I lock eyes with a woman sitting alone at a table in the middle of the floor. She swirls her beer. Not a PBR. She’s wearing a white camisole, Georgia O’Keeffe flower tattoo sprouting from her cleavage. Hair the color of Velveeta in a style bought off the cover of a grocery store tabloid. She’s a touch thick, not quite shed of her winter fat, but she wears her flesh with oblivious self-assurance. I have no doubt a man ten years younger than me and with a flatter belly could pay her bar tab and bed her the same night, with no idea of the problems she’ll cause over breakfast.
There’s no sign of my coffee, and rather than wait around I heave myself to my feet and amble over. Her gaze brushes across me, and I lift the jacket for her to see. With no sign of recognition, she says, “Join me?”
“Sure, why not?” I drop into the chair across from her.
Some guy approaches the table from the direction of the back room, sees me, looks confused. “Dude-”
She cuts him off. “It’s okay, Zeke.”
“But he’s sitting in my chair.” He’s wearing baggy shorts and an oversized Winterhawks jersey that conspire ineffectively to hide his bulk. Too big in every dimension to be my ninja-big enough, in fact, that if he decides to evict me I won’t have much to say about it.
But she just shoos him off with one hand. “Idiot.”
I have no opinion on that, but I am wondering why she gave me his seat.
She fishes through a purse next to her, hooks a pack of Parliaments. “Want one?”
I doubt she’ll be impressed with, No thanks, I quit. Almost anywhere else, the smoker would be on the defensive, but here in the Night Light, I’m the outsider. So I pull out the box of matches with the embossed legs and offer her a light. I can’t tell if her eyes linger on the matchbox, or if I just want them to. She inhales and says through smoke, “You’re the cop that’s been sitting outside Starbucks the last few nights.”
So much for my unobtrusive stakeout. Jesus. “Not a cop anymore. I’m retired.”
“Well, you’re not going to catch them.”
“Them?”
“The anarchists.”
“Anarchists.” I lean back in my chair. “You’re kidding, right?”
“That’s what they call themselves.”
“And you know this how, exactly?”
“Everyone around here knows the anarchists.”
I can’t tell if she’s shining me on. “Is your buddy Zeke one of them?”
That nets me a giggle. “Zeke is about as militant as a kitten.” She looks over her shoulder to where her hulking boyfriend hangs off the end of the bar. He’s drinking PBR. I can’t quite make out his expression in the dim light, but friendly it’s not. She waves at him, then turns back to me. “I think he wants his seat back.”
“Tell me where to find these anarchists and he can have it.”
“If you don’t know about them already, maybe I shouldn’t tell you.”
“Now you gonna leave me blue-balled? You brought it up.”
She laughs again. “Okay, Mr. Not-A-Cop. You know the Red and Black?”
A café a block or so up Division from Seven Corners. Worker-Owned, proclaims a sign over the door. I’ve driven by, but never gone inside.
“You are kidding.”
“They have a problem with corporate coffee.”
“How about you? How do you feel about corporate coffee?”
She brushes invisible ash off her tattoo. “I can’t say as I’ve given it much thought.” Zeke joins us, puts his hand on the back of the chair like he’s worried I’m gonna walk off with it. I take the jacket and head out into the clear night air, curious about my new friend’s game. Never did get my coffee.
The phone wakes me too early, the adjuster at Mutual Assurance. He’s a big-voiced fellow named Hamilton whom I’ve never met in person. When I describe the events of the previous night, he says, “I apologize if I was unclear about this before, Detective Kadash-”
“It’s just Mister now.”
“Whatever. The point is we hired you to stop this crap.”
“I thought you hired me to photograph the ne’er-do-well doing this crap.”
“You didn’t manage that either.”
“This isn’t just a little vandalism. I got mugged, for chris-sakes.” “I thought you were a cop.” I can almost hear his smirk. He’s quiet for a moment. “Under the circumstances, I think we’re going to go in another direction.”
“What’s that mean?”
“There’s no need for you to continue the stakeout.”
I guess I can’t blame the guy, but I was counting on five nights. Nothing’s getting cheaper except the value of my pension. “Maybe I could look into these so-called anarchists, get a line on the camera.”
“That won’t be necessary, Mister Kadash. Just invoice me for three nights.”
I’ve never written an invoice. “I was just thinking-”
He hangs up without saying goodbye.
You’d think I’d know what I’m doing. Maybe I should take a class, learn how to do the job right if I’m going to pretend I’m some kind of private investigator. But that wasn’t in the plan when I retired. The plan was to hang out at Uncommon Cup, my friend Ruby Jane’s café, and drink coffee. The only reason I originally agreed to the stakeout was because of her. RJ has been trying to get me involved in freelance investigation since I retired, but it took a coffee case and a fat paycheck to get my attention. Turns out she knows a guy who knows a girl who sleeps with the manager of the Seven Points Star-bucks. Apparently my name came up at some java maven’s secret society meeting. Next thing I know, I’m salivating over how much insurance money five nights sitting on my ass is worth.
I figure the least I can do is let RJ know how it worked out.
I catch her at her Hawthorne location, a few blocks east of the Bagdad. The place is three-quarters full and hopping when I arrive, the air thick with chatter and the smell of coffee. Customers cluster around tables or hunker down in the soft, well-worn couches against the walls. I order a black coffee and grab a table to wait until Ruby Jane can take a break.
When she finally joins me, her eyes are bright. She doesn’t blink as she examines my own sunken orbs. Her chestnut hair is shiny and full, a round cap that seems suffused with its own light. “Rough night?”
“I look that good?”
“I’ve seen prettier road kill.”
I don’t argue. I give her a rundown of my evening: the ninja, the jacket, the stolen camera. When I get to the Night Light and the woman at the table, Ruby Jane interrupts me.
“Wait. Orange hair, mammalian, acts like she owns the joint?”
“Yeah, that’s her. Who is she?”
RJ is quiet for a moment, thoughtful. “Well, in point of fact… the competition. Her name is Ella Leggett.”
“Oh?”
“She’s got a shop at the other end of Hawthorne. Not direct competition, I guess-there’s no foot-traffic overlap. But, you know, another shop owner.” She purses her lips. “What did she say to you?”
“Not much. She turned me on to some anarchists.”
“Red and Black.”
I’m not surprised she knows about them, or about Ella Leggett. Ruby Jane makes it her business to stay informed about the coffee crowd in Portland.
“She thinks they’re responsible for the windows at Star-bucks.”
“She might be right.”
“Seriously?”
Ruby Jane shrugs. “It’s no secret George Bingham, the lead partner there, has been pissed ever since that Starbucks opened. He thinks it’s cutting into his business.”