by Sandra Balzo
Eyeing the gun warily, I said, ‘This revolver looks bigger than your Bulldog. Is it?’
‘A little, but the main advantage of this beauty is that it holds five big-ass, .357 magnum rounds.’
Holy shit. Even I’d heard of those. ‘You carry a .357 magnum?’
‘I don’t always carry it, Maggy.’
Reassuring. ‘But a .357 magnum,’ I repeated. ‘Like in Dirty Harry?’
‘No, Clint Eastwood used a .44-caliber magnum, even more powerful still. C'mon, Maggy, what do you want me to protect myself with? A derringer? Or one of those puny .22-and .32-caliber Beretta Bobcats or Kel-Tecs? They’re popular with a lot of real estate agents because they don’t weigh much, but I ask you, what’s the point of packing if a slug won’t drop the bad guy in his tracks?’
I wasn't getting into this with her. ‘So if Polly was worried about safety on the job, why didn’t she just get a gun, too?’
‘I told her it was a good idea. Even offered to pay for the gun-safety course.’ Sarah sounded disgusted. ‘But, no. She preferred to run away and marry her coked-up boyfriend.’
Ahh, yes. Polly wants a crack head. Now that should reduce her exposure to firearms.
I tried to summarize: ‘OK, arsenal aside, let me get the personnel aspect straight. You fired your office’s supervising broker fearing a sexual harassment claim against him, and Polly quit in fear of her life. Which means you’ve been leaving your young apprentice Brigid sitting there alone with no training and nothing to do?’
‘Of course not. There’s plenty to keep her busy. Showings, open houses. But always, with somebody as shotgun guard.’
‘Sarah, you have no “somebodies” left, with or without shotguns.’
A dismissive wave. ‘Figure of speech. Besides Brigid knows a lot of people. I mean, how many employers tell you to invite your friends over while you're working?’
Only ones desperately in need of additional staff.
‘I’m a good boss.’ Sarah backing-and-filling. ‘You said yourself how capable and eager Brigid is. So I gave her free rein, let her write the occasional offer-to-purchase and balance our clients’ trust account. I was even going to let her do the Williams’ open house on Sunday, though now MaryAnne wants it late Friday afternoon.’
MaryAnne Williams was one of the Barbies enjoying our coffee out-front, but unlike the woman who’d peeked around the corner, she hadn’t homogenized her appearance to join the clique. In fact, MaryAnne was the high-resolution version of fading Elaine Riordan, right down to the Southern accent. Big and naturally blonde, ballsy and . . . well, imagine the volume punched up ten notches on Riordan’s wispy lilt and you’d pretty much have MaryAnne’s timbre. And she herself would tell you she didn’t care ‘a fig’ about fitting in, here or anywhere else.
Still, I shook my head. ‘An open house on Friday afternoon? Everybody’s at work.’
‘Apparently not the people who can afford that house. Besides, MaryAnne wants us to serve wine and cheese so people can stop by on their way home, even if they actually have a job.’
‘Not a bad idea,’ I said. ‘A one-time happy hour, like those clothing boutiques sometimes—’
‘I still can’t believe that little ingrate is ratting me out to the state. Here, trade. Just keep the muzzle pointed down.’ Sarah thrust the revolver at me and took back the papers. ‘See, Maggy? Look at this.’
I held the gun gingerly with both hands and tried to read the line next to where her index finger was tapping. ‘OK. Unlicensed real estate apprentices aren’t supposed to do what you—’
‘They’re not supposed to do anything, at least for the first six months. But what good is that to me? Or any other broker’s business?’
‘I think you might be missing the point of mentoring.’
‘Yeah? Well, maybe Ms Brigid Ferndale is “missing the point” of being an apprentice.’
‘Apprentice or indentured servant?’
‘I’ve been paying her a perfectly fair salary, as detailed in –’ Sarah flipped to another page – ‘this.’
I looked at her second ‘this’. It was a contract, evidently filed with Wisconsin’s Department of Regulation and Licensing, in which Sarah promised to provide Brigid with a salary and also stipulated her hours, ‘course of study’ and a schedule of commissions she would be paid upon completion of the apprenticeship.
‘Comprehensive,’ I said. ‘Right down to what you were supposed to be teaching her.’
‘And then she goes behind my back and files a complaint? The Division of Enforcement is going to be on this like flies on horseshit. Who knows what irregularities an auditor might find, with me out of the office so much.’
Out of the office so much? That was putting it mildly and, besides, more argument for the prosecution than evidence for the defense. Sarah had essentially gone AWOL, preferring to sell coffee over property. And she’d left a kid in charge of her realty gig.
Even Brigid – eager as she might be to get ahead – knew that was a mistake.
Though I had to take some of the blame, too. Sarah had abdicated her office to become my business partner.
‘I’m sure it’ll be fine,’ I said weakly as Sarah took back the gun.
‘Try to sound like at least you’re convinced of that,’ Sarah growled as she pushed aside her jacket and slipped the gun back into the holster attached to her belt.
Elaine Riordan hovered tentatively at the corner again. Apparently she’d left her tennis gear in the car, but slung over her shoulder was a strapped bag expansive enough to hold a frou-frou dog. And with enough buckles and hardware on the outside to convince any potential hairy Houdini not to make a break for it.
I cleared my throat. ‘Can I help you?’
‘I’m so sorry, but I need to use the restroom?’ Her tennis soles squeaked as she did a pitiful little potty dance.
I tugged Sarah to one side and Riordan hurried past us at a dead run.
I’m not sure my partner even noticed. She was still staring at her sheaf of papers, muttering.
‘Is there anything I can do?’ I asked.
The bells on the street side door jingled but Sarah didn’t look up.
Nor did she answer me.
I sighed and had started back toward the front of our shop when a familiar voice stopped me. ‘My God, what is that stench?’
I could retreat, but Sarah, still growling, wasn’t much of an alternative. The proverbial rock and a hard place, but in this case, it was more caught between the bitchy and the bitchier.
Told you Brookhills is rife with them.
Kate McNamara, editor and publisher of the Brookhills Observer and occasional on-air reporter for our regional cable news operation, stood inside the door, literally holding her nose. Next to her was a tall, dark-haired man gracefully graying at the temples, his camel sports jacket unbuttoned, Burberry scarf arranged just-so at his neck. Right behind him, as though she was drafting in his wake, came an angular young blonde wearing jeans and a parka. She didn’t register with me, but the man looked vaguely familiar.
Noticing the others also reacting to our air-quality index, I said, ‘Sewer problem.’ To tweak the journalist, I added, ‘Surely someone called a breaking story like this into your paper, Kate?’
Tien, her work done for the day, had departed, along with Jacque. Art had taken his coffee to the bar-top facing the window where he clacked away at his computer. Next to Elaine Riordan’s empty chair, a streaked-blonde Barbie sat texting, while MaryAnne and a fourth woman, a rare brunette in our town, had their heads together looking at a newspaper.
All, apparently, was right with the world. At least, Brookhills-style.
‘Art, you need anything?’ I asked as I circled behind him.
He shook his head without bothering to look up from the screen, so I turned to the newcomers. ‘Morning, Kate. What can I get you?’
I wanted to find out who the man accompanying her was, but I knew from previous experience with Kate that an
y question beyond the one I’d already posed would just result in an unadvancing litany of her new conquest’s credentials, both personal and professional.
However, as the Bible says: Don’t asketh and it shall be given unto you anyway. Or words to that effect.
‘Maggy, surely you know who this is,’ Kate practically purred.
‘I’m afraid I haven’t the faintest.’
‘No? How about Chicago?’
Mercifully, before I could burst into a song from the musical, the man stepped up to me. ‘Ward Chitown.’
He pronounced it ‘shy-town’. I stuck out my hand. ‘Maggy Thorsen.’
‘You’re kidding.’ Sarah had come up behind us.
Chitown bypassed my hand and extended his to her. ‘Ah, I see my reputation has preceded me.’
‘Reputation?’ Sarah shook hands, while managing to whisper – audibly – to me, ‘I just thought it was a stupid name – Ward “Chitown” from “Chicago”?’
‘Shit!’ Art Jenada’s head had swiveled around from his computer. ‘Ward, is that really you?’
Chitown, once-burned by Sarah’s attitude, was now twice . . . well, ‘chi’. ‘Umm, yes?’
Art hopped off his stool and, nudging past the young woman in the winter jacket, went to pump the other man’s hand. ‘Damned if it isn’t. How’ve you been? What brings you up here to the boonies?’
‘Chitown’ was a nickname for Chicago, though not as popular as ‘The Windy City’. Or even ‘Second City’, though some of its residents might bristle at the implication that Chicago was Avis to New York’s Hertz. Probably the same people who considered everything north of the Cubs’ Wrigley Field the ‘boonies’.
‘Can I get you something, Kate?’ I asked again.
And was roundly ignored. Again. ‘You haven’t read our Brookhills Observer,’ Kate scolded Art. ‘Or even seen the television news. Ward’s producer here has been scouting our jewel of a town since last week and Ward arrived on Sunday. They’re going to stage The Treasure of the Brookhills Massacre this Saturday.’
‘Stage?’ It was less a word and more an intake of air from the blonde, presumably the aforementioned, but as yet not-introduced, producer.
Chitown glanced back at her. ‘Deirdre is quite right, Katy.’
Uh-oh: I’d never heard anybody call Kate McNamara ‘Katy’ before. I bellied up to the service window to get a better view of the carnage.
But alas, Chitown continued unbloodied. ‘We don’t “stage” what is, quite simply, a search for the truth.’
‘No, no, of course not,’ Kate said, her face reddening to the point that the freckles marking it nearly disappeared into their background. ‘I meant “stage” only in the logistical—’
But Art Jenada had fixated on his home-boy. ‘Ward, I haven’t seen you for ages. Really miss you, man. How’re the wife and kids?’
With ten million people in the greater Chicago area, the chances of two people meeting there and subsequently stopping by my Brookhills coffeehouse had to be . . . ‘You really do know each other?’
‘Well . . .’ Chitown hedging. ‘I don’t believe I’ve had—’
But Art just talked over him. ‘Ward here is legendary in Chicago. First, as an investigative reporter, and then being the host of Chitown on Chi-Town. That ran for – what – twenty years?’
‘Twenty-two,’ Chitown corrected.
‘A TV show?’ I guessed.
Art growled under his breath. ‘Not just a TV show, Maggy. It was the number one, local noon-time program in the country during its hey-day.’ Art turned back to Chitown. ‘I don’t expect you to remember, but you had me as a guest once.’
‘I . . .?’
Art forgave him with a wave. ‘Ah, of course you don’t. There must’ve been hundreds of guests on that show over the years.’
‘Thousands,’ Chitown said, seeming to relax in the warm pool of adoration Art was ladling onto his feet. ‘But you do look familiar, Mr . . . um . . .? Wait a second, the first name . . . it’s Art, right?’
‘Right!’ Art turned to me, beaming. ‘Amazing, isn’t he? Like I said, a genuine legend.’
More like a genuine good listener. Just a few minutes ago, Chitown should have heard me ask ‘Art’ if he wanted a refill of his coffee.
But, then, in my experience good listeners are even rarer than legends. I gave our visitor a wide smile and the benefit of my doubt. ‘Well, a hero to Art deserves a drink on the house. What can I get you and your producer?’ I extended my hand to the woman. ‘Is it Deirdre?’
‘Yes, Deirdre Doty.’ she said, shaking. And not just my hand. The slim woman was shivering even in the heavy coat, and her clasp was like ice.
‘You poor thing, you’re freezing.’ I pointed to the dry-erase board that highlighted our specials. ‘Our fall Triple Shot latte should warm you up.’
‘“Triple Shot, fully-loaded”,’ Doty read aloud. ‘What’s it loaded with?’
‘Sugar,’ Sarah said. ‘A little fat on those bones would provide insulation. Or are you one of those fitness freaks?’
I ignored my business partner, hoping Deirdre Doty would do likewise. ‘It’s also good unsweetened or artificially sweetened, if you like.’
‘No, I think the sugar would be nice, but maybe without the milk,’ Doty said, glancing at Chitown. ‘It would be like our Café Cubano, Ward. All over again.’
I’d had Café Cubano, or Cuban coffee, when visiting South Florida. It’s strong, sweet and amazingly smooth – almost creamy. ‘Exactly like one, Deirdre, only super-sized, in the American tradition. But I’m afraid I don’t stock demerara sugar.’
Deirdre Doty seemed impressed I knew of the unrefined sugar, similar to turbinado, but coarser. ‘Whatever you have is fine.’
‘Some turbinado, then.’ I put a couple of heaped spoonfuls of the natural sweetener in the bottom of a small cup and set it aside. Then I positioned the basket of our long-handled portafilter under the cone grinder and pulled the lever twice, releasing a measured amount of espresso before twisting the filter onto the espresso machine, placing a small stainless steel pitcher below it to catch the brew and pushing the button. ‘Would you like one, too, Mr Chitown?’
‘Ward, please. And I’d love it con leche, if you can.’
Literally 'with milk,' which defined a latte was in the first place.
‘Easily,’ I said, reaching for a larger version of our stainless steel espresso pitcher. ‘Whole milk?’
‘Please, though I know it’s decadent. Deirdre is made of sterner stuff and drinks the brew straight.’
‘I’m afraid I don’t have anything to use for jolts,’ I said to Doty, knowing that Cuban establishments provide customers with a stack of thimble-sized plastic cups, so the caffeine and sugar-laden beverage could be divvied out and tossed back like Jell-O shots.
‘In a cup is just fine,’ she said, ‘since we don’t need to share like when we were on assignment in Miami. Remember, Ward?’
I could sense Kate McNamara, not a good ‘sharer’ herself, bristle at the idea of the other two off ‘on assignment’ together anywhere, but especially a hot and glamorous city like Miami.
And, more especially, sharing anything.
‘Deirdre is from Miami,’ Chitown said, ‘and showed us how a single, solitary Cuban coffee could fuel our whole crew.’
‘Florida’s Magic City,’ I said, pouring Chitown’s milk into the larger pitcher and sticking it under the frothing wand. Just managing to cut a look at Kate, too.
I’d nearly gotten the woman fired from her first television job and she’d nearly gotten me arrested for murder.
Made it tough to be friends. Not that I’d ever tried very hard.
I affected a sigh. ‘Miami, so beautiful, so . . . romantic.’ I poured a little espresso into Doty’s cup to make a paste with the sugar.
‘I’ll have a large black coffee,’ Kate snapped. ‘And make these all to-go, before we pass out from the rat stench.’
Ahh, Kate. Insu
lting my shop by using 'stench" twice, but still trying to jump on the free-drink bandwagon. Well, let her twist in the wind.
Large black coffee: $1.75. Pissing off Kate McNamara? Priceless!
I slowly poured the rest of the espresso into the cup. The idea was to get foam when it mixed with the sugar paste.
‘Bravo,’ Chitown said.
‘Thank you,’ I said, gauging my work before I slid the cup across to Doty. ‘I’ve never prepared it the traditional way before.’
‘Nice’ said Sarah, approvingly. ‘Usually Maggy just dumps all the crap in together.’
Not about to let my partner rain on my professional parade, I brewed – or ‘pulled’, as the technique is called – three more shots of espresso and followed the same ritual, this time in a full-sized coffee cup so I’d have room for the steamed milk. ‘Voila.’
‘I said to-go,’ Kate snapped again. A wonder she didn’t crack a couple of teeth per day.
Art, who had been waiting patiently all this time for another opp with his hero, put an arm around Chitown and steered him to a table next to the Barbies. ‘So, Ward, what brings you to our little town?’
‘I told you,’ Kate started irritably, as Deirdre Doty followed the men. ‘He’s—’
Sarah, having witnessed the entire exchange, whinnied like a plow horse. She has a long face and huge teeth, so she’s disconcertingly good at it. ‘Oh, Kate, let the man bask in adoration. He probably doesn’t get much of it these days.’
I threw my partner a startled glance. ‘You know this guy, too?’
Sarah shrugged. ‘I get the Sunday Chicago Trib.’
I knew the Tribune was one of the big city’s two daily newspapers. ‘And it carried a feature about this Brookhills Massacre?’
‘Of course not, idiot. A news story recounting Chitown’s ugly divorce. From his second wife. You know, a generation-skipping trophy one.’
I was thinking about the trip to Miami with Deirdre Doty and, supposedly, ‘their’ crew.
‘Did his wife accuse him of cheating?’ I asked, glancing over toward the table where Art, Chitown and Doty now sat, chatting.
‘Nah, more like being a has-been.’