Thirty-four

“Pretty impressive the way you two righted the ship,” said the statuesque woman with the ebony braids.

“Thank you for lending a hand with that,” I replied as I numbered her doilies.

Her bright brown eyes scanned the coffeehouse. “Where is Esther Best? I thought she would be running this show.”

“Esther had to duck out for a bit, but she’ll be right back,” I promised. “I gather you’re a friend?”

“When we’re not competing. But, even then, I consider us Spoken Word sisters.” She flashed me a smile and extended her hand. “I’m Lachelle LaLande.”

“Oh, yes! Esther mentioned that you work in hospitality, too.”

“I’ve been tending bar for five years,” she said with a shrug. “I started out in some real dives, you know? I’m talking spit-and-sawdust places. But that’s in my rearview. These days I work at an exclusive speakeasy. It’s a good gig. We serve creative cocktails, and the tips are great, but…”

“You aren’t happy?” I guessed.

“Mixing drinks for upscale drunks who make cringeworthy passes? That is not my destiny.” She shook her head. “The truth is most of my customers are all right. Some of the guys, though, they get handsy, and one is nearly at stalker level.”

“That sounds dangerous, Lachelle. Have you considered a restraining order?”

“Not my style. I don’t like dealing with the police. And I don’t intend to be at that job much longer.”

“Following your bliss?” I asked.

“ ‘Reality is wrong,’ ” she recited. “ ‘Dreams are for real.’ ”

“That’s a beautiful thought,” I said. “Did you write that?”

“No, that was Tupac. Tupac Shakur.”

“I get it,” I said. “And I hope it gets you where you want to go.”

“Thanks.”

As she headed upstairs I greeted the next young woman in line.

Her pale features were partially obscured by flyaway brown hair with bold blue highlights. An oversized black tee hung on her boyish frame. The shirt, emblazoned with a large tombstone and the epitaph INSERT NAME HERE, was long enough for the hem to drape over the thighs of her black jeans.

Secured tightly under her armpit was a slim black laptop adorned with bright white skulls. A bag in the oblong shape of a coffin hung from a shoulder strap.

She offered Tuck and me a lopsided grin.

“Interesting shirt,” Tuck said, pointing to the gravestone. “And whose name belongs there?”

“Everyone’s,” she said brightly. “Eventually.”

“And what is your name?”

“Mason. Mason Dunn.”

“What brings you to the Writer’s Block Lounge, Mason? An assignment penning obituaries, perhaps?”

“Funny,” she said. “Actually, I’m trying to finish the script for my second film.”

“Second?” Tuck said. “Was your first ever made?”

“Hell, yeah. I gave up my day job to make it, and all the film festival crowds gave it high marks.”

“Sundance and Tribeca?”

“Oh, no!” She counted off fingers. “Toronto After Dark, Buried Alive in Atlanta, Dead by Dawn in Scotland, Celluloid Screams in Sheffield, and NYC’s Horror Film Fest, among others.”

“What’s the name of your picture? Maybe I’ve seen it.”

“Cannibal Honeymoon.”

“Ah, romantic comedy.”

Mason Dunn’s eyes widened. “You have seen it? Then you know. Everybody thinks it’s pure horror, but it’s really a genre-bender with rom-com at its heart.”

“What’s the premise?” I asked, genuinely interested to hear how anything with cannibal in the title could possibly be described as part romance.

“Well,” she said, “Maxwell is a burned-out New York top chef who’s gone over the edge. He’s already married several socialites, then killed, cooked, and consumed them on their honeymoons. But there’s a problem with his new bride. Turns out Shelly is the editor in chief of a national gourmet magazine and a cannibal, too. After battling to see who would end up as the main course, the couple finds true love, opens a restaurant in the Hamptons, and dines on their neighbors happily ever after.”

“Wow, that story is really out there,” Tuck said.

“The audience at San Francisco’s Another Hole in the Head fest thought so. They gave it a Warped Dimension Award.”

“Impressive. What was the day job you quit?”

“I filmed cookery videos for Good Housekeeping.”

As Tuck and I exchanged holy-cow glances, Mason moved on and a new writer—that overly enthusiastic show tune singer—stepped up for her doilies.

For such a big voice, she was a petite little thing with plaid leggings, a fuzzy sweater, and a cute, chopped-off mop of blond hair. She held a silver laptop (adorned with Disney character stickers) in her tiny arms, and I prayed that she planned to use it for writing and not live streaming her next musical number. I was about to bring up that very subject when she did it for me—

“I apologize for the singing,” she said with a sheepish look on her heart-shaped face. “I didn’t mean to be disruptive. But one of my coworkers is here, too, and he bet me that I couldn’t do it.”

“Do what?” Tuck asked after overhearing us.

“Belt out Idina Menzel’s big number in Wicked.” With a sweep of her arm, she brushed back her choppy blond bangs. “See, where I work, they want me to stick to Disney Princess stuff.” She planted her small hand on one hip. “I may look like Glinda the Good Witch, but I’m perfectly capable of slapping on a black wig and green face paint, and playing the Wicked Witch of the West.”

“So, you’re a Broadway actress?” Tuck assumed.

“I wish!” Dina cried. “I’ve been to every open audition for the last eighteen months without one callback.”

“Then where exactly do you work?” Tuck asked.

“At the Broadway Spotlight Diner on 42nd Street. I’m one of their singing waitstaff.”

“Oh!” Tuck nodded in recognition. “My partner used to work there. Punch does excellent drag tributes to stage and screen legends, and they adored him. He said the customers were glorious, the tips were fantastic, but the drama behind the kitchen door was intense.”

“Intense? It’s insane! We all battle over who can perform which show tunes—and the best times to perform them. Everyone wants the prime-time spotlight. That’s when the most customers will broadcast you live on their social feeds, and you’re more likely to go viral and be discovered, which is why—if you’re doing really well—you’ve always got to be on the lookout for sabotage.”

“Sabotage,” I said, astonished. “What kind of sabotage?”

“One girl had a costume ‘malfunction’ that left her topless while she was belting out ‘Take Me or Leave Me.’ ”

“How mortifying,” I said.

Dina’s head bobbed. “There were like twenty mobile phone cameras broadcasting the whole thing. She was so caught up in singing her Rent showstopper that she didn’t even notice she was half-naked until she took her bow. That’s when she turned red, ran out the door, and never came back. No one believed it was an accident. And then there was the chorus boy who slipped on a patch of chicken schmaltz. Someone placed it strategically on the counter that he always leaped onto during his ‘My Shot’ rap from Hamilton.”

“Did he slip?” I asked.

“Does Niagara fall? Sprained ankle and a broken wrist. We never found out who did the dirty deed.”

Tucker raised an eyebrow. “Must have been Aaron Burr.”

“Honestly, everyone suspected the new kid, a wannabe rapper from Scarsdale who desperately wanted to do that crowd-pleaser, which he did after Jimmy was carted away in an ambulance and never came back.”

“Wow,” I said. “Sounds like songbird-eat-songbird.”

“Hey, that’s funny!” Dina laughed. “Mind if I use it?”

“For what?” I asked.

Dina grinned wide. “I’m writing my own musical. It’s based on my memoir.”

Tucker looked skeptical. “Aren’t you a little young to be publishing a memoir?”

“Kenneth Branagh published his when he was twenty-nine. I’m only twenty-four. I’ve still got five years on Ken to find a publisher.”

Tuck blinked. “I guess you do. Have you decided on a title?”

“I’m still waffling. But I’m partial to Service with a Song: A Broadway Tragedy. What do you think?”

I could tell Tuck was doing his best not to cringe. Then he tapped his chin in thought.

“You know what, Dina? I believe you’ll have better luck finding a producer if you lighten things up and maybe give it a hooky backbone.”

“What do you mean by backbone?”

“I mean use your memoir-based material, sure, but shape the story structure around an accessible genre, like a romance plot or maybe a murder mystery.”

Dina’s baby blues lit up. “Oh, I love the idea of a murder mystery! I can think of several coworkers who I wouldn’t mind killing—fictionally, of course.”

“Sweetie, I know what you mean.”

“Thanks for the input. I knew this was the place for me!”

“Nice job,” I whispered to Tuck.

“No sweat,” he said. “And who knows. You might have just witnessed the birth of a future off-Broadway smash—or a roman à clef of a latent serial killer.”

“Let’s stay positive, shall we? And hope for the former.”

Feeling better, I took a deep breath. Diva Dina was the last writer in line. As she headed up the stairs, a text message rattled my phone. Joy was contacting me from our shop in Washington, DC—and it was a joy to hear from her, even if it was a business call.

Hi, Mom. No time for a chat, but we’ll FaceTime soon, and I can’t wait to catch up. In the meantime, a quick reminder that we urgently need your special Fireside blend for a Georgetown party this weekend. As of this AM, we’re completely out. Happy roasting! Love you!

I checked the time and realized that I’d never get those beans to the shipper today. Tomorrow was fine, but in order to get this consignment down to DC, first thing in the morning, I had to start roasting.

But how?

My staff was near their breaking point. Tuck was in charge of servicing the upstairs lounge—at least until Esther arrived. Dante and Nancy were working the line, and I had to get to my roasting room. But the shop was a mess and there was no one to clean it.

Or was there?

Faster than a dating app swipe, I speed-dialed my ex-husband. I knew Matt was already in Manhattan. I saw him a short time ago, dining with the Village Blend’s chief competitor (and my mortal enemy), Cody “Drifter” Wood—an unfortunate fact that I was dying to grill him about.

But I didn’t get the chance. My call went directly to voicemail. I left an urgent message and hoped he’d respond in time to bail us out.

In the meantime, someone had to bus these tables and clean the puddles off our restored plank floor before one of these new customers slipped and fell—and hired a slip-and-fall lawyer to sue us. So, unless I found a solution fast, that unlucky someone would have to be—

“Howard Johnson!” Tuck suddenly cried. “What are you doing here?”