I began making careful notes on the levels in each canister. Which ones needed replenishing? Which ones weren’t moving? This data would be fed into the computer where I’d created a program to track customer favorites.
“Ms. Cosi, will you be finished soon?”
I let out a reactive yelp of surprise. Papas had crept up on me. There was no other way to describe it. One second I was alone, the next he was there, right next to me.
Others had joked about this phenomenon. Colleen O’Brien likened him to the ghost of Squire Malone, a legendary Irish haunter from her home county. Graydon Faas, a fan of Anime, maintained that the manager’s ability to spring upon an employee the moment he made a mistake must mean he’s housing a secret teleportation device in that office of his that he seldom let anyone enter. I could believe it.
“I’m almost through,” I told Papas. “We’re really low on the Mocha Java. Probably because it’s a dark roast, so I’m pairing it with the chocolate soufflé and the flourless chocolate-kahlua cake, and chocolate’s the most reliably popular dessert flavor. I have more MJ in the basement, but not enough to get us through Sunday brunch. I guess I’ll call the Blend and have Tucker send some through our delivery service.”
Thinking out loud was something I did when nervous and Papas was a guy who made me very nervous. He stared at me for a long silent moment. This was an annoying habit of his: you spoke, he stared, answering in his own good time.
“Very well then, call your people,” he replied at last. Then he checked his watch. “I must run an errand. I will be gone for an hour, no more.”
“That’s fine. When the wait staff starts arriving, I’ll put them to work dressing the dining room tables. By the way, have you heard from Prin about her family emergency? Do you think there’s a chance she’ll be back before Monday?”
The man’s frown deepened. “No.”
Poor girl, I thought, assuming the worst. “Is there a death in her family? Is that the emergency? Maybe I should give her a call and ask if—”
Papas cut me off. “That won’t be necessary. Prin won’t be back.”
I blinked. “Really? What happened?”
Jacques Papas looked away. “David Mintzer happened. He personally fired the young woman a few days ago. Gave her the boot without even a letter of recommendation. Left me short of help, I can tell you. And in the middle of the season.”
“But two days ago you yourself told the staff she’d left on a family emergency. We assumed she’d be back.”
Papas shook his head. “That was a lie that David made me pass along to everyone because he didn’t want anyone else in his employ to know he’d fired her. David loves to be loved, you know. But at times he can be an indiscriminate bastard.”
It was now my turn to fall silent and stare. “Do you know the reason for Prin’s dismissal?” I finally asked.
The manager shook his head. “No. David doesn’t like to be questioned, Ms. Cosi—surely you’ve seen that side of him.”
With that, I couldn’t argue.
“I have worked for two decades in restaurant management,” Papas continued. “And I do find that the stick gets much better results than the carrot. But I would never have fired Prin. Not when we’re so shorthanded.”
I nodded, not quite sure what to say.
“I’d appreciate your remaining discreet with this information,” Papas pointedly added. “The only reason I’m telling you is to stop you from wasting time pursuing Ms. Lopez. Now you know there’s no reason to call the girl.” Papas glanced at his Rolex. “I have to go.”
After the manager departed, I took a deep breath and made use of the espresso machine in front of me. What I badly needed at the moment was a shot (excuse the pun).
Last night, I found out that Treat Mazzelli was secretly bedding every girl on the Cuppa J wait staff—Prin Lopez being one of the first to get shagged and dumped. Now I find out she’s been dumped a second time in the middle of the busy Hamptons season by David Mintzer himself.
If that wasn’t enough to make a girl a little angry, I didn’t know what would be. But how angry? As I sent whole beans of our espresso blend through the grinder, then tamped, clamped, and extracted the essence of the beans into a shot glass, I considered this question.
I’d found Prin to be a consummate professional on the job. But Suzi Tuttle maintained the girl had one hell of a temper off it. I remember an animated story Suzi had told in the break room about how Prin “went totally postal” at a Hamptons nightclub. A pretty hostess from a Southampton restaurant dissed Prin in some way at the crowded bar. The fight escalated from verbal to physical, with Prin pulling handfuls of the girl’s hair out. The bouncer had to be called in to stop it and ejected them both.
It was very hard for me to believe that Prin herself would have gone “totally postal” by stalking and shooting Treat Mazzelli—whether she’d been trying to get revenge on Treat himself, or David, or both of them. It was equally hard to believe she may have persuaded some gangbanger friend from her South Bronx neighborhood to do it.
But Prin’s firing was unexpected, and I wanted to talk to her. I downed the espresso, absorbing the rich, warm, nutty essence of the darkly roasted Arabica beans in one fortifying hit. Then I dried my hands and went back to the break room. An employee schedule was posted on the wall next to the door. Next to Prin’s name was a cell phone number. I dialed it and got a voicemail message.
“Prin? It’s Clare Cosi, from Cuppa J. Would you please call me? It’s a matter of extreme importance.” I left the number of my own cell phone and hung up, wondering if Prin would even bother to return my call.
While I was in the kitchen, I decided to get started restocking the milk, cream, and half-and-half at the coffee bar. I checked the standing refrigerator near the dessert prep area and saw three gallons of milk, two of cream, and no half-and-half. I headed for the walk-in stainless steel refrigerator. I opened the thick, insulated door and stepped into the chilly steel box, which was nearly as large as a bedroom in my Manhattan duplex above the Village Blend.
A single bare bulb illuminated the interior, which smelled like a butcher shop—a not-unpleasant mixture of cheese and preserved meat. Shanks of dry-aged beef hung from hooks in the ceiling above, wheels and squares of imported and domestic cheeses. Boxes of green leafy vegetables, all of it produced locally, were stacked in the corner next to bags of onions, shallots, and several types of potatoes. Bundles of garlic hung from hooks on the wall, near slabs of bacon, aged prosciutto, and chorizo.
Several stacks of plastic containers stood in the corner—all of them empty. Clearly, David’s July Fourth party had drastically leached the restaurant’s supplies. Unless we got a hefty delivery of dairy products in here, pronto, our impressive array of latte drinks would be off the evening’s menu.
Rather than wait for Papas to return, I headed for his office. The manager’s inner sanctuary was untidy, but the vendor list was where I remembered seeing it a week ago, when Papas last called me in for a micromanagement session.
I found the number for Cream of the Lakes Dairy and used Jacques Papas’s phone to make the call.
“Dairy. This is the dispatcher,” a male voice said gruffly.
“Hi. I’m calling from Cuppa J in East Hampton, on—”
“Sure, sure. I know the place,” the dispatcher said, suddenly friendly.
“I was wondering if you’d made our dairy delivery for today?”
“Let me check…Ah, here it is. My guy was there at nine. Mr. Papas ordered three gallons of milk, two gallons of cream, and sixteen dozen eggs.”
Great. “Look, apparently there’s been a mistake. We’ve got no inventory here on dairy for the weekend and we need a lot more. At least twenty more gallons of milk, ten of half-and-half, and ten of cream.”
“No problem, Ma’am. We’ll get it out there in an hour.”
“Thank you so much.”
“Not a problem. You want me to bill this on the fifty-ten plan, too, right?”