Once Upon a Grind (18 page)

R
ED
stared in silence, clearly taken aback.

Thank goodness, Esther jumped in. “Talk to her,” she firmly advised. Then without bothering to tie her boots, she clomped to the stage to thank the audience and announce a short intermission.

As members of the crowd began milling around, stretching their legs, Red moved to the chair where her scarlet backpack sat. I shadowed her.

“So who are you?” she asked, fishing around her pack.

“My name is Clare. I'm Mr. Allegro's business partner. Why do you want to see him?”

“My business with Matteo Allegro is none of your business,
business partner
.”

“You're wrong about that. His business is my business. And we're both wondering if you heard about the business involving your friend Anya?”

“You mean my
stupid
friend? The
stupid
girl lying in that
stupid
hospital? Do you think I'm stupid? Of course I heard what happened to Anya!”

In a dazzling blur of motion, Red's right hand opened a silver case, flipped a cigarette into her mouth, and lit it.

“Yesterday morning in Central Park, you were looking for her. What was the reason? Did you need something from her? A key maybe?”

“What is this? Shakedown? Maybe
you
are looking for key of your own?”

“I don't want anything from you but the truth.”

“You can trust her,” Esther broke in, returning to her seat. “And you're not allowed to smoke in here.”

“Why should I trust her?” Red snapped, ignoring the smoking ban. “And why should
she
care about Anya?”

I stepped closer and lowered my voice. “Because I'm a friend of the two children Anya helped care for. I promised them I'd find out what happened to her. And right now I think it's connected to her missing key.”

Red pursed her lips, as if reevaluating me. Then her tone changed from defensive to curious. “You think I took her key?”

“Did you?”

“No.” She took a long drag on her cigarette and blew a smoke stream toward the ceiling. “Why would I need Anya's key? I have my own key.”

“So . . . you're a
member
?” I said, unconvinced.

“You don't believe me? Who do you think helped that stupid girl get her stupid key? Was me!” Then she surprised me by showing me proof. Her right hand angrily stamped out the cigarette, yanked off her sequined hood, reached down her neckline, and pulled out a golden key.

The key itself didn't convince me, but the chain did. That signature chain made of silver and gold links in little diamond shapes couldn't have been Anya's because Molly had it.

“You see. I am not lying. I did not want Anya's key. And I did not hurt her. Anya was my friend. But she would not listen to me. I
tried
to tell her—once you say
da
to these people, you do not say
nyet
!”

“Who? What people?”

But Red wouldn't tell me, simply ranted in Russian. Though I understood nothing, I did recognize the phrase Esther mentioned last night—

“Ya budu ryadom! Ya budu ryadom!”

She repeated it several times. When I asked her what it meant, she shook her head. “I told you enough. Now let me see Matteo Allegro or I am leaving.”

“If you're really Anya's friend, then you should care about what happened to her.”

“Are you stupid? Of course I care!”

“Then prove it. Come back here tomorrow morning. Matt will be here to talk to you—along with a friend of ours.”

“What friend?”

“He'll listen to your whole story, off the record. We'll all put our heads together and figure out the next step.”

“Who is this off-the-record man? Reporter?”

“No . . .” I leaned close, whispered in her ear. “His name is Emmanuel Franco. He's a cop, you can trust him.”

That did it. The mention of police spooked Red completely. She shook her head hard, pulled her hood back up, and turned to gather up her raincoat and bag.

“Wait—” I grabbed her arm.

“You get one last chance,” she hissed, shaking me off. “Matteo Allegro comes to get me in five minutes or I am going. And I am never coming back.”

I didn't like Red, but I did believe her about the key and the club, and I wanted to know more about both, along with “these people” to whom Anya had first said
yes
and then said
no
.

Matt, who could charm the pantyhose off most women, was now my only hope for getting more out of this edgy girl.

At the moment, my ex was ensconced upstairs, in the kitchen of my duplex, munching cookies, playing smartphone games, and catching up on international calls.

He'd already agreed to my rules about speaking with Red. (No leaving our coffeehouse. No touching. And he had to let me hover like a mother hen, close enough to witness their conversation.) Given those parameters, even Quinn would have agreed it was worth the risk.

“I'll ask Matt to come down,” I promised.

“Clock is ticking,” Red warned then turned on her sharp heels and clicked toward the back of the room.

I pulled out my cell, speed-dialed Matt, and got his voice mail.

“Okay, you're on—” I began when the rest of my sentence was drowned out by the deafening sound of electronic feedback.

I knew something was happening behind me on stage, but I was more concerned with getting my ex down here, so I switched to text messaging. And that's when I heard Esther's agonizing groan.

Glancing up from my typing, I was alarmed to see the shock and horror crossing my barista's face.

“Esther, what's wrong?”

A second later, I knew, as the familiar male voice boomed out of our speakers—

I am Man with a Purpose, as you will soon see

And tonight you will all stand Witness for me—

Esther's boyfriend, Boris, part-time recording artist and full-time baker had finally shown up, which meant the moment Esther was dreading had come.

My life has been up and it has been down.

Just like a window, pain is all around . . .

In alarmed disbelief, Esther pointed at the stage. “He's doing it, boss. He's actually doing it! Boris is turning the end of our relationship into performance art!”

A
S
the audience cheered, I faced the stage and saw the reason for the excitement.

Boris had gelled his short blond hair into its usual defiant spikes, but the wiry Russian émigré had exchanged his typical baggy jeans, backward baseball cap, and Eminem T-shirt for a tight black evening jacket and leg-hugging pants that ended, Buddy Holly–style, above his ankles. His open-necked shirt was starched white, but not as bright as his close-set gray eyes, now shining with the electricity of an energized performer.

He'd even thrown some sharp new dance moves into his usual hip-hop strut, including a few Michael Jackson–inspired spins and moonwalks. What surprised me more than his choreography was the reason for this transformation—

You said let's live together

And you offered your hand.

But I don't want to roll

with a temporary plan.

Our love is deep, our passion strong.

And the two of us actually get along!

With a love like that, you don't just play.

So my sweet czarina, please make my day . . .

Skidding to the end of the low stage, Boris dropped to his knees, coming face-to-face with a slack-jawed Esther.

The audience members jumped to their feet as Boris pulled something from his back pocket. Esther gasped at the sight of the tiny jewel box. Boris flipped it open with his thumb. Inside a diamond engagement ring was cradled on a bed of red velvet.

Offering Esther the ring with one hand, he touched his chest with the other.

My pumping heart awaits your reply

Please say yes or I think I'll die.

Marry me, Esther, and share my life

And we will live together as man and wife.

I was so overjoyed by Boris's proposal that I cheered and applauded along with everyone else. Esther thought her life with him was over. Instead, to paraphrase the popular wedding song refrain,
It's only just begun.
(Not that Karen Carpenter's tune had a snowball's chance of turning up on Esther and Boris's nuptial playlist.)

I couldn't wait to hug Esther and congratulate them both. Of course, Esther had to answer Boris first. I assumed she would rap it. Then he would surely hand her up on stage, where they would embrace and live happily ever after.

Dozens of camera phones were poised to capture the anticipated, once-in-a-lifetime scene.

But it never came.

For a surreal minute, the pair remained frozen: Esther staring at Boris, eyes wider than an anime Bambi in a Hummer's headlights; and Boris waiting on his knees, hand to heart, holding out his ring.

Finally, the cheers died down and everyone leaned forward to hear the bride's reply.

Well, she gave one.

In a fair imitation of Edvard Munch's most famous painting, Esther Best covered her ears, and let out a bloodcurdling scream. Then she jumped up, pushed through the crowd, and headed for the exit.

At the back of the room, near the spiral staircase, Red was still waiting for Matt's arrival. Esther saw her and shouted—

“Get me out of here!”

Grabbing Esther's hand, Red pulled her onto the staircase. Halfway down, Esther stumbled, slowing them both, but like Alice's White Rabbit, they kept going.

“Esther, wait!” I called. “Please don't go!”

My words were drowned out by Boris's amplified voice shouting the very same thing.

I tried to elbow my way to the front of the mob, but the audience was madly waving camera phones, convinced this was contrived entertainment, and not a dreadfully conflicted moment in a young woman's life.

Then Boris shot off the low stage, and the sea of bodies finally parted.

“Czarina! Come back!” he wailed.

But Esther ignored her wannabe fiancé and hit the sidewalk with Red.

I bolted down the staircase, hopping over the object Esther had left behind. Outside I heard a driver gun his engine, and watched a Lincoln Town Car speed away with Red and Esther huddled in the backseat. The man behind the wheel had long wavy hair topped by a bowler hat—it was the same driver who'd picked up Red the night before.

I tried to get the plate number but the street was too busy and a van cut off my view. The only thing I glimpsed was a flash of that flag bumper sticker I'd seen last night.

Hearing fast footsteps behind me, I spun to find a stricken Boris clutching something in his hands.

In his black formalwear, he had the look of a dumbfounded Prince Charming grasping Cinderella's slipper—only this shoe wasn't glass. It was an unlaced combat boot. Esther had lost it on the stairs.

“My czarina . . . where is she?” he asked.

“I'm sorry, Boris. She's gone.”

S
TILL
clinging to Esther's boot, Boris sent his “czarina” a heartfelt text message. When she failed to reply, I led the distraught young man back inside, sat him down at my espresso bar, and began making him a comfort drink.

Matt approached me behind the counter. “Where's Red? And what was all that commotion about?”

I filled in the details and asked him to oversee the exiting of the Poetry Slam audience. “After that, I'd like you to stick around.”

“Why? Red's gone, isn't she?”

“Yes, but I may need your help looking for Esther.”

“You sound worried.”

I lowered my voice. “She's with Red, and I don't trust that girl.”

Matt glanced at Boris and then back to me. “What are you planning?”

“Boris knew Red pretty well,” I whispered. “If I can talk him out of this funk, maybe he'll tell me more about the girl. Either way, I'm hoping he and I can track down Esther tonight.”

“Good idea,” he said. “When you need me, call me . . .” And on that Diana Ross note, my ex-husband headed up to our second-floor lounge.

I finished Boris's drink and slid the brimming latte glass across the counter.

“
Nyet
,” he said, pushing it away. “Coffee will make me jittery.”

“This is our special Dream Steamer. No espresso. Just steamed milk and our homemade orange, vanilla, and caramel cream syrups. Drink up. It'll calm your nerves.”

He sampled it. “Is very good . . .
spasibo
.”

“You're welcome.”

While Boris sipped and sulked, I moved to the pantry area to phone Esther myself—and heard a muffled ringtone in the staff closet. That's where I found her coat hanging, along with her purse and her smartphone still inside it.

Boris nearly lost his mind when I brought the items up front. I wasn't thrilled with the discovery, either. The phone was locked. I couldn't see her contacts or get Red's number. And since Esther had no landline in her apartment, I suggested we take a ride over to her East Village building ASAP.

“Maybe Red gave her a ride home,” I said with crossed fingers. “The only snag might come at her front door. What if she refuses to answer?”

“I have key,” Boris said.

“Then let's go.”

*   *   *

T
HE
yellow cab dropped us at Avenue C, a tar-patched thoroughfare in Alphabet City, which was not, in fact, an invention of
Sesame Street
(as my youngest barista once thought), but a residential neighborhood located between the East Village and the East River.

In the late nineteenth century, this area had been a densely populated tenement ghetto where immigrants lived short, hard lives. By the mid-twentieth century, an influx of Puerto Ricans gave birth to the “Nuyorican” Art Movement, and struggling artists and musicians began flocking to the neighborhood for its low rents as much as its Bohemian atmosphere.

As Mike Quinn often noted, this time period brought high levels of crime and illegal drug activity, but it also spawned the world's first break dancing, rappers, and DJs. And in 1988, the city's very first poetry slam was held at the Nuyorican Poets Café—an avant-garde enclave only a few blocks from Esther's address.

We now stood before the battered entry door of her six-story walk-up, a former tenement building that once had no running water. These days, most of the East Village had gone through gentrification. Trendy restaurants, bars, and clothing boutiques occupied many of the storefronts, and old apartment houses had undergone multimillion-dollar renovations. But this one, not so much.

We rang the bell several times. No one answered, so Boris used his key. Actually, three keys: first the street door, then the front door, and finally the dead bolt.

Bolt
was the word of the day because inside there was no sign of Esther.

I'd never been to her place. The one-bedroom flat was small yet cozy. We entered into a brightly lit kitchen with potted plants on the fire escape. Her roommate had occupied the sitting area to the right, which Japanese screens had turned into a private room. The space was emptied of personal items—the roomie had already moved out.

Esther's bedroom was on the other side of the kitchen, through a proper door, which stood half open.

I moved inside for a look around. Framed photos from her life covered one wall, and not one of them was a perfect, posed shot. Like Esther herself, the pictures were offbeat and honest: her Poetry Slam kids horsing around; her fellow baristas doing a kick line; her married sister in Westchester, struggling to wash the dog with her kids; Boris wearing a milk mustache in front of a half-eaten birthday cake; even Matt and me at the Village Blend counter, sticking our tongues out at the camera.

Her ceiling had been wallpapered with the night sky, and the rest of her walls were a fascinating collage of images and words. But the most interesting thing in the room hung above her cluttered desk—a large black magnetic board filled with movable white letters.

“Looks like she never came back here at all,” I said, and read with interest the last words she'd put together on her poetry board. “
Like otiose vacillating enemies stuck together in krappy situations
.”

I frowned. “What does that mean? And why did she spell crap with a
K
?”

Boris stared at the board and groaned.

“What is it?” I asked.

“Is acrostic,” he said.

“Is that Russian?”

“Acrostic is word play. Like code—” He pointed at the board. “Read words down, first letters only . . .”

I cringed when I read it, and was truly sorry I'd asked.

Boris sank to her mattress as the meaning of her coded poem sank in—

“Love Stinks.”