'I'm the manager of a Starbucks branch in England,' I said, words that once more just appeared from nowhere. Why was I telling her that?
'Wow, cool!' she gushed. 'London, England?'
'Bristol, England, as a matter of fact...'
'That's awesome.'
She looked really impressed, but did not say anything further. Now what? We stared at each other, and there was an awkward silence that we both waited for the other to fill. What exactly was I going to say next? Yes, I'm a manager of a Starbucks branch in England and I demand to see the manager of this fine branch, so that we can compare strategic objectives!
'I'm Jane Francis,' said Jones suddenly, turning back into the conversation. Carly switched her gaze from me to Jones, while her smile remained intact. 'We were wondering if we might be able to meet with the branch manager of this iconic store, so that we could discuss global initiatives in trans-continental cooperation and corporate bonding.'
Carly nodded, as though this was the kind of thing that her customers usually requested.
'Do you have an appointment today?' she asked through the smile.
'No, we don't, Carly,' said Jones, 'but we've come all the way from Bristol, England, and we were wondering if the manager might be able to find a few minutes. Perhaps half an hour. That would be really rather splendid.'
Carly smiled. To be honest, she hadn't stopped.
'I will try my best for you. I'm not sure what the chief executive of the branch is doing right at this moment, but I'll go and speak to my supervisor and see what I can do for you. In the meantime, if you'd like to wait here in our lugzhury window-side seating area, I'll be right back.'
'Thank you,' said Jones.
Carly embraced us both once more with the smile, and then left. Jones and I watched her for a moment and then looked at each other.
'Nice,' I said.
'Thank you,' said Jones. 'Twenty years of improv. Knew it would come in handy one day.'
'What are we going to say to the branch chief executive? Can we rely on your improv a bit more?'
'What are you looking for exactly?' she asked, although the question was delivered in that flighty way of hers, indicating she would be barely listening to the answer, never mind actually caring what had been said.
I didn't answer, and turned away to look back out through the window. The café looked out onto Pike Street, with a regular row of shops and cafés across the road, a few people around, a few trees just starting to show some life.
I was drawn to read each sign on each store front, although my eyesight wasn't good enough to read some of the smaller writing from across the road.
A regular row of business outlets on a regular street, yet something stood out about them. What that was, was not immediately obvious. I looked along the row, a door and window at a time, and tried to work out what it was that was attracting me.
Glass door. Shop window. Sign. Sign. Shop window. Door. Road. Window. Entrance. Door. Window. A sign for a coffee shop. I wondered if Starbuck's owned the coffee shop, or whether someone had had the balls to go into competition right across the road from Mordor.
There was something going on in that row of low-level buildings that I was meant to see, but which my eyes kept skipping over.
I retraced my gaze, going over every window and every front door in turn, slowing right down. Muttering to myself.
'What are you doing?' asked Jones.
'I'm missing something,' I said.
'Yes,' said Jones.
She followed my gaze and stared across the road. Naturally, she spotted it immediately. Why do I think it was natural? I'm not sure.
'The old battered red door in between the two shops to the right of the road. Have you seen that?'
Old battered red door. I hadn't seen that. I looked where she'd said, and now that I knew what I was looking for it was obvious. I'd missed a door. That seemed odd in itself.
'Why couldn't I see that?' I asked.
'Maybe because it's what you're looking for,' she said. 'Some part of your mind obviously didn't want you to find it.'
I gave her a quick glance then looked back across the road. Now I had to struggle to find the door again – even though it was right where I'd left it – but once I had, I kept my eyes on it.
'You need to go over there,' she said.
'Yes.'
'Looks like the coffee thing, the Starbucks thing, was just a conduit of some sort.'
'Yes,' I said. 'Are you coming?'
I don't know why I asked. She wasn't coming, and I had neither the expectation nor the desire that she would.
'I'm going to stay here and have some fun with the chief executive.'
'They're not going to have any record of you,' I said, my eyes trained on the red door in case it chose to vanish on me. 'Have you ever even been in a Starbucks?'
'For sure,' she said. 'You better go or you'll end up getting sucked into a meeting you don't want to have.'
I stood, almost glanced at her, but decided on balance that I should keep my eyes on the red door, said, 'See you,' and walked out of the café.
Behind me Jones sat and waited for her appointment, and another opportunity for improvisation. She probably didn't watch me go.
It was the last time I saw her, and I didn't even look at her. Now, when I think about it, I can't remember the last, precise moment that I looked at her face. There are lots of moments with Jones burned into my head, but not that one. Not the last one.
I didn't hesitate outside, not now that the next thing had been presented to me, the next step on the journey. I walked across the road to the red door without taking my eyes from it.
Up close the door looked even more worn and old and battered. There was a Yale lock and a handle. Nothing else adorned the door, not even a random poster stuck up for a forthcoming indie band event. It didn't look as though any poster had ever been stuck on there.
I stood looking at it, poised to knock or try the door handle, whichever seemed right. I glanced along the street in either direction. Pedestrians were passing both ways, but no one was looking at me. I was as invisible as the door. I felt the same as I had when I'd followed Jones into the hotel, and wondered if standing there long enough would make me vanish completely and people would start walking through me.
I tried the handle, pushed open the door and stepped inside. There wasn't a great deal of light coming in from outside, and I'd entered a long windowless corridor.
I stopped for a second, wondering whether I should close the door behind me. There was one dim red light above a door at the far end of the corridor. The sign next to the red light indicated that the door led to a flight of stairs. There were no other doors off the passageway, which seemed strange.
I closed the door, walked into the darkness and kept my eyes on the dim red light. Despite the curiousness of it all, I felt no threat. I didn't know what I was going to find up the stairs at the far end, but it wasn't going to hurt me or even scare me.
It seemed to take a long time to reach the red light, but I closed upon it step by step, and eventually I was by the door to the stairs. Glanced over my shoulder, back into the darkness. There was nothing to see, not even the outline of the door through which I'd entered.
I thought of Jones briefly, wondering what she would be saying to the Starbucks store manager. I had no reason to worry. She had her improvisation skills and she would be playing him perfectly. If she wanted to leave the shop with the job title Vice President In Charge Of New Types of Macchiato then she probably could.
I tried the door. It opened easily and light poured in. I didn't look back over my shoulder. I walked through onto a concrete staircase which only led up. There were a couple of windows at ground floor level, looking out onto the next street, more windows on the first floor.
I walked up the staircase, no concern about what I was going to say should anyone challenge me on what I was doing there.
On the first floor there was a single white doo
r leading back into the building. Beside the door, on the wall, was a notice board. Down one side was a list of drinks. Drinks that were instantly recognisable as having been taken from the Starbucks menu.
Caffé Misto. Pike Place Roast. Vanilla Spice Latte. Caffé Americano. Flat White. Caffé Latte. Caffé Mocha. Cappuccino. Caramel Macchiato. Espresso. Espresso Con Panna. Espresso Machiato. Flavoured Latte.
On the other side of the board, next to each name, there were the words IN/OUT, with a little wooden block which could be slid from side to side, depending on whether or not the relevant drink was in or out.
How could a drink be said to be in or out? I looked over my shoulder. The stairs led up to one more floor, although from where I was standing I couldn't see what was up there. There were a couple of windows looking out onto the street.
I turned back to the door. I was opposite the Starbucks café at the entrance to the market where Starbucks had first begun, and there was a door with a list of Starbucks coffee drinks beside it. That seemed to make sense. It also made sense that the names of drinks indicated people. That they were codenames. Well, that made sense on some sort of level, but not on one of any reasonableness. Why on earth would people be given codenames of coffee drinks? The very nature of codenames implies some sort of secrecy, but I had been allowed to walk right in here without any hindrance whatsoever.
I looked at the board again. If they were people, they were all in except Espresso Con Panna.
I tried the door and again it was unlocked. I walked in.
It was a large, bright room, with no windows. A laboratory. Everything was white. The walls, the ceilings, the tiled floor, the benches.
There were twelve men in white lab coats working at the benches. Some in pairs, some on their own. Some sitting, some standing. At each station there was a series of cups laid out, some had a beaker of hot water. There were a few jars of ground coffee, there was milk, both hot and cold, there were spoons, at each table there was a spittoon, although some of them were holding the spittoon between their legs. At the rear of the room there were four coffee machines, as you might find at the back of any Starbucks, which presumably the men in white suits shared between themselves.
They drew me in. None of them noticed me, until I closed the door, then suddenly they all looked up. All activity stopped.
I looked around them, from one man to the next. When I started looking I didn't imagine going all round the crowd of twelve, but I had to. I looked at each one, and they in turn stared back at me.
They all looked the same. Every one of them. It was the same man, twelve times over. The hair was slightly different in some cases, although they each had an approximate variation of a short back and sides. A couple of them were wearing glasses. That aside, however, they were identical.
It felt very strange, and I was beginning to feel that I ought to say something. Yet at the same time I was not threatened by them. This innately threatening environment into which I'd so casually blundered was somehow not in the least intimidating.
'Where's Espresso Con Panna?' I asked eventually, when the need to speak became too much.
They stared at me in silence for a few moments, and then eleven of them, at precisely the same moment, bowed their heads and got back to work. The one nearest the door, who'd been working on his own over a small row of six cups, placed down his notepad and walked towards me with a raised eyebrow.
'Let's go grab a coffee,' he said.
He removed his white lab coat, revealing all-in-one white overalls beneath. He hung the lab coat precisely on a peg in the middle of a long row beside the door, then removed the overalls and placed them on the same peg. Beneath the overalls he was wearing blue jeans and a faded grey sweat top. The writing on it said Property of The Seahawks. He took the white covers from his shoes, placing them on the floor beneath where he'd hung the coat, then he opened the door and ushered me out ahead of him.
Outside he pushed a small wooden block from IN to OUT on the notice board. It appeared that I was going for coffee with Pike Place Roast.
36
'I assumed we'd go to Starbucks,' I said.
We were sitting in a small café further up Pike Street, having walked a couple of blocks from the laboratory. He'd ordered us both flat whites, without asking what I'd wanted.
'I can't go in there,' he said. 'Potential paradox.'
'What would happen?'
'Honestly,' he said, 'I don't know. But I wouldn't want to be there when it did.'
'Really?'
'It'd be bad. More than likely.'
He looked around the café, then took a sip of coffee.
'Of course,' he said, 'Starbucks owns this place as well, but it was a takeover so, you know, technically I'm all right coming in. Should be all right. If it looks like I'm starting to melt, some shit like that, you gotta get me the hell out of here.'
I nodded, even though I wasn't entirely sure what he was talking about.
'So, how'd you find our place?' he asked.
'I'm not sure,' I said. 'I just walked in.'
'Obviously you walked in. I mean, how d'you find the door? Most folks can't see it.'
'I don't know. It's just there, isn't it? A door in a wall on a busy street.'
'Sure, sure thing. And yet most folks can't see it. Did you see it the first time you looked?'
I shook my head.
'Exactamundo,' he said. 'Kinda weird, huh?'
I nodded and took another drink. I'd come for coffee because he'd asked me and it had been an obvious thing to do, but I was aware that I wasn't going to get answers from him. What could he tell me? I was looking for the Jigsaw Man. This guy, this Pike Place Roast, was not going to have any idea who the Jigsaw Man was, never mind where I might find him.
So what was it that had led me to that red door? Indeed, what had led me to Seattle to be sitting next to Jones for her to point out the red door in the first place? Not to mention all the other strange coincidences and peculiar little meetings that had taken me along the way.
'How exactly are you Pike Place Roast?' I asked.
Pike Place Roast is Starbuck's basic cup of black filter coffee, named, of course, after the market.
He shrugged. 'I don't know. I just am.'
'That's your name, or a codename? You were born Pike Place Roast?'
'Pretty much,' he said. 'I can't explain it if you don't understand.'
'What does that mean?'
He laughed lightly, almost as if we were equals, talking on the same wavelength.
'If I explain it to you, but you don't already understand, it'll be like someone looking at the red door. If you don't know it's there, you don't see it. If you don't understand, all you'll hear are words. They won't mean anything to you.'
'But I need you to explain it to me, then I'll understand,' I said, although I had to admit to myself that I understood him on this. I had to work it out for myself. It wasn't for him to explain. Indeed, it could have been that he was unable to explain.
He shrugged again, made a small gesture with his hands.
'Doesn't the fact that I could see the door mean that I have some innate understanding?' I asked.
'I thought so,' he said airily, 'but it turns out you don't. I mean, we came and sat down here and I was thinking that you were on the inside. Turns out you're not.'
I held his gaze for a moment, then leant forward and cupped my hands over my nose and mouth. Stared at nothing.
What did I have so far? The Jigsaw Man. The leap of faith from the plane. Jones. Interrogation. Agent Crosskill and his pal. Coffee. They were all linked, but it seemed like clues were piling on top of clues without any hint of resolution.
'What is it you're searching for?' he asked.
'The Jigsaw Man,' I said, without thinking, without actually engaging in the conversation.
'Hmm,' he said. 'Doesn't mean anything. A guy that does jigsaws, or some fella in a movie? You know, sorts shit out, puts the pieces together, that kinda shi
t.'
'Both,' I said.
'Cool,' said Pike Place Roast, then he took another drink of coffee.
He looked over his shoulder at the grey day outside, then glanced at the clock above the counter.
'Time marches ever forward,' he said.
'I need an answer first,' I said.
He smiled again, ruefully, shaking his head.
'Don't know what to say, son,' he said.
I don't think he could've been much older than me.
'Why am I here?' I asked. 'How did I find you?'
'You in coffee?'
'Yes. Manager of a small branch of Starbucks in England.'
'Nice. Always meant to go there.' He paused, tapped his spoon against the saucer. 'This Jigsaw Man, he any connection with coffee?'
'Used to run a small café in Glasgow.'
'Glasgow, Scotland?'
I nodded.
'A Starbucks?'
'No. It was called the Stand Alone.'
'Nice,' he said. 'Nice name for a café. Serve good coffee?'
'The best,' I said.
'And that's what made you want to run a café?'
I nodded again.
'Well, it all makes sense, son,' he said. 'You have a clear connection between you and the Jigsaw Man through coffee. Your livelihood is in coffee. It's obvious that when seeking answers in relation to this Jigsaw Man that they will come through coffee. That's why you're here. That's what's led you to us. But you still need to find those answers for yourself. You need to work out where else the answers will run through. I think, if you go over everything you've seen here today, you'll be able to work it out.'
My mind was already going over everything I'd seen here today, barely listening. And I already knew that my time in Seattle was up. Time to go back to the UK and work out what I should do next.
He recognised the look in my eyes, that I had glazed over, thinking ahead, making plans.
'Hey, look us up if you ever make it back here,' he said.
I looked up. He was already standing, his coffee finished. He held out his hand and I took it.
'Nice meeting you, son,' Pike Place Roast said, and left the building.
*
Being For The Benefit Of Mr Kite! Page 22