Twenty-Four
Three days later, a public funeral was held in Queens. Dante, Madame, and I attended. The mayor was there and the city commissioners. The cardinal came, the FDNY Emerald Society Pipes and Drums, the local press, and every member of Bigsby Brewer’s beloved firehouse.
The pomp and turnout were overwhelming, the grieving genuine. Thousands of firefighters from every borough showed up in dress blues. The small army couldn’t fit inside the church so they lined up in formation on the streets outside, where cops redirected traffic for hours, all the way to the burial ceremony in Calvary Cemetery on Laurel Hill Boulevard.
The younger firefighters looked steely, the older ones visibly haunted, unshed tears glazing their eyes, tense expressions barely masking rekindled memories. Back in fall 2001, this city had seen hundreds of funerals just like this one, final farewells to those who’d answered their last alarms.
Now it was Bigsby’s turn. And on the morning of his funeral, that’s when it hit me. I’d heard his last alarm.
The cluster of days that followed blew by like fast-moving storms. Time felt compressed, and so did I. Tensions were so high that most mornings I woke up feeling as though I’d slept with my head inside a panini maker.
The Blend’s business went on as usual — morning crush, lunchtime takeouts, evening regulars — but just as Mike promised, detectives from the Sixth took shifts in plain clothes while sector cars drove by so often I was starting to feel like I managed a gangland hangout.
There were no more threats, however, and no more coffeehouse fires. My two follow-up calls to Rossi and the precinct detectives handling my case yielded polite but completely fruitless conversations.
Madame continued to spend part of every day at the ICU, reading the newspapers aloud to Enzo. He was still comatose, but his condition was stable, at least. Until he woke up — if he ever did — the doctors wouldn’t be sure of the extent of his stroke damage.
I met with Valerie Noonan twice (in microbrew bars, her choice) to finalize details for the bake sale. Mike and I managed to meet a few times for dinner, too — Cornish hens with coffee glaze and Cumberland sauce; an outstanding recipe for Triple-Threat Firehouse Penne Mac ’n’ Cheese (that James shared with me); steak with a Jim Beam reduction; and Korean-style fried wings (my first attempt to identify the ingredients and technique behind those delectable Unidentified Flying Chickens).
As usual, Mike swooned for my cooking, but his undercover operation near the Williamsburg Bridge sapped so much of his time and energy that we failed to connect beyond the dinner table.
No more spicy-sweet 4 AM wake up calls. In the wee hours before dawn, Mike would come back to the Blend and relieve Matt from his night vigil of global coffee trading. Then Mike would come up to my bedroom, collapse onto the mattress, and by the time he stirred again I was already at work, pulling espressos...
Finally, the day of the big bake sale arrived.
Val had chosen the location and it was perfect — Union Square Park, an island of green space ringed by skyscrapers. The park was three city blocks long and the northern perimeter was frequently used to stage open-air farmers’ markets. That was the real genius of the location. New Yorkers were already used to stopping by the area for food purchases so the turnout was practically guaranteed.
Early that morning, volunteers from the NYC Fallen Firefighters Fund began setting up their tents and tables. Matt and I spent two hours transporting supplies and erecting our little blue Village Blend stand. Now he was gone — off to catch some sleep since he’d been doing business with Europe and Japan most of the night — while I stayed to man the booth, test our espresso machine, and marshal the troops.
Behind our portable counter, Dante and Esther began unpacking columns of plastic lids and cardboard cups.
Then Tucker arrived, waving the New York Post at us like a signal flag. “People, people, did you see this!”
“See what?” Dante asked.
Esther and I stared blankly.
“Oh my gawd!” Tucker was close to apoplectic. “There’s something in this paper you all need to hear!”
“Lottery numbers?” Esther asked.
“Listen!” Tucker cleared his throat and his best PSA announcer voice began to read: “Coffee is a drug. Coffee is toxic to the human body. Coffee is a capitalist tool and should be eradicated from the earth — ”
“What is that?” Esther cried.
She reached for the paper, but Tucker pulled it out of reach. “It’s a letter from the ‘Coffee Shop Arsonist’ — according to the headline, that’s what the police are calling this Looney Tune. Last week, this letter was sent directly to the New York Post. Apparently, they just got the okay from the authorities to publish it.”
“Keep reading, Tucker,” I said quietly.
“Farmers in developing countries should be growing crops, not coffee. Coffee is a threat, a weapon! But I have a weapon, too, and I will use it. Close your coffeehouses or suffer the consequences — ”
“Toxic?” Esther said. “On what planet? Try reading a Harvard study once in a while, why don’t you? And did he say coffee is a weapon? That’s lunacy. Coffee is the most traded commodity on earth next to oil. And they make napalm out of oil. So you tell me — which one is the weapon?”
“Blame it on the writer, Esther. I’m just doing a dramatic read of the lines.”
“You’d expect an actual arsonist to know the difference between a thousand-year-old beverage enjoyed around the world and a combustible fluid used to make firebombs. Isn’t that his job?”
“All I can tell you is that the arsonist’s ‘job’ has got me goosey. And I’m sure I’m not alone. I signed up for mixing espresso drinks, not fielding Molotov cocktails.”
Esther shook her head. “Well, I’m not sweating it. This nut job has only burned three coffeehouses. Do you know how many cafés there are in this city? Statistics are on our side.”
“Listen, Missy!” Tucker snapped his fingers. “When somebody’s out to turn me into a human torch, having the ‘odds on my side’ is not a comfort! And in case you’ve forgotten, this firebug already left a warning package in our coffeehouse.”
“Where’s your dramatic spirit? Think Method. Can’t you see yourself playing Joan of Arc?”
Tuck went quiet a moment. “I realize you’re joking, Esther, but that’s actually not a bad idea for a black box production — I mean, given that Peter Pan is usually played by an adult woman, I don’t see why I couldn’t do Joan, although...” He flipped his signature floppy ’do. “I’d never want to cut my hair that short.”
“Either way, you’re not in a coffeehouse at the moment,” Esther pointed out. “You’re outdoors. In a park. And you’re surrounded by highly trained members of the New York Fire Department. I really do think you’re safe from a fiery death.”
Just then a tremendous whooshing sound made Tuck and Esther yelp, and me jump. A wave of hot air wafted toward us and we quickly turned our heads. The stand beside ours had erected a banner: Crème Brûlée! Torched to Order!
To the enthusiastic applause of a growing group of spectators, two burly firefighters in bunker suits and safety visors proceeded to caramelize the sugar on top of several servings of the classic French egg-custard dessert.
Neither of these guys was using a kitchen salamander; dainty, handheld chef’s torch; or even a standard oven broiler (an option I gave my Jersey readers when I was writing my In the Kitchen with Clare column). No, these guys were finishing their crème brûlée with an industrial-sized acetylene torch mounted on a wheeled gurney.