Forty-one
“I want you to help me set up a Cinder account. I want you to do it as soon as possible. And I want my profile to attract as many men as possible.”
For a frozen moment, my ex-husband stared at me, slack-jawed. Then he howled with laughter. “At last, you’ve come to your senses! You finally dumped the flatfoot!”
It was nine o’clock in the evening. I was sitting on a couch in the newly built man cave of Matteo Allegro’s Brooklyn warehouse, and I wasn’t wearing my own clothes.
To cover my top, Matt had lent me an old flannel shirt (with buttons missing in all the wrong places). As for my bottom, it was (barely) covered by a pair of his skimpiest nylon gym shorts.
The wardrobe change hadn’t been part of my plan when I’d called the man, hours ago, to arrange this meeting. After leaving Esther on duty at the Village Blend, and receiving no answer from Tucker after five voice mail messages, I climbed into my hired car and rode to Red Hook. The next thing I knew, I was having a near-death experience . . .
IT was seven o’clock and the sky was already murky-dark when my Uber car pulled up to Matt’s coffee storage facility. Surrounded by eight-foot-high chain-link fencing, the blocky structure sat on the edge of New York Bay.
Fog was rolling in off the water. Its cold dampness seeped through my light jacket, and I shivered under the only visible streetlight. As my low boots clicked along the cracked sidewalk, the lonesome call of a ship’s foghorn made the deserted area seem even more desolate.
Next to Matt’s warehouse, a burned-out auto garage, which had once been a mafioso chop shop, was now leveled and would soon be the site of the Village Blend’s brand-new roasting facility.
The Uber driver had taken off before I had time to punch in the keypad code that would unlock the warehouse’s gate. As I began to enter the string of numbers, a flash of light drew my eyes to the street.
Typical of urban residences in residustrial neighborhoods, the old row houses around Matt’s warehouse appeared abandoned. Doors were blocked by iron gates, windows by jailhouse bars.
There was only one vehicle on the block—a wine red SUV parked beside the roastery construction site.
I knew Matt employed a two-man day crew at the warehouse. They helped with things like transporting coffee and supplies, and odds and ends jobs like our shop’s laundry. But I didn’t recognize the vehicle as one of theirs. I also knew Matt liked to meet with his architect every Friday, and wondered if this was his SUV.
Maybe Matt and the architect are at the site now.
I walked toward the high plywood fence. This blighted area, where Matt had set up shop, was notorious for poor drainage. On the way, a broken sidewalk and massive mud puddle forced me into the street.
That’s when I heard it—the SUV’s engine turned over, its loud roar shattering the stillness. Then powerful headlights snapped on, blinding me.
Before I could take a step, the SUV lurched forward, fishtailed on the damp pavement, and headed right for me!
I tried to get out of its path, but slipped in the mud instead and, with an ugly splash, landed on my padded posterior. The SUV surged through the puddle’s edge, sending a cascade of freezing, filthy water over my head as its wheels missed me by inches!
I cried out, but the SUV kept moving down the block. Then it skidded around the corner and disappeared.
Five minutes later, I was stumbling through Matt’s warehouse door.
“Clare, are you okay?!”
My ex-husband’s expression went from surprise to concern to barely suppressed laughter, the latter after I reassured him that my muddy, dripping self was perfectly fine—and hopping mad.
“What happened?”
“Ask your architect!”
“What are you talking about? He left hours ago.”
“Well, someone nearly ran me over, and then just drove off, leaving me like this on the ground!”
Matt took a step backward. “I can see that—phew—and smell it.”
Between the delayed shock, and the fact that Matt liked to keep his storage facility temperature on the cool side, I began to shiver. My ex quickly wrapped me in his jacket, and guided me up the wooden stairs to his newly built living space.
“Let’s get you out of those wet clothes and into a hot shower. I guarantee my new spa heads will sooth your troubles away.”
“What about the jerk who nearly killed me?! If he wasn’t your architect, what the heck was he doing, lurking there in the dark?”
“Are you sure it was a guy? There’s a nice view of the bay between the buildings—the lights are really pretty at night. Sometimes couples park around here to make out. You might have spooked them in the act.”
“You really have a one-track mind, don’t you? There are no ‘pretty lights’ out there tonight. The bay is covered in fog! Why don’t you make sure that wasn’t some burglar, casing your warehouse to rob you? Maybe he thinks there’s a safe in here!”
“Take it easy. Geez, Clare, talk about a one-track mind. That flatfoot of yours has you thinking every gomer on the street is a major crimes suspect.”
“That’s not fair. This is New York City. Any man who drives away from the scene of an accident shouldn’t be taken lightly.”
“Fine.” He pushed me into the bathroom. “Calm down, clean up, and I’ll check it out.”
The bathroom was small and bare-bones basic, with one of those fiberglass floor-to-ceiling efficiency showers that you’d find in a bargain motel.
I wasn’t surprised at the Spartan accommodations. Matt Allegro spent half his life in low-rent hotels, glorified shacks, or even tents—places where air-conditioning and hot running water were not part of the amenities. He learned to live with less and make do with what he had.
That said, on his hunt for exotic coffees, Matt might go days or even weeks without a shower or shave; yet when he returned to New York, he insisted on comfort, even luxury. Take this bathroom. The design may have been utilitarian, but it had plenty of steaming hot water, and no less than three stacked showerheads with eight glorious spa settings—and, yes, I tried them all.
Matt’s soaps, shampoos, and scents were top-of-the-line, too. I used a tiny cake shaped like a rose petal (made by Fragonard of Paris, no less) and left the steamy shower feeling clean, refreshed—and nicely perfumed.
In the tiny bathroom, I slipped into the old flannel shirt Matt had hung on the towel rack. He’d done it ten minutes ago, when he’d interrupted my showerhead sampling with a suggestive offer to “wash my back.”
I not-so-suggestively told him to “back off.”
He did.
He also failed to return with clothing to wear below the waist—an innocent oversight, I’m sure.