Twenty-one

When I entered the coffeehouse, I was surprised by a text message from Dante Silva, asking me to unlock the front door. I raised the door shade and found my barista waving at me, his breath clouding the glass.

Standing beside him was a compact young man wearing a cobalt blue hoodie under a gray vest that looked like a patchwork of pockets sewn together, each one holding something different—pens, pads, a flashlight, an iPod, and three different phones.

“Come on in before you freeze.” I waved them inside and relocked the door. “Why are you here, Dante? Your shift doesn’t start until this afternoon.”

Dante pointed to his companion. “Tony just got off work and I wanted to introduce him. He drives for Uber by night, and he’s been struggling with writing his graphic novel by day. His roommates are always bugging him, which is why he’d like to try our new Writer’s Block Lounge.”

The young man tugged off his hood to reveal short black hair, spiked on the top and buzz-cut on the sides into an expert fade. His deep dark eyes were smiling behind wire-rimmed glasses.

“Tony Tanaka,” he said, extending one chilly bare hand—the other remained in his blue hoodie’s snug pocket.

“Happy you’re joining us, Tony,” I said. “I’ve seen you here before, haven’t I?”

As Tony rubbed his cold hands together, Dante replied for him—

“Tony usually drops in on my night shift, whenever he’s taking a break from driving.”

“I drove by late last night,” Tony said. “I saw the lights in the alley, and an ambulance. Was someone hurt?”

“There was an assault after we closed,” I said. “A man was taken to the hospital. Why do you ask? Did you see anything that could help the police?”

For a second, I was hopeful, but Tony quickly shook his head.

“No, Ms. Cosi. It was over by the time I got there.”

“Oh, I see.” I checked my watch. “So why are you gentlemen here this early?”

Once again, Dante answered. “Tony would like to take a picture of that print you took down when you decorated the second floor.”

“The Lynn Bogue Hunt?”

“No, Boss. Not the bird print. The one with all the flags.”

“Childe Hassam’s The Avenue in the Rain.”

“That’s the one,” Tony said. “I should have shot it before now, but I didn’t know you were going to take it down.”

“You must admire Hassam’s work.”

“Sure, that’s why I’m going to crib his style for a splash page in the graphic novel I’m working on.” Tony shrugged. “Storytelling is a struggle for me, but the illustration, that’s my favorite part of the process, creating the artwork. When I saw that giant print of Hassam’s on your wall, a light bulb went on. Unfortunately, the images I found online of his work aren’t detailed enough.”

“You want to examine his brushstrokes,” I assumed.

“Exactly. You’re a painter, too?”

“Once upon a time—and a fine arts major.”

“Then you know how seminal that work is, Ms. Cosi, and why I’d like to see a large print for inspiration. The original is at the White House, so your large print is the next best thing.”

“No problem,” I said. “A local artist donated it to us years ago. She was inspired by Hassam’s work. If the print can now inspire you, that’s a nice bit of kismet.”

Dante spoke up. “The only problem is where to find it. Did you move the pictures to the attic? It’s pretty cluttered up there. We may need your help locating it.”

“You’re in luck,” I said. “All the artwork I took down from the lounge yesterday morning is still locked away in the upstairs hall. You both would do me a huge favor if you carted everything up to the attic for me after you’re done snapping your close-ups. I’ll show my appreciation with an hour’s pay for Dante, and Mr. Tanaka gets free coffee and pastry.”

The boys were enthusiastic, so I handed over the keys and cautioned them to “please be careful.”

The value of those works ranged from negligible to sky-high, but all were irreplaceable mementos of this landmark shop. On a down night, when I discussed the shop’s reduced foot traffic with Mike, he suggested selling some of the art to pay the bills. But that was an unsustainable solution.

Sure, we would have money in the short term, but eventually we would run out of works to sell—and it wasn’t my call to sell them anyway. Madame was still the majority owner of this shop, and almost every piece in our collection had special meaning for her. I doubted she’d agree to part with even one.

Moments later the bakery delivery arrived. After scraping my hair into a kitchen-ready ponytail, I washed up, and started filling the pastry case. I was almost finished when I heard a tapping at the locked front door.

My favorite bickering barista roommates were reporting for duty.