Until I Saw Your Smile (16 page)

He saw Angela standing in the doorway. “Well?” he asked.

“You used too much bleach,” Angela said. “It'll take longer to dry, and it'll be slippery in the morning. Rinse out your mop thoroughly and go over it again only with water.”

Matthew mopped the kitchen again.

It wasn't as slippery.

At eight o'clock, Angela turned all the locks on the front door and polished the showcase while Matthew mopped the dining area. She looked up at the clock once she was done. “Eight oh five. Not bad. For a lawyer.”

Matthew took off his apron, laying it over his arm. “A lawyer who did this at NYU to help pay his bills.”

Angela recounted her bills at the counter. “Yeah?”

“All four years,” Matthew said. “I wore a hairnet and everything.”

She wrote something down. “I can't see you in a hairnet.”

“My hair was longer then.” He held up the apron. “I'll take this home and wash it.”

“I'll wash it,” Angela said.

“I'll do it,” Matthew said. “I make the mess, I clean it up. See you tomorrow.”

Angela looked past him and out the window. “We might not have much to clean up tomorrow.”

I have nothing to say to that.
“I'll try to be messier tomorrow then. Good night, Miss Smith.”

Angela nodded, her eyes still staring across the street.

She looks so sad.
“You might see me for breakfast, and I think I want something different tomorrow. Sausage and waffles, lots of butter and syrup. Okay?”

Angela sighed. “Okay.”

“Lots of butter.”

“And syrup,” Angela said. “I heard you.”

“Good night, Angela.”

Angela sighed loudly and left the counter. “Good night, man, now get out of here so I can get off my feet.”

But you haven't smiled yet.
“You know, I could carry you wherever you need to go to give relief to your sore, tired feet. What do you weigh, about fifty pounds?”

“Just . . .” Angela smiled. “Just get on, man.”

Angela flicked open the locks, opened the door, and stood back.

“Good night, Angela.”

Angela nodded. “Good night, Matthew.”

He stood at the door watching Angela locking him out, hoping for another smile.

He didn't get one.

Matthew bought some bleach at Melo's and washed the apron in his bathtub. He wrung it out, ironed it on the pockmarked kitchen table until it was almost dry, and hung it in the closet.

Thanks to WiggyWoo, he sat in his chair and checked his Web site for traffic and his e-mail for clients.

He checked another e-mail account and found spam for Cialis and Viagra.

He set his laptop aside.

He looked at his reflection in the window.

Chapter 13

H
is apron carefully folded in the pocket of his windbreaker, Matthew jogged down Havemeyer to the Dime Savings Bank ATM across from La Guardia Playground, withdrew forty dollars, and then doubled back, taking South 3rd to Driggs and Angela's, arriving a little after six
AM
.

He was glad he had hurried.

On the table at the middle booth, a stack of waffles bathed in butter and soaked in syrup, four links of sausage, and a large house blend sat steaming next to a small bowl of assorted gumdrops.

“Good morning,” he said.
Gumdrops, too? I wonder why.

Angela smiled. “Good morning.”

Matthew sat. “This looks great. What's with the gumdrops?”

“It's National Gumdrop Day.” She picked up a plate of pastries. “Didn't you know?”

“No, but thanks.”

She came over to the table and set down the plate. “It's also Singles Awareness Day, but I didn't think you'd want a reminder of that.”

Singles Awareness Day, and the day after Valentine's Day. How cruel! Great timing, though.
He popped a cherry gumdrop into his mouth. “How do you know all these holidays?”

“I have a notebook full of them,” Angela said. “It gives me something different to say every morning besides, ‘Good morning.' ”

Matthew pulled the apron out of his pocket. “It's a bit wrinkled. I did try to iron it. My kitchen table isn't a very good ironing board.”

Angela took the apron and smelled it. “You tried. It smells like bleach and vanilla.”

At least she didn't say oranges.
“Yes. Vanilla. Joy's scent permeates everything in my apartment.”

“Brew coffee,” Angela said. “That'll knock it out.”

He picked up his cup. “I'd rather drink yours.”

“I didn't say to
drink
it,” Angela said. “Just brew it.”

“I will.” He slid to his right. “Care to join me?”

“I'm really busy,” she said.

“I understand.”

Customers poured in steadily for the next two hours, most of them getting their coffee and leaving immediately. The last two in line, Mr. and Mrs. Thomas, an older black couple in their seventies, took some time to talk to Angela.

“When's the ribbon cutting?” Mrs. Thomas asked.

“Nine o'clock,” Angela said.

“Nine?” Mr. Thomas said. “That's foolish. Most people are already at work
with
their coffee by nine o' clock.” He dropped his change into the tip jar. “I will always come here, Angela.”

“You got that right,” Mrs. Thomas said. “Best cup of coffee in New York and at the lowest price, too.”

I should be writing this stuff down. Maybe all Angela needs is a Web site, not that I'm an expert on Web sites. I wonder if Smith's Sweet Treats and Coffee ever had a newspaper review. How do you go about getting one of those? A review or a story in the
Brooklyn Daily Eagle
might do the trick. I'll bet there are some reporters over there at La Estrella right now hyping up the grand opening.

During a lull, Matthew brought his plates to the counter, dumping the rest of the gumdrops into his hand. “I can take these back to the kitchen if you want.”

Angela collected the plates. “No problem.”

Matthew handed her a twenty. “I'm going for a little walk.”

“You want your change?” she asked.

“No.” He smiled. “Breakfast was delicious.”

“Will I see you later?” she asked.

“Sure,” Matthew said, backing away. “I'll be back in a few minutes. I just want to do a little reconnaissance across the street.”

“I already know what's on their menu,” Angela said.

Matthew drifted back to the counter. “You've seen their menu?”

Angela nodded. “Everything they sell is pre-packaged: the coffee, the pastries, and their so-called ‘fresh-baked cookies.' All they're doing is throwing them in a microwave. There's nothing homemade over there, but the word ‘homemade' is in all their advertising.”

“Do you know what they're charging?” Matthew asked.

Angela shook her head. “Their prices vary by location.”

He tapped the counter. “Then I will see how much their prices vary at
that
location.”

Matthew crossed the street and watched a speedy ribbon-cutting ceremony filmed by Channel 11.
What was that? Thirty seconds?
He then waded through a mostly younger crowd and went inside.

Matthew saw plenty of places to sit, including easy chairs, sofas, loveseats, and red and yellow plastic chairs arranged around red and yellow checkerboard tables. Several high tables without seats faced the window.
How considerate of them. Hey, get off the subway or bus where you just stood for half an hour and take a load off standing here with your overpriced coffee.

Matthew marveled at the prices.
Five bucks a cup to
start.
If you bought only one cup daily, you'd be out more than eighteen hundred bucks a year!

He watched the young and pretty baristas at work, each checking “how-to-make” signs and adding lots of foam.
The service is slow. I know they'll become more efficient, but the line is threatening to go out the door into the cold.
He watched the totals on the register for a few minutes.
The average price for each order is about seven bucks. Angela has nothing to worry about.

He didn't see anyone interviewing a manager, customer, or worker inside.
Maybe I'll post a scathing review online for La Estrella and a glowing one for Angela at zagat.com or citysearch. com.

He returned to Angela's, purposefully looking pitiful.

Angela's eyes widened. “Well?”

Matthew smiled. “You could
double
the cost of your largest cup and it will
still
cost less than what they're charging. Five bucks for a large, two or more bucks for the additives, flavorings, and foam.”

Angela placed her hands on the counter. “That's insane. Seven bucks? How many varieties of coffee do they serve?”

“Too many,” Matthew said. “That's the problem with those places. They offer too many choices, and they have all these cutesy names like Guadalajara Gold and Tijuana Tango.”

“Sounds like they're selling marijuana,” Angela whispered.

It does.
“And the average time from order to payment is three minutes,” Matthew said. “The lines will be long, Angela, and the kids working in there are too precise. It will be like McDonald's—the same taste in every cup. They were charging a buck for whipped cream. I'd bring my own can.”

“What about food?” she asked.

“I couldn't smell a thing but the coffee and the paint,” Matthew said. “I didn't see anyone getting food.”

“What's the seating like?” Angela asked.

“Very plush, and they're going to regret it,” Matthew said. “Yellow and red sofas and easy chairs. If they haven't been Scotch-guarded, one spill and they'll be ruined. Small tables, a few stand-ups, a half dozen booths. Standard ceiling tiles. Nothing like the classy ceiling like you have here, and the glare from the morning sun is blinding. Everything is red and yellow, right down to the napkins. I've been in nicer Burger Kings. That place definitely has no soul.”

He expected Angela to be happy. He expected Angela to jump for joy. He expected her to relax.

She didn't.

“The line looked long,” she said.

“Have you ever seen any of those people in here?” Matthew asked.

“I wasn't looking,” Angela said quickly.

Yes, she was.
“They are definitely a younger crowd who wants to pay way too much for the
experience
of paying way too much for a cup of coffee. They want the
privilege
of telling their friends they spent seven bucks for a cup of coffee. You can relax.”

Angela sighed. “Until they wise up and lower their prices. How many people were working behind the counter?”

“Four.”

Angela shook her head. “Four. How can they afford that many? What are their hours?”

Oops.
“I didn't check. Be right back.”

He borrowed a pen and a napkin and crossed the street. He found La Estrella's hours stenciled along the bottom of the front window and wrote them down.

“Who are
you
with?”

Matthew turned to face the speaker. “With?”

The woman waved a notepad. “Which paper? Oh, that's a napkin. Sorry.”

Matthew smiled at the woman, who had an olive tone to her brownish skin, furry eyebrows, medium frizzy hair, and dark brown eyes. Nicely proportioned, she had smiling eyes and thin lips like Angela's. “I'm just writing down their hours,” Matthew said. “Who are you with?”

“The
Daily Eagle.
” She offered her hand. “Felisa Vecchi.”

Matthew shook it crisply. “Matthew.”

Felisa looked around him. “There's nothing going on here. This is the third one I've done this month. They've opened so many around the city there's really no story left to tell.”

Matthew looked across the street. “There
is
a story to tell over there.”

“Smith's Sweet Treats,” Felisa said. “I haven't been there in years. They're still in business?”

“Yes, so you see the inherent conflict.” He raised his eyebrows.

“I do,” she said.

Matthew stuffed the napkin into his pocket. “It might make a good story. Williamsburg landmark takes on a big, mean chain. Will Goliath kill David, or will David rise up and slay the newcomer?”

“Are you in advertising?” Felisa asked.

“Law,” Matthew said. “Matthew McConnell at your service.”

Felisa cocked her head. “Your name sounds familiar.”

I was in all the papers and eventually got a mention in
Newsweek
for my meltdown as “the lawyer who said no to frivolous lawsuits” and “the man who may be the last honest lawyer left on earth.” SYG's attempt to limit its exposure wasn't very effective.
“I used to work for Schwartz, Yevgeny—”

“And Ginsberg,” Felisa interrupted. “You're the honest lawyer.”

“What are you doing now?” Felisa asked, flipping to a clean page on her notepad.

“I have my own practice,” Matthew said, “but the real story is across the street. I'll even buy you your first cup of coffee.”

Felisa smiled. “Deal.” She started across the street, and Matthew followed.

Matthew opened the door for Felisa, she entered, and he moved quickly to the counter. “Angela, a large cup of your house blend for my friend Felisa from the
Daily Eagle
.” He whispered, “Is my tab still good?”

Angela nodded and filled a large cup.

“This shop hasn't changed much since I was a kid,” Felisa said. “I used to press my nose on the glass to look at all the cookies. Were you here twenty years ago?”

“Yes,” Angela said.

Felisa readied her notepad. “What do you think about La Estrella opening just across the street from you?”

Angela handed Felisa the cup. “I need to consult with my lawyer first. Do you mind?”

“Not at all,” Felisa said.

Angela walked back to the kitchen entrance, and Matthew followed. “Why did you bring her over here?” she whispered tersely.

“To give you some free advertising,” he whispered. “I think she wants to write a David and Goliath piece. Go throw some stones.”

“I'd rather not,” Angela said. “She should be interviewing customers, not me, because it doesn't matter what
I
think. Of course I think I have the best coffee, pastries, and cookies in Williamsburg. But if
I
say it . . .”

“I see your point.”
Her eyes get so fiery sometimes. Fierce. I like that.

“And she can't interview you, either,” Angela said. “I've already told her you're my lawyer. Anything coming out your mouth would be a lie.”

“She thinks I'm an honest lawyer,” Matthew said.

“There's no such thing,” Angela said.

Should I? I think I should.
“Perhaps. But I am a lawyer without an office. Tragic, really. I am a lawyer who wants to contribute to the general good of the coffee shop and its beautiful owner as well, but someone with fierce eyes won't let me. This isn't tragic. It's a travesty. No justice, no peace. Fight the power.”

“I already told you no,” Angela whispered.

Matthew puffed out his chest. “I feel like talking a great deal today for some reason. It must have been the gumdrops. All those little shots of sugar.”

“Matthew, please don't.” She put her hand on his arm.

We have contact.
“Angela, all I need is a comfortable booth and someone to point needy people my way,” Matthew said. “That's all.”

Angela removed her hand. “No.”

“But I have so many good quotes to give her today,” Matthew said. “When I have a sugar rush, words just rush out of my mouth.”

“You
can't
be quoted,” Angela said. “Get her to talk to some customers while they're still here.”