Espresso Shot Page 3

  “I should go,” I told Koa, turning to do just that.

  “No, Clare, stay!” Koa pulled me back. “Have a drink at least, and say hello to the guys. You know a lot of them—look!”

  I did, actually. Some of them were now smiling at me, waving me over.

  “This part of the party’s going to be tame, anyway,” Koa confided.

  “This part of the party?” I frowned. “Sorry, I need a little more.”

  Koa pointed toward Matt, now chugging his mug of beer in front of the room’s giant portrait of Dylan Thomas. (Actually, the entire room was a makeshift shrine to the dead Welsh poet, with pictures of his home, framed newspaper clippings, and a special plaque.)

  “Once Matt gets drunk enough”—Koa paused to give me a meaningful wink—“we’re taking him to Scores.”

  “The yuppie strip joint?”

  “Gentlemen’s club.”

  Okay, I thought instantly, I’m definitely staying.

  What Matt did with women—fully clothed or otherwise—was no longer my business. What he did with his credit cards, however, was another matter. And I’d never forget the front-page story of the idiot corporate executive who’d gotten so drunk with his clients at one of those “gentlemen’s” clubs that he couldn’t recall racking up seventy thousand dollars’ worth of champagne and lap dancing charges.

  “Matt! Matt! Matt!”

  The guys had started chanting for my ex to chug a second beer.

  Good Lord, I thought. If Matt goes to Scores hammered, we may lose the Blend.

  “Listen,” I told Koa, “Joy’s not making much money as a Paris line cook, and she’s depending on us. I don’t want Matt ‘treating’ his friends to the tune of personal bankruptcy. Got it?”

  Koa laughed. “Tell you what. Stick around until we’re ready to take him uptown. I’ll get his wallet from him and hand it to you to hold. How’s that?”

  “Fine, get me his wallet. Then you have my blessing to drag him off—as long as you make sure not to let anyone take any embarrassing photos of Matt. Breanne would kill him.”

  Koa laughed again. “You worry too much!”

  “You have no idea.”

  He laughed once more and patted my back. I knew he meant it to be a light tap, but the force nearly sent me off my low-heeled boots.

  “Trust me, Clare. We’ll be discreet.”

  A strip club. Heavy drinking. And discretion? One of these things was not like the others. But then what choice did I have? In the end, Koa was probably right, I decided, and there was no need to worry.

  Obviously, Randall Knox’s photographer had taken the night off, and Matt’s surprise bachelor party appeared totally harmless, anyway: a lot of men, some enthusiastic beer drinking, but that was all, really. In fact, I thought, as I calmed down to take a longer look at all the faces in the room, the gathering was kind of touching.

  The men around me had flown here from Brazil, Colombia, Costa Rica, Kenya, Ethiopia, the Arabian Peninsula, Indonesia, and the Caribbean, virtually every coffee-producing region of the world. Some represented small, family coffee farms. Others owned large estates, exported for cooperatives, or worked in Europe or New York as importers for roasters.

  Koa handed me a mug of beer, and I watched as Matt’s friends, one after another, stood up and toasted him, sometimes in broken English, often with tears in their eyes.

  It was then that I realized what was happening here, and it was more than just a bachelor party, because these guys weren’t simply my ex-husband’s buddies. They represented the thousand quests my business partner had made to keep alive a coffee trade his great-grandfather had started, a business that was still standing, like this tavern, despite the here-and-gone swells and eddies of the past hundred years.

  I smiled, thinking, Madame should be here to see this . . .

  It was Matt’s mother, after all, who’d provided the money for the smaller farm owners to even come to Saturday’s wedding, which would have proved far too costly for most of them to afford.

  With an inspired spirit, I strolled through the crowded room, saying hello to the guys, many of whom I’d met in passing over the years. Suddenly, we were interrupted by some loud demands that the best man now propose a toast.

  Matt’s closest friend since his youth was Ric Gostwick. Ric would have been Matt’s best man, but he was currently serving time in a penitentiary (which was an entirely different story), so Matt asked Roger Mbele to do the honors.

  A prominent member of the Nairobi Coffee Exchange, Roger had been like a father to Matt for years. He was also a very old friend of Matt’s mother. Eminently dignified, the Kenyan was tall and lean, with craggy features, hair the color of snow, and skin the hue of an earthy French roast. Moving to the center of the room, Roger lifted his half-empty mug and began an eloquent tribute. That’s when I noticed the door to the back room opening.

  I watched to see who was coming in so late to the party, but no one stepped across the threshold. Whoever had cracked the door appeared to be waiting just outside the room.

  My nerves bristled, and I slipped quickly through the crowd of men, toward the door. When I got close enough, I finally glimpsed who was standing there, spying on the festivities. But it wasn’t what I feared—some photographer with a zoom lens.

  It was worse.

  A leggy blond in a business suit stood peering into the room. She wore expensive, rose-tinted sunglasses that shielded much of her face, but I would have recognized her anywhere. She appeared to be surveying the gathering, and she didn’t look happy. No surprise, given her focus on the hanging banner, the one with the unflattering poster of herself holding Matt’s leash.

  Matt hadn’t yet seen her. He’d been distracted by Roger’s toast, so I waited for the best man to finish and the gang to raise their glasses. Then I maneuvered through the guys to the center of the room and tapped my half-drunk ex-husband on the arm.

  “She’s here, Matt.”

  “Who’s here?” He looked down at me, his eyes slightly glazed.

  “The woman who threatened you with homicide if you had a bachelor party.” I pointed to the half-open door.

  Matt paled, his mug of beer freezing halfway to his lips.

  “I’m a dead man.”

  THREE

  THE door swung fully open, banging like a gunshot against the back wall (and barely missing the framed photos of Dylan Thomas’s gravesite and writing shed). The sudden noise quieted the men, and they turned their heads to find Breanne Summour fuming in the doorway.

  Regally blond, the statuesque beauty was clad in a form-fitting business suit of pearl gray pinstripes. Her honey-colored hair was coiled in a tight bun, and even though the tavern’s lighting was dim and her eyes and much of her face were hidden behind the large rose-tinted sunglasses, there was no mistaking the sharp chin and pouting lips, glossed with her favorite Beaujolais Red lipstick. Sheer black stockings, four-inch pointy-toed heels, and a matching leather attaché completed the sleek trademark look.

  Matt winced. “Oh, jeez . . .”

  For a moment, nothing happened. Then, like a silent wave, the men parted, allowing Breanne to cut a swath through the room. The ominous bonging of the wall’s pendulum clock and the tap-tap-tapping of Fifth Avenue heels across worn hardwood planks were the only sounds in the dead quiet.

  Breanne slammed her attaché onto a stout table and popped the leather lid. A moment later, music flowed out of the case, a rhythmic throbbing. As a throaty saxophone began its song, Breanne stepped close to Matt.

  Without a word spoken, his broad shoulders sagged, as if in relief. And his tense expression—no doubt braced for a tongue-lashing—now visibly relaxed.

  It took me another moment to realize what was really happening. Breanne ripped away her tinted lenses, and I finally saw that this was not Matt’s bride, just a dead ringer for her—or, rather, a dead ringer for a much younger Breanne. Sans rose-colored glasses, the young woman was obviously half Breanne’s age. Unfortunately,
she was also the bachelor party’s featured entertainer, so I could guess what was coming next.

  Using a chair for a step, the woman climbed onto a table, where she definitely had everyone’s attention. With her lips pursed in a seductive pout, she swayed her hips to the primal music and began to unbutton her fitted pinstriped jacket. She released her coiled hair next, letting it fall like a honey-colored curtain; then the dancer slid her hands down her thighs and lifted the hem of the skirt to reveal stocking tops and lacy black garters.

  Embarrassed, I looked away, searching the crowd for Koa. He shot me a knowingly amused thumbs-up, and I knew he was the one to arrange this frat-boy prank.

  So much for discretion.

  The younger guys were going crazy now—buck wild, actually. And I started going crazy, too, frantically pushing my way through the howling, testosterone-fueled mob to the room’s windows. I maneuvered the high blinds down to a closed position just in case Knox’s “Gotham Gossip” photographer was lurking out there in the night.

  Whistles and catcalls erupted around me, and I turned to find Koa at my side, grinning like a Pacific shark. “We really had Matt going there, didn’t we?! I thought he was going to drop a rock!”

  “Ha-ha, yes, very funny,” I said, and was about to add more, but Koa’s attention had already shifted back to the dancer, which didn’t surprise me. (Men typically preferred staring at a woman rather than actually listening to one.)

  Above my head, cloth fluttered down like autumn leaves. The audience hooted, whistled, and howled. I spied Roger Mbele shaking his head, a bemused expression on his face, and that’s when I realized the door to the bar’s public front room was still wide open.

  I moved to shut it and found half a dozen male customers from the bar standing there gawking, eager to get an eyeful of the stripper. When one of the college kids whipped out a cell phone and held it up—presumably to start snapping pictures for the Internet, I shoved the group back.

  “Sorry, private party!” I told them and began to close the door in their faces.

  But I couldn’t shut it all the way. I looked down to find a heavy black boot blocking my efforts. The boot was scuffed and dirty, attached to a guy in his late twenties: too old to be an undergrad, I thought, too skeevy to be a grad student (probably). He was close to six feet and wiry, with a studded leather motorcycle jacket and a black shirt decorated with creepy Day of the Dead skeletons. His skin was pale but flushed, as if he’d been drinking (big surprise). He had a few days’ scruff on his jaw, his stringy brown hair was disheveled, and a stud earring of a white skull was snickering at me from one earlobe.

  “Who do you have to know to get invited to this party?” the guy said, his breath violating my nose with a reeking mix of bad dental hygiene and a great deal of tequila. “Who’s the guest of honor?”

  “Nobody special,” I assured him. “It’s just a party. Now, please let me close the door.”

  The man’s unblinking stare remained fixed. “Lemme in, lady. I won’t drink your booze.” He pointed to the Breanne look-alike. “It’s the ho I wanna meet.”

  “Forget it.” I pushed harder on the door. His heavy boot remained planted.

  “And what if I don’t, bitch?”

  My eyes narrowed. Like most suburban girls, I’d grown up with the usual “be nice” lessons. Good manners were a sign of good character; and the last thing a modest girl would ever want to do was be the cause of an awkward scene. After years working a service counter in this town, however, I’d learned other lessons. To guys like this, for instance, courtesy was a rope to strangle women with.

  “Stop giving me trouble, scumbag!” I shouted at the top of my lungs. “Or I’ll call our bouncer!”

  People in the bar’s front room frowned in my direction, but Koa heard my yell (a miracle over the raucous noise) and immediately moved behind me.

  “Trouble, Clare?” the big Hawaiian asked, crossing his massive arms.

  “Not if this guy steps away from the door!” I yelled, this time with close to three hundred pounds of heavily muscled backing.

  Eyes shifting to Koa’s ham-sized biceps, the jerk’s scowl deepened. Finally, he turned around. Heavy boots clomping, he walked back to the front room’s mahogany bar. The bartender approached the man as he plopped down and poured him another shot.

  I shut the back room door and sagged against it. As the Breanne look-alike finished her act, I studied the vintage tin ceiling. Then I heard a burst of exuberant applause, and a moment later, the statuesque young dancer slipped away. Clothes bundled under her arm, pumps and attaché case in hand, she ducked through the room’s back archway, bolting by the tavern’s kitchen and disappearing into an alcove that led to the ladies’ room.

  Roger Mbele walked by me a moment later, his jacket draped over his arm.

  “You’re not going to the gentlemen’s club?” I asked, not entirely surprised.

  Roger smiled. “In Kenya, I go to bed when the sun sets, and get up before it rises. I’m too old for late nights.” Then he laughed. “Or maybe it’s simply a case of jet lag.”

  He gave me a hug, pecked me on the cheek. “I’ll see you at the luncheon, Clare. And Madame, as well.”

  Roger’s departure was followed by some of the other older partygoers, who also bade me good night. There were empty beer pitchers and glasses everywhere. The party banner had fluttered to the floor, and I found Matt speaking with Dexter Beatty, a Jamaican who sold Caribbean coffees out of three Brooklyn locations. Forty-something, tall, and scarecrow-thin, Dexter almost always displayed a wide grin under his wild Rasta dreadlocks.

  “If your new wife can dance like that sweet thing, you are the luckiest dude alive!” Dexter said, knocking Matt’s fist. “See you at Thursday’s luncheon, mon. And congratulations!”

  Matt turned to face me, opened his mouth to speak. Then Koa draped a big arm around his neck, and said, “Okay, bro, now that we got you all hot and bothered, it’s time for the main event. We’re taking you to Scores!”

  The remaining men around us hooted.

  “The night is on me,” Koa vowed. “So hand your wallet over to Clare. I won’t take no for an answer”—he winked in my direction—“and neither will she.”

  I stepped forward, palm up, hand extended.

  “Koa, my brother, you’re the best,” Matt said, rubbing his bleary eyes. “But I’m not going to Scores with you.”

  Koa looked stricken. “Dude! You can’t be serious.”

  Matt shrugged apologetically. “With the wedding and my daughter coming in, I’ve got too much to do. I’ve been going since sunup. It’s time for me to call it a night.”

  “No Scores?” Men groaned in disappointment.

  “Just for me, guys,” Matt insisted. He smiled at Koa. “You all go. Have a blast.”

  Koa considered Matt and nodded. “Okay, bro. It’s your party . . . but we’re gonna keep it going!” Grinning, he turned to face the others. “Dudes, it’s on! The girls are waiting!”

  With more good-byes and congratulations, the men filed out. After everyone was gone, I sidled up to Matt.

  “That’s a shocker.”

  “What?”

  “You—not going to a gentlemen’s club with your hammered brethren.”

  Matt folded his arms. “You’ve got something to say about it?”

  “I don’t believe it, that’s all.” I shook my head. “The eternal boy is all growed up.”

  Matt rolled his eyes. “Again with the ‘eternal boy.’ ”

  “Would you rather I use the Latin?” I couldn’t help needling him—just a little. “Puer aeternus? A man stuck in the adolescent phase of his life.”

  “I’d rather you get off my back. Believe me, on any other night, I would have gladly gone out with Koa and the guys, but . . .” He sighed, rubbed the back of his neck.

  “But?”

  “But the sight of that fake Breanne put the fear of bridezilla into me, okay?” He shook his head. “It simply occurred to me tha
t one wild night isn’t worth the hell storm that could come down on my head. I’m looking forward to my wedding on Saturday, the Barcelona honeymoon. Why do I need trouble this week?”

  “Sounds like a reasoned, mature decision.” I smiled then lightly elbowed his six-pack. “Not bad for a man who’s chugged as many beers as you have.”

  Matt finally laughed. Then the pendulum clock on the wall began to bong the hour. “It’s eleven already. Let’s get out of here.”

  The front barroom was much busier now and much louder. Tables and chairs were occupied by a mixed group of college kids and older drinkers. As we moved through, I tapped Matt’s shoulder.

  “Give me a second, okay? I want to use the restroom.”

  “Yeah, me, too. Chugging beer has its consequences. Meet you at the front door.”

  I waked past the Dylan Thomas shrine again and into a small, adjoining back area that held an alcove to the ladies’ room. That’s where I spotted the attractive young dancer again. I froze when I realized what she’d attracted.

  The obnoxious jerk in the black motorcycle jacket had left the crowded bar and slipped back here, trapping the dancer in an isolated corner. The girl was giving the punk a tense smile, shaking her head prettily, gesturing to her cell phone. He snatched it away from her. She reached for it, but he held it higher, stepped closer.

  I hurried back to the bar, waited the few seconds for Matt to return. “I need your help.”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “A drunk gave me trouble earlier. He’s cornered the Breanne dancer by the ladies’ room. We should do something to—”

  Matt was already moving. I followed in his muscular wake. The dancer was still standing there and still attempting to be polite to the harassing drunk.

  “No. Thank you, kindly, mister. But I don’t want no drink ...”

  The girl’s backwoods twang was at odds with her hyper-polished Breanne facade. And her little voice was as slight as her figure: down off the stout table, her performance bravado gone, she projected all the sturdiness of a porcelain ballerina.