Double Shot

           Try working a life of sin sometimes; it can be damn busy. Still can’t say Wake is loaded with stiffs, like some other jobs. I only have one boss to answer to, and he is rarely around. He has too many different clients to bother me.  As for me, a femme with slim hands serving coffee nine-to-five from a stand smaller than the box, I got my shoes –eh, there could be worse. Trust me, I’ve seen them devils and the damned in their suits, be-robed or otherwise. Dress codes don’t work for me; the robes never fit.

And brother, they may be small material gains when I get tips, but it is hard currency nonetheless. I don’t have to wait for potential long-term spiritual gain; I make a quick buck and don’t even have to blink to see the benefits. Plus, the business is mine -- on all but paper. I make the goods, reap the quick and easy reward for practically an eternity until I grow tired of this shtick, or stop making a profit. But how could I? This is the business district; if anyone ever needed the unholy charge I serve up, it’s the suits in this soul-anaemic centre. All zombies without it, if you ask me. 

I am puzzled by the fact that no one has ever thought of doing this kind of business so close to those who could use it. I remember walking through Pine Street a thousand times, heading for my job at a bigger coffee stand, and thinking how easily I could run a much better business if only I had the means. 

There’s only so much hellfire I can dodge, making you antsy as the years stoke the flames. Seattle’s an excellent place to cool your heels for a couple dozen years.  The natural climate control must make it easier here, never too hot… almost. 

It was one of those infamously hot days when the sun strikes tangible waves of fire off the asphalt and passing cars. On a summer lunch break, when I was seated across from the awesome sheeting spray of water those around here call a fountain, I finally got my chance.  I had just enviously watched a kid disappear into the fluid doorway that made up the fountain when Mr Molch walked through, the water distorting his image so badly that it made it look like he had just appeared there. 

I blinked unfocused, wondering where the boy had gone, and then I saw him dart out the far side, laughing. The heat must have been getting to me. I was running overtime on my break. I thought about getting up, but something about the approaching gentleman made me decide to sit and wait just a bit longer. His fine-featured face was uncharacteristically open. Uncharacteristic for here, a place primarily peopled by soul-shirking puppets on invisible tethers that rarely let them sit still for longer than two seconds.

With an ironic smile, he paused as if looking for a likely place to sit. His phone rang, and he removed it from his pocket. He was still looking around and then seemed to locate a small wall space beside me. He continued his walk in his impeccable suit, his briefcase under one arm, and sat fluidly about five feet away. As the conversation ended, his smile never left his face. Why was I bothering to watch him so closely? I don’t know. My mind moved slowly, probably this insufferable heat, asphalt-like brimstone.

The man opened his case as if it contained all the worth in the world. Again, I watched this progressive series of events with a kind of bemusement. Other handsome men were nearby, but this man’s actions suited him to the space. The suit, the briskness, the corruption -— he wore them exceedingly well.  They were more than a part of him; each movement shouted it. 

He began casually looking through his papers. I was distracted for a second as one of the children shrieked. I turned to see a girl. One of her friends had leaned over the railing inside the fountain to scoop out a handful; the water where her friend’s hand had been sparkled pure white for a moment.

“It’s damn hot, isn’t it?” A pleasantly rich voice came to my side. 

I turned to see the handsome gentleman addressing me. He was sitting a few feet closer than I remembered. Surprised but not alarmed, I replied with a casually dismissive nod toward the fountain, “Not if you’re under there.” 

“Try it in a suit sometime. If the water reaches you, it makes everything muggy when you return to the heat.”

“Wouldn’t know. Usually, I wear shorts myself.” His gaze dropped to my legs as though by invitation. “Except when I want space from people, I stay at work where it’s air-conditioned.” 

“Ouch.” He commented, jerking his eyes to mine. He almost winced. “Where do you work that you dress so formally?”

I was used to the incessant flirting and occasional derogatory comments from businessmen and women, mostly men. Since everything I wore was styled informal, from my blackened lips to my fingernails to my dark cutoff shorts, I played with the inside of my mouth with the tongue ring and glared at him. “Across the street.”.

He looked at the coffee shop, his small quirk of a smile deepening. “Ah, good. I was worried you had wandered in from Pike and gotten lost. I would have hated to escort you back. Never know what you might run into on the way.” 

I tried not to roll my eyes at the bastard. “And on that wonderful note, it’s time to return to work.” I rose. 

“Why don’t you run a place? You know enough to do it yourself.” 

I couldn’t help it. Feeling disoriented by the heat, I retorted. At work, it was a requirement to take the simple come-ons from the lunch rush sleaze with at least a brittle glass smile.  But I wasn’t back at work yet; I was still on my own time. Any interest I had in this guy was fading quickly. “I suppose a moment’s discussion, the ability to toss an insult and a come-on together poorly, make you an expert. After all, you’ve got money and wear a suit well. What else do you need? Certainly not a fucking brain.” 

He blinked as I turned to walk away, the sunlight now striking dazzling rainbows off the fountain. “Wait. I’m sorry if I came off that way. I was only trying a different sort of approach. I’ve been watching you for some time now and was waiting for an opportunity to talk.”

For some reason that I couldn’t explain, I turned back to face him. “Great. Now I know to start carrying a bat when I leave.”

He winced, but his smile brightened unsettlingly at my turning. “I have been thinking of going into the coffee business for a while now, so I’ve been looking for skilled baristas.”

A smooth continuation of his first comment. It was not quite ‘you look like a model’ (like hell I did, not nowadays, I saw to that), but close enough that I just shook my head, getting ready to turn again. I didn’t find it worth the effort in this heat to growl further. 

“Good luck. You’re sure to be a success around here. Maybe you can squeeze between Starbucks and Seattle’s Best in Pike Place. Yes, another café. They’re sure to flock to you. It would take something awfully addictive in your coffee to turn these souls astray from a sure thing.”

“I’ve worried about that, but it’s just like you suggested.  I’m Molch. Jake Molch.  I can tell you’ve thought about this before.” 

He kept his hand there, unflinching until I finally spoke without budging. He held out his hand, and I looked at it. It was a look I had perfected a long time back when I toyed with the academic scene. It let people know just how small a bug I thought they were. 

“Lilith Ginwoskie, I go by Jinn, just now.” I turned and headed back toward work. 

“You can call me Bub then,” he said. Just think it over. We could do very well. Give me your answer tomorrow. I’ll be here at the same time.” He paused. Just wear those shorts in case things stay hot.”

 “Sure thing, Bub!” I called back. The guy was persistent.  It wasn’t much, but it was something.

I played the scene in my head all day and into the evening. Damn, I was slow. Blame it on a few dozen years of relatively cool peace. But the heat was getting to me today. The way Bub, Molch, or Jake spoke kept nagging at me. Finally, as I lay ready for sleep, I figured out why and cursed myself. I knew the deal was genuine. If this were offered to me even a year ago, I’d have turned it down, but that day, in particular, things finally seemed to fit. 

I wanted to skip work the next day and hurry to the promised meeting. But now that I knew just how big Mr. Molch was, I knew it would be no good to be there early. He generally kept exactly to his word. 

It was an anxious morning. Only this time, Bub came behind me. “You ready to talk?” His voice sounded teasing and playful, but I took no offence as I turned to look back at his impeccably graceful form.

“Depends. Were you serious and in earnest when you made that offer?”

The smile from yesterday returned. “Lil-... Jinn, I am never serious but always honest and earnest. So, you think the idea may have some merit?”

“There’s always a first. Besides, it was my idea. All it needed was someone like you for the backing. Were you thinking of a full-size café?”

“Nothing that big. I was thinking of starting with a small stand, just enough elbow room for one person.”

“You want me to run it myself?” 

“Who better than Jinn? You could set your hours. Eventually, it could grow to every street corner; subtlety would be the key. But first, there is the matter of the contract.” He opened his case and withdrew a paper covered with clauses.

I looked it over without hesitation, mentally marking parts that would have to go. “Let’s eliminate section three, paragraph two, section four, paragraph seven, and line eight. Twelve is clear out, or I’m walking now. I want a fair say on when and if I leave, though...” I amended, “...can’t see it will ever come up if this goes as well as I expect it to.”  He stared. My eyebrow ring rose. “I majored in business during my off years. I was biding my time here. Does that surprise you?” 

For the second time in our brief personal acquaintance, he sat briefly, blinking at me. “No, I guess it shouldn’t. This is just new ground.  I never expected you to agree at all.” He took out a different contract and used it to replace the one in my hands. After I had looked it over, he handed me a pen. I signed it and marvelled at the iridescent ink that slowly dried to a burgundy red.

***

Within a week, Wake was in business. It was an inconspicuous sort of stand. A somewhat laughable attempt at business if you didn’t know who ran it or who the backer was. It only took a couple of customers to get the ball rolling. A drink or two every other day for one or two people, and then, word spread like wildfire. My little space grew and was crammed with people every day till close. It became the most coveted drink of milk-foamed Joe in the area. Membership discounts soon followed—thousands of contracts with fresh red ink initials.

“These drinks are practically unholy, Jinn, how people have taken to them.”

Employees and customers toss the question to me while serving drinks behind the bar. “What’s in this coffee, anyway?”

I grin as I consider what goes into the turbo-charged caffeine shots the machine brews. “Love,” I always say with a crooked smile.