I placed his biological age at thirty — but when I realized he was watching me for a reaction to his working man’s strip tease, I placed his mental age as much younger.
“Hang on a second,” Wren said.
Four flat screens adorned the shop walls. Each was broadcasting the same drag racing sequence from The Fast and the Furious. Wren fiddled with a remote control. The screens went blank. He ejected the DVD and tossed it on a pile of films, all of which involved car racing, with the odd exception of the Alfred Hitchcock classic Strangers on a Train.
“So, what do you think of Speedway Pizza?” Wren asked as he popped in a new DVD. Now the screens lit up with an animated loop of his logo revving up and driving away.
I glanced around the unfinished interior. The walls were white with red racing stripes, the tiled floor looked like a black-and-white checkerboard flag. In the window, a neon sign welcomed customers: Speedway Pizza: Home of the Cone.
I wasn’t all that surprised the man’s coffeehouse was now a pizzeria. Before Dante and I had driven to Brooklyn, I’d dug up every article I could find on Jason Wren. He never mentioned threats, but he did say that his shop was so badly damaged by the fire he decided to make a “big change.”
“You’re smart, Mr. Wren,” said Dante, who was acting the part of my cameraman. “With the Blue Mirage next door, you should do well. Boozing and raving make people real hungry. I worked a pizzeria on club row. We spun dough until five AM.”
Wren happily nodded at the comment.
I was glad Dante said something positive. This neighborhood had changed so much since I’d last visited that I had no idea what businesses would work here anymore. Years ago, a little Italian bistro sat on the corner of Avenue P. That bistro was now an Asian karaoke bar. The old-time movie palace was now a Dim Sum Palace Buffet, and the Italian pork store now hawked Chinese herbs.
“So what are you working on today, Mr. Wren?” I asked, warming him up with an easy one.
“Installing booths for my customers,” Wren said. “I’m using partial shells of restored classics. That’s a Trans Am over there, that’s a ’Vette, and over there’s a Pontiac Firebird.”
“I’m seeing a theme here.”
“You’re seeing a franchise, Ms. Stanwyck. These booths, this décor, it’s all going to be trademarked. This is only the first Speedway Pizza. The first of many.”
“Impressive,” I said.
He preened. “After I hooked into the cone pizza idea, the rest was easy.”
“Cone pizza?” I said. “I assumed you were doing a combo pizza/ice-cream shop thing. You aren’t actually going to serve pizza — ”
“In a cone?” Dante finished.
“You got it!” Wren fired twin finger guns at us. “The crust is a cone. The cheese, sauce, and toppings are melted inside. I’m putting cone holders in the booths for convenience. They’re trademarked, too.”
“Cool,” Dante said unconvincingly.
“Best of all, no ovens!” Wren grinned.
I blinked. “No — ”
“Ovens?” Dante finished.
“All done in a microwave,” Wren said with a nod. “In Europe they make cone crust from scratch, but Americans only care about the filling, right? So my cones are really more like a cracker than a crust. They come prepackaged, too. No more training baristas for weeks on an espresso machine. A one-armed monkey can learn to make my cone pizza in five minutes!”
Dante and I exchanged looks. Now there’s an inspiring motto.
Wren paused. “Hey, is this the interview?”
“No, but...” I glanced at Dante. “We can get started now.”
Dante looked around the shop. “Why don’t you stand here, beside your porcelain Godzillas?”
“Dude!” Wren said. “Godzilla is Japanese. Those are Chinese dragons. Nine of them. For luck. My cousin’s traditional, says they’ll bring fortune to my new business...” He waved a dismissive hand. “I’m going to replace them before I open.” Wren pointed to a burnt orange chassis. “Shoot me by the Firebird. I’ll sit on the hood.”
“Sure, okay,” Dante said, shouldering the camera again.
“So, Mr. Jason Wren,” I said into the microphone, “it looks like you’re off to a great start rebuilding after the fire. You must have had lots of help. Did the insurance company jump in for a rescue?”
“Rescue?” Wren laughed. “Dealing with the insurance company involves miles of red tape, but with the arsonist coming forward in the papers, my situation should be resolved pretty quickly now.”
“But without an insurance settlement, how could you afford all of this? Were you maybe... forced to take on business partners?”
“I had some cash saved. Enough to get started.”
“What about the other business leaders in the community? Has the owner of the Dim Sum Palace offered to help? How about Mr. Dean Tassos from the Blue Mirage next door? Has he helped you? Or has Mr. Tassos and his club presented a problem for you? Now or in the past?”
“Well...” Wren’s brows knitted. “I don’t know Mr. Tassos, only by name. And the club guys are pretty good neighbors...”
Great... Now what?
“Mostly I’m doing the work myself,” Wren went on. “I used to work in a junkyard and later at an auto-body shop. And some of my friends have helped. One of them was here earlier. He ducked out for lunch.”
“I see...” Come on, Clare, another question. “I, uh, I guess you’re eating cone pizza for lunch, then?”
“Soon!” He laughed, pointed to a bright orange shopping bag. “I grabbed some Korean fried chicken on my way to work. That’s the way it is when you’re trying to get your business started. You work all the time!”
“Let’s talk about the arsonist who torched your coffee business.” Okay, here we go... “Any thoughts about who that person might be?”
“None at all. I just hope they get caught. I don’t want anyone else hurt.”
“Do you think the arsonist was one of your customers, Mr. Wren? Did you get a warning letter or a threatening message? A package in a backpack, maybe? Another coffeehouse received a threat like that. Did you know?”
Wren’s demeanor immediately changed. His open, friendly face went rigid; his smoky brown eyes went cold. “I didn’t read about any packages in backpacks or see anything like that on TV. How do you know about it?”
“Surely you read the arsonist’s letter. It was published. Do you — ”
Wren abruptly stood. “I don’t want to talk about the arsonist. I’ve talked enough about that — with the fire marshals, the insurance people, a whole army of officials. I thought you were here to talk about my new business.”
“Well, I just wanted to clarify — ”
“You know what? I have major work to do today so maybe you better go.”
I glanced at Dante. “I think we have enough.”
We couldn’t gather our stuff together fast enough for Mr. Wren, who looked at his watch three times before he hustled us back onto the sidewalk.
“He made us, right?” Dante said.
“Are you kidding? The guy didn’t even ask when his piece would air.”
The wind kicked up and I shivered. Dawn’s heavy gray clouds had ripened into an afternoon storm front. Holding down my wig, I glanced back through the pizzeria’s plate glass window. Jason Wren was making a cell call. Now who is he contacting so quickly after our interview?
“There must be some real motor heads around here,” Dante said, nudging me. “Check out that sweet number across the street.”
The restored Mustang hadn’t been parked there when we’d arrived. I would have noticed. The coupe gleamed redder than strawberries in a newly glazed tart. The convertible top and leather interior were white as castor sugar. Racing stripes ran from bumper to fender, and rising on the hood was a classic bonnet scoop.