow, it’s chock full of chemicals. Hangover on this stuff’s a bitch. Feels like the entire back row of The All Blacks have moved into your head and soiled the carpet.”

  “We’ve had two bottles, now you tell me?”

  “Misery loves company. And Sweetie, you’re going to be one miserable son of a bitch tomorrow.”

  “I get up at five!”

  “That’s what makes it so funny,” Nancy said pouring herself another generous glass.

  Paul rose unsteadily and mumbled something about the TV aerial and staggered towards the entertainment unit.

  “So, how cute are we talking?” Nancy asked with her wicked grin she only pulled out when talking about men. “Was he worthy of an eye flutter or a lock the bathroom door we’re doing it right now kind of cute?”

  “Who, the shooting guy? No, it’s not like that.”

  “So he’s hideous.” Nancy sounded disappointed. “Like Paul’s hairy arse first thing in the morning kind of hideous?”

  Paul popped his head up from behind the TV and yelled, “Hey” before his face was bathed in a contemplative gleam and he drew his mouth in, as if to say, fair enough.

  “No. He’s, uh, he’s actually good-looking in a classic kind of way, like a Cary Grant type. But no, I have no designs on the guy. Not my type at all, darlin’.”

  “So he’s not a prize douchepoodle who rides a Harley, has a face like a welder’s armpit, treats women like garbage, sleeps around and turns up for a three a.m. booty call months after breaking up?” Nancy took a swig of wine. “I like him already.”

  “Yeah, well you suck,” was the best Eva could come up with. This red really did have a punch to it. The lack of alcohol percentage on the label was worrying, as was the misspelling of Bordeaux.

  Nancy unleashed that grin and asked, “Do you normally escort strangers to the hospital and hang around to find out if they’re okay?”

  Sometimes she hated how well Nancy knew her. Nance was pointing out the exact same questions she’d tried to suppress in her own mind and failed. With all the booze, Eva’s defences were down. Not that it mattered with Nancy. She could read her like a book. A Little Golden Book, at that.

  She hadn’t been able to get Harry out of her head, not that she’d tried that hard. What was he doing? Was he thinking about her? Was there a way she could accidently bump into him and drag him back to her place for a week he’d never forget?

  About to launch a barrage of half-arsed denials, Eva was distracted by a news break on the TV. It was the photo that grabbed her attention first. It showed a mug shot of a face she’d seen before. Quite recently. The picture showed Mr Tracksuit. The headline read, Bulgarian man found dead at Victoria Station.

  Chapter Seven

  “Roots, you’re up.” Eva handed over a tiny coffee cup to a peroxide blonde-haired woman with dark roots sporting a serious suit. Taking the cup, the woman hardly acknowledged her and continued her ostensibly important phone conversation peppered with words like, ‘recalibration’, ‘strategy’, ‘synergy’ and ‘alignment’ out the door. Eva wondered if she even knew what she was talking about.

  Only a smattering of customers were around this late in the day. Anchor had left to deal with immigration for the tenth time in six months. It was becoming an issue, but it wasn’t the big dopey git’s fault. Plus mid-afternoon wasn’t the time for a coffee break in Westminster, so it wasn’t too busy.

  Handing over two cups to ‘The Jugheads’, Eva sighed and glanced up. Her eyes went wide. “Holy jizz factory.”

  Harry stood before her. There was no sling, but she assumed the bulk under his t-shirt was bandages. A broad toothy grin stretched across his pale handsome face.

  “Hello,” he said with an apologetic smile.

  “Uh. Good thanks,” she said disorientated.

  Blinking several times she wondered if the conversation had skipped like a record and she’d missed something. She stared straight at him. He was neither agitated, nor threatening. There was an urge to say something but she couldn’t think of a single useful word.

  “Could I order a coffee possibly?” he asked politely.

  “Uh, yeah, yeah you can, sure. Flat white?”

  “Ah, no, I’ll have a ristretto if that’s okay? That’s from the best part of the extraction, yes?”

  “It is,” Eva gave an appreciative frown and manipulated the silver coffee machine with expertise. “You’ve been doing your research.”

  “In my line of work, you have to.”

  “And what’s that then?”

  “Acquisitions.”

  “A suitably vague and nondescript explanation.”

  Eva caught the smirk before it spread across her face and resumed her serious disposition. She told herself not to be charmed by his casual charisma. Sweet face or not, he could stare down someone trying to kill him without batting an eyelid. And potentially despatch them with similar ease. That was enough to wipe any grin from her face. Harry was possibly a murderer. A killer.

  For security, she scanned the café. There were only two customers huddled together at a table by the window engrossed in a discussion about case briefs and trial dates.

  Harry lowered his voice. “I didn’t kill him. He wasn’t murdered.”

  Jets of steam burst skyward from the coffee machine. Eva’s hands flew towards various knobs and buttons as she attempted to quell the eruption.

  Eva’s voice broke and in false calmness she asked, “Who?”

  “Lars Schmit. The Bulgarian chap from the alley. I didn’t kill him, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  “Last time I saw you, you were handcuffed to a hospital bed, so, you know–”

  “For the sake of clarity, I didn’t have anyone murder him either.” He leaned forward and placed both palms on her bench. “For some reason I thought it important you knew that he wasn’t murdered.”

  “Could you stop saying,” Eva lowered her voice, “murdered.”

  “Certainly.”

  Passing him a coffee her hands trembled slightly, but not as much as she would have expected.

  He took the coffee
with a nod. “How much–?”

  “On the house. I think you’re entitled to a freebie, with the tip and all.”

  “Right. Thanks. Fell on the tracks. Third rail.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Lars. According to Metropol he jumped the barriers at Victoria Station to evade paying a ticket and was chased by station staff. Jumped onto the tracks to get away and stepped on something he shouldn’t have. Not even suicide.”

  “Right,” she said.

  Could she believe him? A simple internet search would confirm it. Eva was surprised by the wave of relief that enveloped her. Who was she kidding? It was a tsunami of relief. In retrospect, the thought of a tsunami of relief didn’t sound that comforting.

  She wiped her hands on her filthy apron. “You didn’t need to tell me all that.”

  “For some reason I felt I did.” He straightened his back. “Thanks for the coffee by the way. I’ve never tasted anything like it.”

  She gave a shrug with a what are you gonna do? look. Why on Earth did she feel like a fumbling teenager around this guy? She was better than that. Eva prided herself on her fierce independence, her unabashed need for freedom in all her relationships.

  Though he did have pretty eyes.

  There was something about his nature that was nigh on protective. Was that it? All the men she was used to dating were so far from protective that they’d need to take three bus lines and a taxi to even see what protective was. Though if she found herself giggling once more she’d be forced to drown herself.

  “Thank you again, for helping me,” he said interrupting her thoughts.

  Between pursed lips she said, “Mmmm, mmmm,” and glanced up as new customers strolled into the café.

  He nodded. “I’ll leave you to it.”

  Occupying herself with greeting newcomers, Eva expertly manipulated her now under control machine. Harry sat at the end of a long bench and glanced at the newspaper and sipped. His eyes closed and he may even have done a semi-jig.

  Why was he still there? Besides the kick arse coffee. He’d explained the Bulgarian’s death, he’d thanked her again and appeared uncomfortable in her presence. So why hadn’t he simply left? Even Eva’s own regard for her coffee making skills weren’t enough to think that was why he stayed. Her heart fluttered at the possibilities.