Matt Hilton
Red Stripes
Three blocks south of where Rington Investigations boasts an office, there’s a small coffee shop that’s my favorite in all of Tampa, Florida. Like the small unit that houses Rington Investigations, the coffee shop is situated about midway along a strip mall, wedged between a Walgreens pharmacy and a family-owned convenience store. But unlike the office, which its owner, Jared Rington, keeps as sterile and minimalistic as a surgical room, the coffee shop is homely and comfortable, boasting bamboo chairs and tables, and thick, soft cushions to relax into. The seating area spills out of the small shop onto the sidewalk and that’s where I like to sit and watch the flow of pedestrians. Unlike many of the other coffee spots in the neighborhood, which dole out supersized waxed-paper cups of colored water that only masquerade as coffee, there you can get the real thing, and in genuine china cups if you so desire.
I was sitting outside the shop, having ordered a freshly ground Blue Mountain blend, enjoying the warmth of the late-September afternoon sun on my face while the aroma of roasting beans wafted over me.
I was enjoying some downtime. I’d just come off a boring surveillance job involving staff dishonesty at a distribution hub on the north side of the city. Basically, the shipping manifests were showing a disparity with what was shelved in the warehouse and the company directors had called in some outside help to discover where their goods were disappearing. Myself, Raul Velasquez and Jim McTeer — the sum total of Rink’s employees — and I alternated stakeouts until we got the evidence on a night-shift foreman and a security guard that were in cahoots with a friend with a van. The three of them had been filmed packing the van with boxed computers, televisions and even a riding lawn mower. I wasn’t in on the sting — it was change-over time between Velasquez and McTeer when the van was backed into the depot under cover of darkness and the pilfering took place. But I was happy to allow the boys the glory of the capture, and was pleased I could go back to sleeping at a reasonable hour. Rink was the breadth of a continent away, visiting his mom, Yukiko, in San Francisco, so I was able to set my own hours. It wasn’t a case of the mouse playing while the cat was away, I’m a partner in the business than a straight employee, and can come and go at will. My expertise wasn’t generally in the bread-and-butter work of a modern PI firm, but there’d been little requirement for my skill set in the best part of a month. Stepping in to assist Velasquez and McTeer was my decision, because I needed to be doing something. Even boring stakeouts are better than nothing when you get as fidgety for action as I do.
Earlier I’d sent the boys home early and shut down the office for the day. Jim McTeer invited me to a barbecue he was hosting for some of his old cop buddies, but I’d politely declined. I’d nothing against cops, but some of them didn’t extend the same conviviality in my direction. Velasquez said I was welcome to join him and his nephew, Rorion, for an ice-hockey match at St. Pete Times Forum, but I’d also declined his offer. Ice hockey. Florida. The two paired together just didn’t make sense. But it wasn’t my miscomprehension of a game that was — to me — largely organized violence on ice that put me off. Not long ago, a hired killer had taken potshots from the roof of the Forum, killing two police detectives I was speaking with, and placing me in a real awkward situation. I still sneered in disgust every time I was in the vicinity of the stadium and recalled the crimes Luke Rickard tried to frame me for. All I was in the mood for was a half hour or so without any nasty recollections to spoil my mood, kicking back, and slaking my thirst for a decent brew. Having rolled down the shutters and locking them tight, I’d left the RI office, driving the three blocks and parking on the street opposite the coffee shop. I had to feed a meter, but I was happy to do so. When you intend paying for Blue Mountain, undoubtedly the king of coffee and with a price tag to match, you didn’t quibble over a handful of quarters.
The barista was a middle-aged woman with a French accent. She was slim, with dark hair, dark eyes, perhaps a tad too large in the nose and lips to be described as beautiful, but good-looking all the same. I wasn’t sure if she was from France, Europe, if she was French Canadian, or from some other French-speaking country. Our conversations had been pleasant and polite to date, but hadn’t gone beyond the small talk associated with the ordering and imbibing of the best coffee in the city, perhaps the country. I knew her name from the badge she wore pinned to her blouse: Jolie. I hadn’t realized she’d learned my name until she delivered my drink and placed it down before me.
“You are Joe Hunter, yes?” She pronounced my first name ‘Show,’ and rolled the second syllable of my last name across her tongue. I found the sound of her voice endearing.
“Yeah, that’s me,” I replied. “Although I’ve never heard my name spoken quite as sweetly before.”
“I know you,” she said, apparently used to the compliments her accent gained her and beyond acknowledging them with more than the quirk of one corner of her mouth. “You have been a good customer. But I was not sure of your name until today.”
I felt that little stir in the gut that meant that bad news was coming. “Oh, and how did that come about?”
“There was a man in here asking about you. He described you, said you were probably from England, and that someone told him you could be regularly found at my café.” She paused to aim a hooded look back up the street. I guessed her gaze was set three blocks down. “You work for Mister Rington, no?”
I didn’t have to nod. She already knew. “This man, he said he would look for you there again, but when he’s been by your office no one is there.”
“Been a busy time for us,” I said, noncommittally. Steam wafted toward me from my drink. The aroma was glorious. I let the coffee stand. “This man told you my name?”
“Not him. He only described you. I get many English tourists in my café but he described only you.”
I wondered what she meant by that. I’m not exactly distinctive. I stand a tad under six feet, so am not overly tall, have an athletic build, but then so have many, and wear my brown hair in an easy-to-handle short style. Some people have described my eye-coloring as memorable, a kind of blue-green edged in brown, but I think they’re referring more to the look of my eyes when the cold gleam of battle’s in them: it’s not a look I generally have when relaxing with a cup of Blue Mountain in Jolie’s establishment.
Jolie could read my confusion. She reached across unashamedly and rolled up the right sleeve of my T-shirt. She patted the tattoo on my bicep. “Only you wear this design.”
She was only partly correct. Rink also bore the same tattoo, but I guessed she hadn’t seen him with bared arms, and there was little to confuse me with my big Asian-American friend. Rink is distinctive. He stands half a head taller than me, is built like a pro wrestler, and the epicanthic folds of his heritage give him almond-shaped eyes. Plus he tends to wear gaudy colors, brightly patterned Hawaiian shirts and board shorts being his favorites when in casual mode.
To be fair, I couldn’t ever recall displaying my tats in Jolie’s place, but there was always the possibility she’d glanced over while I rubbed at an itch on my shoulder or something and inadvertently gave her a flash. To most the tattoo would mean little. Three intersecting arrows on a shield; weighing scales upholding a crescent on one side and an oval on the other. The symbols were stylized devil’s horns and a halo, signifying the balancing of evil against good. The tattoos were adopted by all the men and women in our tactical team as a reminder of our days with Arrowsake. There were very few of us left alive these days.
“This man described my tattoo to you?”