An hour before James was due to come in and work, a rough-looking woman entered the store and looked around. She could have been anywhere from thirty-nine to sixty, with skin that had been baked to the color of freshly ground nutmeg. Her fashion sense was beyond eclectic and much too light for the cool weather. Sharp brown eyes met mine.
“Hey honey, get your boss for me? There’s a good girl.”
I laughed so hard I spat out my coffee. Some of it went through my nose and ended up drenching the front of my light blue chambray shirt. When I recovered the ability to speak, I said, “I’m the boss, ma’am. How can I help you?” Not the most dignified of greetings, but at least I wasn’t laughing in her face anymore. I drew a sleeve across my face to remove the coffee.
She looked me up and down. “You ain’t the boss. You’re too effing young, way too thin and you’re not Hispanic. Now where is she?” Her voice was alto, with shrill overtones and the weird whooshing of a leaky asthmatic wheeze.
Okay, she was obviously looking for Feliz. “Who’s asking?” I was now torn between mirth and curiosity. Whoever she was, she had some wires crossed big-time.
“Marty Morell. You probably heard of me.”
“Can’t say as I have.” Of course I’m notoriously bad with names. “I’m Zofia Smith.” I didn’t offer her my hand. “I own the place. Well, most of it anyway. Want a cup of coffee?” I walked behind the counter. Maybe I’d get more information from her if I got her talking.
“Whaddya mean, you own most of the place? I’m lookin’ for Feliz Castro, she’s the big boss here. And yeah, pour me a cup. Got anything to eat in this joint? And I’m gonna need an ashtray.” She pulled out a shiny cigar tube.
My mother would have flinched at her words. Not because of the tough attitude behind them, but because of the language. She had been big on correct grammar and had always used minimal slang. As a former journalist, I also appreciated this, as had my editor and the copy editors who put the final touches on my stories. I poured Marty a cup of coffee and removed the cigar she was trying to light from her mouth.
“You are not going to need an ashtray. There’s no smoking in my store.” I didn’t even make an exception for Marie on that one and I didn’t mind the smell of the cloves she preferred.
“Give me that!” She tried to grab it from me, but couldn’t reach. Height comes in handy. I hoped the alpha bitch games would stop soon. It was my territory after all. Plus, it was getting really boring.
“Sit down and shut up, will you?” I said harshly. “If you can manage that, you can have coffee until Feliz gets back. If you can’t do that, I’ve got an alarm system that’ll have the cops here in three minutes.” A slight exaggeration, but she didn’t need to know that. “Got it?”
She took it down a notch. “So she does work here?” Oh good, she was backing down a little bit. I mentally relaxed.
“She’s my business partner.” I said calmly. Maybe if you’d asked instead of barking orders, we could have skipped right to this part of the conversation.
“That’s not what her no-good husband says,” She continued, quieter now, but undaunted. “The son-of-a-bitch tells me his wife owns this big bookstore in the Big Easy and just rakes in the bucks. Nothing personal, but you don’t exactly look like you’re makin’ money hand over fist, Zofia. Zofia.” She tasted the name on her tongue. “What kind of name is that?”
Mine. “Polish.” I said mildly.
“Yeah, I thought it was something like that. Hard to guess with a last name like Smith, though.”
Smith was my real and legal name, but it wasn’t the one either my father or mother had been born with. I didn’t know what their real names were. Young and in love, they’d run away from home in upstate New York in the early sixties. After they hopped a train to Vegas, they assumed new names and got married. My father, who I had thought dead for ten years, had filled me in on some of the details last November. I grunted something noncommittal at Marty, who had only paused long enough to take a breath.
“Castro owes me a shitload of money, see. He swore to me he was good for it, which turned out to be a lie. That’s what I get for extending credit to family. Next, he said his wife had all this cash, that’s where most of his wages, and then his tax refund went. Then the little Cuban bastard runs out on me, so I gotta track down the little woman.” I suppressed a grin. Feliz was not small by anyone’s definition. She would also fume at the idea of being called “the little woman.” She was also divorced and had no responsibility for Alfredo’s debts, but I thought I’d give her the pleasure of informing Marty.
“So you came all the way from . . .” Fill in the blank.
“Miami. Damn it’s cold here.” She tightened a sea-green pashima shawl around her neck. It looked odd against a lightweight burgundy silk blouse. Personally, I thought sixty-degree weather at the end of March was downright balmy, but I had been born in Chicago.
Marty drank some more coffee. “Good stuff, but a little bitter. You’re going to have to work on that.” Marty obviously hadn’t encountered chicory before. It did take a little bit of getting used to. It was very common in New Orleans, having been brought down from Canada by the Acadians. “I’m not gonna wait around,” her grammar was really starting to grate on my nerves. “I wanna go back to the hotel and get warm. You tell Mrs. Castro Marty’s in town looking for her.” There was a threat implied in her tone. I didn’t acknowledge it or ask “Or what?” but I thought about it. “And gimme my cigar. It’s Cuban.” I handed it back to her, not saying anything. She unfolded her rail-thin body from the stool and walked out. The high heels on her open-toed shoes made staccato click-clacks on my wooden floor. The door banged against the wall when she opened it with more force than was needed.
“What the hell was that?” Our favorite part-timer, and the only male on my staff, James caught the door swinging shut when he walked in. He was in his early twenties and was dressed in a banded-collared shirt of slate blue and black jeans that looked almost new. His wardrobe was on the upswing these days. Either he was prowling a better class of thrift shop or his current band was getting paid more than tips and free beer.
“I’m not quite sure,” I replied. “She was looking for Feliz. You’ll love this. She has this weird idea that Feliz is going to pay off her ex-husband’s debts.”
“Yeah, like that’s going to happen.” James laughed. “Do you want me working up front or is there stuff to stock tonight?”
“Both,” I replied. “I had a slight delay in unpacking this morning. A body came on the U.P.S. truck.”
“You’re kidding.” He said. “No, I can tell from your face you’re not kidding. What the hell?”
I shrugged. “At least it wasn’t sent C.O.D.”