Smart vs. Pretty (8 page)

Instead she kept walking. It felt good to be out in the open air, however nippy. Night fell early in winter, and the dark saved her from menacing looks. She kept her head down and watched her loafers take one step, and then another. She didn’t know how long she’d been walking when she felt a shudder. She looked up and found herself at the top of Joralemon Street—Chick’s block. Visions of the scene that morning popped into her head. She ventured down the block and stood in front of Chick’s brownstone. Yellow police tape blocked the gated area by the stoop. The garbage cans were, apparently, off-limits. Amanda checked to see if anyone was watching and stepped under the tape. In the dark it was hard to make out any sign of blood. She’d just assumed Chick died in his apartment, but from the look of things, his body had been found outside, practically on the street.

Amanda heard the sound of clicking metal and ducked into the hollow underneath the building’s stoop. One of Chick’s neighbors was leaving. She didn’t want to be seen inside the police-protected area (in fact, she thought to herself, it had been stupid to go in there, leaving fibers and hair and evidence of herself all over the crime scene—too late now). She cursed herself silently and waited for the resident to pass. She was leaning as far into the hollow as she could when she saw the decidedly male figure descend the stairs and proceed up the street. She watched his back. The barn jacket was familiar. So was his walk. And his red hair. He was in the middle of the block, standing under a streetlight, when she heard a loud bang. The man’s head snapped in the direction of the sound. Amanda caught his profile.

Benji Morton. As she lived and breathed deeply in and out.

Amanda waited for him to go far enough up the street before she scrambled away from the building. She sat on a neighboring stoop and waited for her heart to beat at a normal rate. Benji and Chick lived in the same building. Maybe they’d met, been friendly? It seemed odd—they couldn’t be more different.

After a few minutes her pulse returned to normal and the cold started to harden her muscles. Amanda needed to go somewhere quiet to process all this information. And she was desperate to do an I Ching toss. Deciding there was no place like home, she headed back toward Montague Street.

That was when she heard the police siren.

T
he loud pop sounded enough like the report of a handgun to send the customers under the tables. Frank wasn’t fooled. Having lived in Brooklyn her whole life, only a mile from the neighborhood of Cobble Hill (the Italian enclave infamous for setting off mountains of Roman candles on the Fourth of July—resulting in the highest per capita lost-finger rate in the city), Frank knew a firecracker when she heard one. As the powder sticks exploded on the sidewalk outside, everyone but Frank and Matt took a dive. Frank was proud to see that there wasn’t an empty square foot of floor real estate to be had.

There was a time in her life—about five minutes once, in college—when she could have tried to understand the pent-up aggression that resulted in random crimes of mischief (vandalism, fireworks, and phony phone calls). But any residual sense of recklessness in her had died with her parents. Or maybe it had died with her virginity. That scene was tragic and chaotic and dismal enough to crush reckless abandon forever.

Matt snapped Frank back to the present. “People! People! Everything is okay! No one is trying to bomb the café!”

A woman in overalls and a cable-knit cardigan rose to her feet. “What was it?” she asked nervously.

“Just some firecrackers,” Matt assured the room. “Nothing to fear!” To Frank, he asked, “Free coffee for the crouched masses?”

“Good idea,” she said. “But give them the Colombian.” Who would do that? Someone could have been hurt, thought Frank. She assumed the prankster was some idiot kid.

“It was probably Benji Morton from Moonburst, jealous of our taking his customers,” said Clarissa as she dusted off her pants. She, too, had hit the dirt when the firecrackers went off.

Matt shook his head. “It wasn’t Benji Morton.”

“How do you know?” asked Frank.

“He’d never have the guts to light the string,” he said.

“Setting off tiny firecrackers isn’t exactly a courageous act,” Frank said.

Matt shook his head. “Not setting them off. He’d be too scared to break the rules, to get caught. He’s got a spine of butter, not a risk-taking bone in his whole pudgy body. How do I know? He’s the manager at Moonburst, isn’t he? That’s about the lowest-risk job in the world right now, isn’t it? That man will live his life in quiet safety, wake up one morning at ninety, and wonder how he could have wasted all those years as a do-nothing, try-nothing, be-nothing.”

“Okay,” said Frank. “I think I’ll serve some coffee now.”

Clarissa said, “Good to know, Matt. Thanks. Oh, Francesca, can I have a word?”

“Sure, take any word you want,” said Frank, then instantly regretted her sarcasm. “I’m sorry, Clarissa. What’s on your mind?” She was afraid to hear what the blonde had to say. After all, they’d practically come to blows. Well, maybe not blows, but hard words had been exchanged. Well, maybe not hard. Medium words, tough enough to make Frank feel as if she’d destroyed any chance of a friendship with the superior human.

Clarissa cleared her throat. “Listen, I feel terrible about what happened before. I should have made my goals clearer to you. I was just doing what I thought would help. I admit that my methods can be extreme. But I guess I’m the opposite of Benji Morton: I’m good at taking risks. But I need your approval, Francesca. You’re so quick and smart. You’re the kind of person who plays chess five moves ahead. I get the feeling you think I’m frivolous. I hope you don’t. I want to impress you.” Clarissa looked at the older sister with big, moist blue eyes.

Frank’s chest swelled and her heart caved at the same time. “I’ve been trying to impress you,” she said. “You’re everything. The complete package.”
And I’m nothing,
thought Frank.
Small breasts and stringy hair. How could this Valkyrie be seeking my approval?
she wondered with awe. It was like the most popular girl in school begging for the bookworm’s vetting. “You’re doing a great job,” Frank said. “I hope my hesitancy hasn’t made you rethink your plans.”

“What a relief,” said Clarissa with a winning smile. “I thought I’d blown it with you.”

Not knowing what to do next, Frank put her hand on Clarissa’s shoulder. She actually reached out and touched her. Frank couldn’t believe her forwardness, but the praise had a narcotic effect. She gave Clarissa an unsteady pat and said, “I think we need to calm the customers. They still seem a bit shaken.”

Clarissa put her cool, dry hand over Frank’s and said, “You’re right, of course.” Frank wondered if Clarissa respected Amanda. That was the most important thing, thought Frank. Amanda might appeal to Clarissa’s juvenile girly side, but Frank could be a friend of true substance. She smiled at Clarissa, trying to let her know that she understood: Amanda was just a plaything.

Calm now herself, Frank served fresh coffee. Clarissa soothed the customers. Matt mopped up small rivers of spilled joe. Walter cleared some tables and even refilled the napkin containers. When the crowd had settled down, Frank thanked Matt and Clarissa. Walter joined Frank behind the cookie case with some coffee-soaked washcloths. She pointed him toward the small sink next to the brewing pots and said, “Cleaning up exceeds your Mr. Coffee duties.”

“It’s nothing.” He smiled bashfully.

“No, really. I want to thank you,” she said, still on a Clarissa high.

“You don’t have to insist, Francesca.”

Frank had to ask: “Besides your thing with Clarissa, and your supposed bottomless craving for positive reinforcement, why are you doing this?”

He wrung out a rag. “Doing what?”

“If you’re a big J. Crew model, why do you care about free coffee? Don’t you have bookings, or sittings, or go-sees? Whatever it is you models do, how come you’re not doing it?”

“Let’s just say that I’m no fan of the homogenization of America, which Moonburst has made a huge contribution to.”

“Unlike J. Crew?” she asked.

He laughed. “It could be worse. It could be The Gap. Besides, J. Crew is mainly a mail-order business.”

“They won’t open up on my block,” she said, nodding. “But every year twenty million trees will give their lives for that catalog. And why do I have to get one in the mail every single day?”

Walter laughed—again.
He thinks I’m funny,
Frank thought.
Yeah, funny looking.
She hadn’t been paid this much attention by a handsome man in…could she even remember when? Maybe Clarissa’s tacit acceptance made Frank irresistible to others of her kind.

Walter said, “I said I had a problem with homogenization, not deforestation.”

“So thousands of spotted owls can come live at your place?”

“Honestly, I don’t give a hoot.” He paused, as if waiting for her to laugh. She resisted. He said, “I’ve never seen a spotted owl up close, but I’m sure their feathers would make a great stuffing for a quilted jacket.” Another pause. “Man, you’re tough. If you don’t at least smile at my jokes, I’m going to start crying.”

“I’ll smile when you say something funny,” she said. As he rinsed his hands, Frank studied his profile. His nose was pug. She hated that in a man. But she did admire his tiny pores and his sideburns—they nearly touched his sharp jaw. Most important, he didn’t have that blockheaded, macho-feminized, cock-forward posture of most male models.

He grabbed the soap when he said, “The truth is, I got involved with the contest because I saw someone in trouble, and I wanted to help her out.”

“Helpless wasn’t my initial impression of Clarissa,” said Frank.

Walter leaned forward and grabbed a dry towel off the rack. Walter said, “I wanted to help you, Francesca. I like you. I liked you on that first day I walked in here to apply for the contest. You pushed past me like you didn’t even see me. I vowed that I’d get you to notice me, like I noticed you.” As he stroked his forearms dry, he looked down at Frank. She felt a sudden undeniable rise in the temperature of her skin.

Walter said, “God, you’re so intense. Your features seem locked together, like they’re holding each other in place. I bet if you smiled, your whole face would change completely. Do it, Francesca. Let me see.”

Sirens blared, lights blazed.

Frank turned toward the storefront windows. A police cruiser had pulled up on the street outside. The uniforms ran inside, guns drawn, prepared for action, ready to take the place
down.
They quickly realized that forty-odd ruffled women, already flying from free caffeine and adrenaline, weren’t in need of another boost. Before the two cops could saddle their weapons, a rumpled man in a dirty brown unbelted trench scuttled into the store. He quickly snapped some photos of the cops with his thirty-five-millimeter camera. Frank was caught in the background of a few of the frames.

Frank stepped forward. “This is my coffee bar. I’m not sure why you’re here,” Frank said to the men in blue. Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted Matt scowling at the cops, distrustful of authority figures as a rule.

“This way, Officers!” said the trench-coat guy. Frank and the cops looked in his direction instinctively. He snapped their picture.

Cop number one, the shorter one at six-foot-five, said, “We got a report of shots fired outside.”

“Gunshots?” asked Frank. “No, no. Some idiot set off a string of cheap firecrackers on the street. No one was hurt.” Trench Coat stared at Frank as she spoke to the cops. Frank felt his eyes on her back as she led the cops outside to show them the remains of the fireworks. Cop number two, a towering six-foot-seven, took a clipboard off the dash of the cruiser and asked her to sign a piece of paper.

Amanda came running up the street. She was breathing hard, as though she’d sprinted in from New Jersey. Frank told her everything was okay, to relax. Cop number one recognized Amanda from the newspaper. He asked her for her autograph in a flirty way that meant he’d rather have her phone number. He wasn’t wearing a wedding ring, but one could never tell with cops.

Resigned to a talk with Amanda later about the dangers of dating a cop, Frank left them alone. She noticed that Trench Coat was still staring at her, camera ready to shoot. She stepped back inside, bracing herself against the dry rush of radiator heat.

Frank marched right up to Trench Coat and said, “You’ve got black smudges on your hands—gunpowder black.”

“Very observant, Nancy Drew.” The gnomish rumpled man actually sniveled at her before—
whap!
—he took her picture.

Frank was astonished by his rudeness. She said, “I’d like you to leave.” She reconsidered. “Who are you?”

“The name is Piper Zorn,” he announced. Frank was certain she’d never laid eyes on him in her life. And her memory was keen.

“Doesn’t that name mean anything to you?” he asked impatiently.

“You’re the
Post
reporter who wrote that fabrication about my sister,” Frank stated. “I can’t say I admire your work.”

“Piper!” sang Clarissa, sliding over to Frank and Trench. “I wasn’t expecting to see you tonight.” Clarissa and Piper Zorn hugged. His hand brushed over her butt. She pushed it away. Her eyes traveled toward Walter, who was taking orders and making change.

Piper said, “Just doing some follow-up. I wouldn’t want this to be a one-day story.”

“You’re so good to me,” Clarissa purred. Frank marveled at how she had this man eating out of her hand. Even though she’d agreed to let Clarissa do what she thought was right, Frank was still uneasy about Romancing the Bean’s coverage in the city tabloid.

“Perhaps in tomorrow’s story, you can report what actually happened instead of sensationalizing it,” said Frank.

“Francesca,” Clarissa started, “I thought we worked this out.”

Piper Zorn interrupted her by saying, “You of all people are preaching to me about journalistic standards?” He snorted. “I need some pictures. If you’ll get out of my way?” He pushed Frank to the side and walked toward a semicircle of recapping customers. She considered stopping him, but her instincts told her that would make things worse.

The two women watched Piper in action. Frank said, “When you said you had a reporter in your hip pocket, I had no idea he could really fit in your hip pocket.”

“Diminutive only in stature,” Clarissa assured her. “Piper is a veteran reporter and author. I think he’s won some awards.”

“He set off fireworks outside the store and called the cops,” said Frank. “Are you sure he’s trustworthy?”

“He’d never do anything to compromise my plans,” said Clarissa. “I have complete control.”

Frank doubted that, but she didn’t want to spoil the new understanding between them. It occurred to Frank that complete control was probably an illusion for everyone who sought it, including herself. “Piper acts as though he has a personal problem with me,” said Frank.

“That’s ridiculous,” said Clarissa. “I know he’s a bit odd, but think of his value. An A-list reporter from the city’s biggest daily. He’s taking it upon himself to cover your store. Each paragraph in the paper is like paid advertising. This is golden, Francesca.”

Frank nodded. “I know all that, and I appreciate it. But he seems so hostile.”

“You’re paranoid.”

“It’s not paranoia if someone really is out to get you,” Frank explained. One of Frank’s pet fears was typical for New Yorkers: She’d be walking by herself late at night, going home from the subway. On a deserted street she’d hear footsteps behind her. Before she could run or call for help, the rapist/murderer/cannibal would attack. It wouldn’t be a random act of violence. No. The maniac had picked her out months earlier. Maybe it was the color of her shirt (perhaps this was why 95 percent of New York women wore all black, all the time). Maybe it was an expression on her face, one that said “I’m mildly discontent”—psychopath translation for “kill me now.” Frank wasn’t inclined to trust strangers. Especially twitchy, antagonistic men in trench coats.

Out of habit, Frank counted heads. The police excitement drew some passersby off the street. The crowd around Piper was animated. By morning, the nonstory of the fireworks exploding would probably be reported as a full-scale race riot. Frank watched as a handful of ladies picked mugs and coffee presses off the products display. She walked behind the register to take their money, not sure why the items that had sat dusty on the shelves for so long were now hot. Then she got it: these people wanted souvenirs, mementos of their big night on the front line. Maybe there was something to this coffee-house-as-spectacle thing.