Just after they initiated, she was annoyingly short on time. The Memorial Day tournament had to be closely monitored, like a child with arsonist tendencies. She tried to make up for it, on the occasions they managed to meet, by deploying her full arsenal. (The mayor’s-wife scenario still gives her the chills.) And it all paid off. The tournament inspired the biggest sales week in the club’s history, and Kerry received a five thousand dollar bonus.
Her first thought was to spend it on a weekend with her new lover, perhaps to Dr. Al’s mountain cabin in Jarbidge. But now the tables have been turned. Gerry has been working non-stop on Karen’s coffeehouse, in addition to a heavy slate of weddings and proms. Kerry probably didn’t help matters by hiring him to shoot the tournament, but who the hell else was she going to get? Gerry is tremendously gifted, which just makes her want to screw him that much more.
Oh! The clichéd tortures of infatuation. And another cliché, the green monster that continues to infest her thoughts about Karen. Kerry’s brain rambles wildly on this subject, constructing impossible conspiracies. One of these holds that Karen only set her up with Gerry so that she could act as a foster girlfriend, working out Gerry’s guilt-hobbled past so he would be fully formed once she was done with her mourning and ready to take him back. And arranging for this inheritance so she might start a coffeehouse and keep Gerry too busy to fall in love with Kerry – and yes, this is where her theory disintegrates into silliness and long odds.
The putt looks plain and straight, but Kerry knows this green well, and knows that the ball will take a surprising rightward swing six inches from the cup. She performs the usual geometries, drawing a line from one foot to the other, sighting a perpendicular that cuts through the putter blade. She starts the pendulum, back, through the ball. The ball almost hesitates before it curls into the cup with a pleasing tock.
“Fucking beautiful.”
Gerry stands at the far side of the green, holding Sophie on a pink leash. Kerry makes a point of walking to the far side of the cup and retrieving her ball with a straight-legged bend. She waggles her ass to the expected applause, then runs across the green to collect her kisses. Gerry emerges laughing.
“You are quite the golfer, young lady.”
“I miss you,” she says. “It’s fucking crazy, but I miss you every minute of the day.”
He smiles. “That’s why I’m here. The coffeehouse has reached a certain stage of development, and we are inviting select VIPs to come see it.”
“And I am a VIP?”
“You are the first. May I grab your bag?”
She laughs. “You can grab anything you like.”
“Oh-hoh!”
They take Kerry’s SUV down the strip, the casino signs just coming on. The old post office is unusually bright. A white banner hides the old postal sign, reading Caffé Optic – Coming Soon! under a couple of clip-on spotlights.
“Caffé Optic,” says Kerry.
“Yeah. We kicked around a few ideas, but this one had everything. It’s a fitting tribute, and a great marketing angle. Plus, it’s his money – and also it just sounds kinda cool.”
Kerry pulls into a space and sets the brake. “Caffé Optic. Yeah.”
They pass beneath an electric sign, the name spelled out in off-kilter letters over a pale red background. The first impression of the lobby is that the white tiles have gained a few degrees of brightness. The left-hand wall, a ten-by-ten square, is painted blood red, and the front counter has been replaced by a slab of black granite. The bulky postal register has given way to a slim computerized model. The right half of the counter plays host to a sleek espresso machine, silver with red trim.
“That,” says Gerry, “is a Marzocco, a thirteen thousand dollar gem of Italian engineering.”
“Glad you like it.”
A short man with a salt-and-pepper beard peers around the edge of the machine.
Karen enters the lobby. “Ah, you’ve met our maestro baristo. And resident smartass.”
“Oof!” says the man, taking a phantom bullet to the chest. “She knows me too well.”
“Kerry, Gerry, this is Lorenzo Coltriani, world-renowned restaurateur. Or so he tells me.”
“It’s true! I swear!”
“Lorenzo came to Jackpot to retire, but I have lured him into our enterprise.”
“I was bored out of my mind,” says Lorenzo.
“Are you ready for a run-through?” asks Karen.
“You got it.”
Karen smiles. “Our current menu includes lattes, and also lattes.”
“And don’t forget lattes,” says Lorenzo.
“I’ll have a latte,” says Kerry.
“I don’t know,” says Gerry. “I sort of had my heart set on a…”
“Two lattes!” says Karen.
“Excellent choice,” says Lorenzo. He locks the disc, pulls a double shot and steams the milk. A lapping pour creates a series of milky waves in the espresso, then he splits it down the middle to create the fern-leaves of a traditional rosetta. This he gives to Kerry.
“Magnificent,” says Kerry. She gives it a sip. “And delish.”
“And for the gentleman,” says Lorenzo, “something different.” He re-initiates the process, narrating as he goes. “This Marzocco is like driving a Ferrari. Lots of power, but you have to be careful how you use it.”
The pour is a little different, a big splotch followed by several dabs. He hands Gerry an American Indian chief, complete with feathered headdress.
“Wow!” says Gerry. “You’re a freakin’ artist.”
“At last!” says Lorenzo. “My genius is acknowledged.”
“I almost hate to ruin it by drinking it.”
“It’s going to disappear anyway,” says Lorenzo. “And by then it will be cold and inconsumable. Better to kill it in its prime.”
“Wow. You’ve put a lot of thought into this.”
“When you spend thousands of hours doing something, you develop philosophies.”
Gerry takes a photo with his phone and then a sip. “Fantastic. Thanks, Lorenzo.”
“Prego! It’s good to have actual customers.”
Gerry looks to Karen. “Should we give her the tour?”
“By all means. Follow me.”
The long side wall has been painted a Tuscan orange, and hosts a quartet of sturdy woodblock tables, spaced at regular intervals. The first bay features two small, round tables. The tri-fold wall is a sharp white, and covered in framed black-and-white photos.
“This is our chatty area,” says Karen. “The photos are from a local artist who wishes to remain anonymous.”
Two of the photos are from the calendar series: the woodnymph and the arabesque. There’s a shot of Dwight Yoakam in his black-and-white cowboy suit, a many-fingered rock formation rising into stormclouds, and a golfer frozen in follow-through, framed by a shroud of oak leaves.
Kerry squeezes Gerry’s hand. “Is that me?”
“These are a few of my favorite things,” says Gerry. “I’ve been stalking you.”
“Well thank you. I feel like a star!”
“The second bay is more of a lounger’s paradise,” says Karen. She leads them forward, revealing a red sofa and a chocolate-colored coffee table. The wall is moss green, and carries three wildly colorful paintings. The biggest, just over the sofa, features a cartoonish octopus with a wary smile, surrounded by bursts of color in intricate patterns: checkerboards, overlapping circles, leafy spreads that look like stained glass.
“This is a local guy, a friend of Dr. Al’s. Works as a dealer at Barton’s. The main figures are done in acrylic, but the more intricate stuff is done with markers. I might rotate in a new artist every six months or so. You will also notice that we kept a couple strips of postal boxes, just for a bit of history. And now, my personal favorite…”
The back window sports a long counter with high stools. The bay offers two leather armchairs with a small table between them. To the right is a small case filled
with books. The wall is painted the same blood red as the wall in the lobby. The left panel features a large black-and-white photo of a brooding figure with thick brown hair and an artfully trimmed Van Dyck. He has dark eyes that go on forever. Book covers spiral out from the portrait, creating a mesmerizing effect.
“Behold our namesake,” says Karen, with a touch of sigh. “And the covers of his favorite books. I drove Gerry nuts reproducing these, trying to get the sizes right, but it’s got a wonderful Hitchcockian edge.”
The covers get bigger as they go. The last is The Girl in the Flaming Dress, accompanied by the shot of Karen at Shoshone Falls.
“The bookshelf has every Optic novel I could get my hands on, along with the usual suspects: Marlowe, Chandler, Christie. It’s designed to be a reading room, but I would be delighted if some young writer decided to sit at the counter and work on a chapter.”
Karen’s eyes go a little distant; she shakes it off.
“Well! That’s the Caffé Optic.”
“It’s amazing, Karen.”
“We hope it’ll be a nice break for people with casino fever. And Dr. Al wants to do some programs with us, maybe even a little jazz series.”
“Nice!”
Gerry settles a hand at the small of Kerry’s back and guides her toward the lobby, but they stop at the second bay. Karen reaches into her jeans pocket.
“Oh! I almost forgot.” She hands Kerry a key. “You have some mail.”
The key reads #16. Kerry scans the boxes, opens up 16 and pulls out a worn copy of The Girl in the Flaming Dress.
“Omigosh!”
“Look inside,” says Karen.
On the title page, Kerry finds an inscription: For Sylvia – Keep your head out of the oven. H. Optic.
“I found it in a used bookstore,” says Karen. “Typically weird sense of humor from my dear hubby.”
Kerry studies the cover, a pool of oranges and reds surrounding the main figure. “It’s fantastic! Thank you so much.” She gives Karen a hug, and emerges to find Gerry dangling a second key over her shoulder. Kerry smiles, takes it, and follows this one to box number nine. Inside is a necklace with a silver pendant. The design looks vaguely Celtic, two tall birds with their bills crossed.
“Made by a Scots jeweler from Twin Falls,” says Gerry. “Those are herons.”
“It’s gorgeous.” She drapes it over her head and runs her fingers over the pendant. “I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve all this.”
Karen laughs. “Who says you have to do anything? We both love you, and we want to share our good fortune.”
Kerry gives Gerry a kiss. “Thank you.”
“Prego.”
“Somebody speaking Italian?” calls Lorenzo.
“Si signore,” answers Karen. “Basta. Let’s call it a night.”
“Gotcha, boss.”
Late or early, Kerry wakes next to her sweetheart, rolls over and switches on her lamp. She eyes her silver herons and indulges in a minute of glowing. She has been branded, and she feels very lucky.
Thirty Nine
Kerry has a friend from college, Kevin, who possesses two important qualities: 1) he loves detective fiction, and 2) he works as a reporter for the Boise Idaho Statesman. When she tells him about the coffeehouse, he drives down for a visit. He feels oddly starstruck meeting Harry Optic’s widow, and spends the afternoon soaking up the atmosphere. When he sees the picture of Karen in the flaming dress, it’s as though he’s discovered El Dorado. He arranges for Gerry to send him a digital copy and has him sign a release.
In the end, it’s the photo that makes the story. The Statesman publishes a Sunday magazine touting the region’s people and tourist destinations, and there on the cover is Karen, that fetching upward look welcoming the reader to Shoshone Falls. The story is a full center-spread using the arabesque shot, as well as photos of the spiraling book covers, one of Lorenzo’s Indian chief lattes and the postal boxes. Kevin’s text includes a thoughtful appreciation of Harry’s novels.
The health permits come through and they conduct a grand opening, though one is hardly needed. After the story (duly framed and hanging in the lobby), the place is packed. Karen was aware that her husband’s fans were a little nutty; she didn’t know they would drive hundreds of miles to go to a Harry Optic coffeehouse.
Weeks later, business is still brisk. Karen and Lorenzo are nearing exhaustion. Gerry pitches in by showing up at closing time to do the nightly cleaning. They barely have the Help Wanted sign out for an hour when they hook Martina and Nella Truax, twin sisters from Boise State who are visiting their aunt for the summer. The two are adept at handling customers and quick learners at the espresso machine. They are also six-foot-tall blondes with dazzling blue eyes, qualities that add to the Caffé’s noir sensibilities. Gerry refers to them as the Bond Girls.
And then it gets better. Or worse. Kevin’s story hits the web, where it catches the attention of Jeff Goodell, a Rolling Stone contributor and Harry Optic fan. Goodell writes a sprawling tribute to the retro noir style, using Harry’s passing as a focal point and touting Caffé Optic as a destination for literary tourists. When he runs across Gerry’s photos, he arranges for him to photograph the coffeehouse and the widow Optic. Gerry sends him the shot from the Peter Noone concert. It’s an upward angle of Karen in black leather, looking like a 200-foot-tall cowgirl. It’s a perfect Rolling Stone image, the literary widow as rock star.
After that (the story duly framed and hung in the lobby), things go a little nuts. The parking lot is constantly full, with cars spilling out onto the roadside. Gerry attaches an awning to the entrance, so the people lining up outside don’t get baked. At peak times, they offer two-for-one buffet coupons to anyone who will retreat to Cactus Pete’s and come back later.
“This is weird,” says Karen. “We thought Al was going to promote us. I did not understand the breadth of my husband’s popularity. This coffeehouse was supposed to lose money for a year, at least. We’re already making a profit. A sizable profit. But it’s killing me. And they keep stealing the books!”
This is their nightly chill session, a few minutes on the red sofa between closing and cleaning. Gerry takes a thoughtful sip from his mocha.
“You should reinvest. Buy a couple of small computers and load them with Harry’s books. People can’t steal those, and if they want a real book, you can keep some in the back for sales.”
“You want me to encourage this insanity?”
“Yes. Because this is good for you.”
She plants her forehead against his shoulder.
“How?”
“Because you still feel guilty about leaving him. But if you use this opportunity to promote his legacy, you will feel less so.”
She lifts her head, looks at him, and kisses him on the cheek.
“You’re so fucking smart.”
“About guilt, yes.”
“And you’re an angel, doing these closings. Is Kerry okay with this? You’re not neglecting her, are you?”
“Kerry is in prime golf season. She needs her sleep, and she doesn’t get any when I’m there.”
“So I’ve heard,” Karen insinuates. “Wish I was getting some of that action.”
“Geez, woman, what do you want? You’re in the fucking Rolling Stone!”
“And yet…” She gives Gerry a long look, and then shakes it off. She slaps him on the thigh and stands up, stretching her back.
“I better rest up for the morning shift. I can’t thank you enough, Gerry, so I won’t even try.”
“Just so long as the Bond Girls cover the weekends. Besides, you’re paying me! Did it occur to you that maybe I’m just using you for extra cash and Rolling Stone photo credits?”
She grabs his hand and holds it. “Anytime, pal.”
She kisses him and walks away, disappearing through the lobby and into the twilight. Gerry does a few stretches and grabs a bus tray, playing some of Harry’s baroque favorites over the PA to help him in his chores.
Forty
Tonight’s jitters come courtesy of a raging thunderstorm, one that makes his driving phobia seem silly. Mother Nature is pissed! The sound rumbles through the coffeehouse like a tank. Fortunately, the lightning has decided to remain distant, but Gerry worries about driving home in his flimsy golf cart. Staying here for the night is not entirely out of the question.
He’s rolling out the mop bucket when he hears a tapping at the window. He writes it off as wind shaking the panes, but then it becomes a knocking. When he peers outside, he’s greeted by a pair of tits pressed against the glass. He rushes to unlock the front door. Kerry pounces on him, wrapping him up, sliding her tongue into his mouth and grabbing his crotch. After a minute of this, Gerry comes up for air, laughing.
“I know we… have our little agreement,” she gasps. “But I reserve the right to call an audible. Now get rid of those pants and take me to your office.”
He attempts to do both at the same time, which makes for an awkward trip. When he reaches the office, he turns to find Kerry already on her knees. She’s in full attack mode, and a few minutes later he’s done. She wipes them both off, then dashes to the kitchen. After locating his jeans, he finds her at the sink, brushing her teeth.
“You are one prepared Girl Scout.”
She spits and smiles. “I wanted two things on this little invasion: your cum in my mouth, and then a fully invested good night kiss.”
“You’re leaving? Nothing I can do for you?”
“Maybe next time, hon. But before I go to bed tonight, I am going to send you a video that will blow your mind.”
“Does this involve the mayor’s wife?”
“You have a thing for that bitch. If she wasn’t me, I’d be jealous.”
The Girl in the Flaming Dress Page 12