A Brew to a Kill (24 page)

Esther was tearing up now, and I was close to waterworks. Glancing to my left, I saw the reaction of Helen Bailey-Burke.

There was no smile, no warmth, no generosity of spirit. Just a lackluster monotone: “Thank you so much.”

“You’re welcome!” Esther exclaimed with a grin. Then she pointed. “Ma’am, do you see those buildings in the distance? Those are the Red Hook projects. Now, I can’t take a kid from there and talk to him about literary movements—how the Augustans of the eighteenth century share similarities with the Postmodernist of the twentieth. Yeah, right! I might as well speak to the kid in Martian!”

Esther laughed. “But with your grant this summer, what I
can
do is listen to him imitate his latest rap-star hero, ask him to make up some rap of his own, write down the lyrics, and help him start to find his voice as a poet and writer.

“I’ll teach that child that he’s part of an ancient tradition—a time when poems were once transmitted orally from performer to performer. He’ll learn how to measure a poem in feet and meter, how his favorite rappers use rhythm, rhyme, repetition, and kennings—just as William Shakespeare did—to facilitate memorization and recall…”

I wanted to applaud Esther right then and there. And if I were Mrs. Bailey-Burke, considering her for grant approval, I would have been peppering her with questions. But Helen continued to listen without comment.

“Esther is quite a popular street poet, herself,” Madame pointed out.

“Is that right?” Helen asked.

“Yes, ma’am,” Esther said. “I am popular. But in the scheme of things, I’m nothing special. You see, this grant is not for me. It’s for the undiscovered poets out there in our city—the next Nikki Giovanni or Pedro Pietri. After working with these kids, I now know that my most profound work on this earth isn’t going to be what I rap, but how I rap open the door to a new world of ideas, of literature, of potential for our inner-city kids…”

“I see,” Helen blandly replied.

God, I wanted to shake the woman! Months ago, five independent advisors had reviewed Esther’s written application and highly recommended the grant be awarded. Unfortunately, Helen had the sole power to deny it.

New York City Art Trusts facilitated financial awards to worthy programs, but they were not a public group. Their funds came from private donors, and very generous donors (like Helen) were assigned “director of special funding” status.

Helen had set up the endowment in memory of her deceased daughter, Meredith. She reviewed each grant personally. Regardless of what the advisors recommended, she insisted on playing the Roman empress, giving each applicant her final thumbs-up or -down.

With Helen’s next question, I knew how that thumb was wavering, and it had nothing to do with the worthiness of Esther’s program.

“Whatever is Dominic Chin doing here?” Helen intoned. “This is awfully far from his Manhattan district, isn’t it?”

“Councilman Chin is a big supporter of the Five Points Arts Collective,” I quickly explained, “and they’ve been very helpful to us with the truck painting and decorations. They invited him. But he has nothing to do with Esther’s work or her plan for inner-city summer outreach.”

Maybe
if I point out the obvious?

“I noticed you arrived today with our public advocate, Tanya Harmon…”

Helen waved a hand, as if my bringing up her own political leanings (not to mention conflict of interests) was of no significance when it came to evaluating a grant objectively.

“Tanya and I were in the same sorority, that’s all there is to it.” Then she huffed, as if I’d imposed upon her in some manner. “
Really…”

I hoped I was wrong about Helen, but I doubted it. Maybe it was the way she continually exhaled with inappropriate impatience or lifted that too-perfectly sculpted chin. But I got the distinct impression the East Side socialite looked down her razor-straight nose at everyone—not just Esther,
me, those kids, or even Madame, but the entire peninsula of Red Hook, Brooklyn.

Madame exchanged a glance with me, an unhappy one. Was she displeased with what I’d said? Or with Helen’s behavior? Maybe Matt was right, after all. From the arts to academics, politics to food, it seemed everything came down to a turf war.

I’d better step away before I say something I’ll regret…

Excusing myself, I moved toward the parking lot entrance, hoping I’d run into Matt, and that’s when I heard it—

“Chocolat
ship
… Straw-
bear
-wee… Butt-
tair
-cream…”

Speakers blaring, the Kupcake Kart was back to torture us.

F
OR
this afternoon’s surprise appearance, Kaylie Crimini had added something special to her psychedelic sugar bus. Her mock Eiffel Tower was trailing a fluttering banner with the words
Kupcake Kween
, just so we didn’t forget.

As the vehicle rumbled closer, heads turned to watch the Kween’s kaleidoscopic cart roll to a stop across the street from our front gate. Inside of a minute, Kaylie was clanging open her window and customers were lining up.
(Traitors.)

“Fla-
vours
for
vous
!
Chocolat
fooge!
Chocolat
ship…”

Kaylie’s odious jingle actually began to drown out the melodic tones of Four on the Floor, a jazz quartet headed by our Blend’s musician-barista Gardner Evans.

“Boss!” A livid Esther appeared at my shoulder. “Are you seeing this? Kaylie is out to ruin us!”

“It’s okay,” I said.

“Okay!” Esther cried. “How can it be okay?! The last time we saw Moby Crumb, she was raking in the cash at the Seaport. Now, what could have prompted her to change venues? Trashing our party, that’s what! Her obnoxious jingle will ruin everything!”

“Kaylie’s not going to ruin anything—
or
run over anyone. Not today.” I pointed. “Look…”

With easy precision, the giant Officer Gifford, in full highway patrol regalia, dismounted from his motorcycle and ambled to Kaylie’s window. A few words were exchanged, then Gifford made a sharp hand gesture—as if he were flipping off a radio in mid-air.

Five seconds later, Kaylie’s speakers went silent.

Behind her black-framed glasses, Esther’s brown eyes widened. “Oh, I like that dude…”

“Yeah, me too.”

“Who invited him?”

“Our friend Detective Buckman. But I’m on the lookout right now for someone else: Joy’s boyfriend. So if you see him—”

“Franco!” Esther waved through the crowd. “There he is!”

I turned and joined the welcoming chorus. “Franco! Over here!”

W
EARING
a white tank and dark blue sweatpants, Sergeant Emmanuel Franco had come to our party directly from a workout. His scalp looked freshly shaved, his muscles newly pumped, but the dead giveaway was the scent on his fresh-scrubbed skin—the unmistakable smell of Irish Spring, the soap of choice for Mike Quinn, if not his entire OD squad.

Mr. Clean grinned broadly at my enthusiastic greeting. “Wow, Coffee Lady, I haven’t had a reception like this since I brought donuts to the working girls along Eighth Avenue.”

Esther smirked. “So the Boss and I remind you of
working girls
?”

“
Girls
is a catchall term, you understand,” Franco replied. “Some of them were trannies.”

“Gee, that silver tongue sure knows how to flatter a woman.”

“Just curious,” I asked. “Why the donuts?”

Franco shrugged. “One of the ladies iced on bad heroin.
Your man Quinn wanted answers. Girls eat together and they gossip.” He paused to let out a put-upon sigh. “A cop’s work is never done.”

“I’m glad to hear you say that. How do you feel about a little unpaid overtime?”

“I’m civic minded.”

I explained the situation and pointed out Kaylie’s truck.

To his credit, Franco didn’t grill me with questions or lecture me on police procedure, primarily because, at this point in our relationship, he knew me—and my nosy ways.

“Give me a few minutes to check things out, Coffee Lady, and I’ll be back.”

T
EN
minutes later, Franco was true to his word. After observing Kaylie’s Kart, he came back with a plan—and a half-dozen cupcakes.

“I hope you bought those for cover,” I said.

“For cover and a snack.” He tucked into one. “Oh, man, these Maple-Bacon Buttercreams are as good as they look!”

I folded my arms. “You know she whips bacon grease into her batter.”

“Really?
Awesome
.”

“Let’s get back to the business at hand, shall we?”

“More like
on
hand,” said Franco, shoving the rest of the cupcake into his mouth. “Getting fingerprints off that kid with the dragon tattoo will be a trip to Coney Island. All I need are a couple of props and your professional opinion.”

“What about?”

“Kaylie’s coffee. I’ll need to chat up dragon boy about it. Is the stuff any good?”

Oh, lord. How do I answer without sounding like a shrew…

“Kaylie’s beans are roasted by Jimmy Wang, a pro out of Portland who just opened a shop in Chelsea. I’m sure they’re excellent, but beans are just the beginning of a great cupping experience, and Kaylie isn’t there yet. I suspect her equipment isn’t kept clean enough, and her crew keeps a pot around too
long, so it’s buyers beware of getting anything close to a fresh cup.”

“Whoa, slow down, Coffee Lady. You know what? Change of plan. I’ll talk up the dude’s tats instead.”

“His tattoos?”

Franco nodded. “Good tip to remember: You can always make a felon your friend if you compliment his body art.”

“I’ll make a note of it.”

“You saw it, right? The guy’s got a whole lizard on his arm. He probably gave it a
name
.”

“What about these props you need?”

“A small thermos and a plain paper bag big enough to hold it.”

“I have lots of paper bags,” I assured him. “What I don’t have is a thermos small enough to… Wait! Dante has a small thermos! He’s using it for his coconut water…”

I led Franco through the still-growing crowd, to the party’s main attraction.

Formerly plain, even a bit drab, our Muffin Muse truck now sparkled like a golden nugget in the afternoon sun. The night before, Dante and his Five Points protégés—the lean, purple-haired Josh Fowler and the strategically pierced, spiky-haired Nadine Wells—had primed the exterior with a coat of golden brown enamel. At the moment, its flanks were covered with white stencils and miles of masking tape, but I had high hopes for the big unveiling.

Behind a crowd-control perimeter of yellow rope, Dante and his two helpers were reloading spray guns and preparing brushes for the detail work. Franco and I ducked under the rope and crossed the sprawling canvas tarp splattered with enough color to stretch a Jackson Pollock knockoff.

Dante was more than happy to give up his thermos. “Keep it,” he told us, brandishing his paint gun like it was a semiautomatic. “It’s worth losing a lousy thermos to nail that punk, Billy Li.”

Franco looked the thermos over, opened the cap, and sniffed.

“Yummy… smells like a Mounds bar.” He turned to me. “But I’ll need to clean it, inside and out.”

“There’s soap and a sink in the truck,” I said.

We stepped inside the Muffin Muse, and Franco quickly scanned our equipment-packed interior. Turning, his broad shoulders brushed a cabinet.

“Whoa… I’ve seen roomier digs at Rikers.”

“This is not a prison cell; it’s a small kitchen—and it’s much less claustrophobic when our big side window is up. It’s shut now because of the painting…”

I showed him the sink, gave him towels and a paper bag. Franco rinsed out the thermos and wiped every inch of the exterior with a towel. Then used his handkerchief to lift the thermos and slipped both into the paper bag.