Landon gets another espresso going, tilts the cup and free pours warmed milk along its side, wiggling the trail into a tulip that skims the rim.
“Latte, table seven.”
The orders flow. Calls of the bell punctuate the drone of endless chattering. Thirty minutes later, the mood of the lunching crowd lightens. Ten to three, and the pace settles. The crowd thins, leaving a group of suited Germans with red sunburnt faces prattling about some humorous subject over crusted coffee cups. At a seat by the wall a girl taps away at her tablet, a scarlet fringe covering half of her face.
Raymond appears at the kitchen doorway, twisting a towel around his hands to dry them. He is a lean, chesty man with a flat, broad face and short trimmed hair that is grey at the sides. “The druggies are always a little tamer when you’re around,” he says to Landon. “They need their caffeine shots done your way or they throw fits.”
Landon laughs at the compliment. “They throw fits because you overcharge them.”
“Those beans have to cost something.” Raymond folds the towel and pats it flat on the countertop. “Got the advance?”
“What advance?”
“You asked for an advance two weeks ago. You got it?”
“Oh, that.” Landon doesn’t remember if he did. He empties a bag of beans into the hopper. “Yeah, got it. Thanks for accommodating.”
“You’re welcome.” Raymond pours himself water from a plastic tumbler behind the counter. “Getting something expensive?”
Landon doesn’t even know what he should be recalling. He throws out a possibility. “An overhaul of the circuitry at home. They’re a fire hazard.”
“Can’t be too careful with electrical fires. Go grab lunch when you’re done. Donovan made some gratin at the back.”
Donovan is a cook who comes in thrice weekly, a good chap who graduated two years earlier from a culinary school run by former convicts-turned-chefs. He did time for possession of LSD and spent years in rehab.
Soon the patrons leave and Sam moves in to clear their table. The aftermath of the lunch-hour is dusted in the mellow tunes of the accordion played through the Bang & Olufsen speakers mounted in the ceiling. The neat rows of empty tables and chairs drowse in the afternoon serenity; their tablecloths changed, napkins folded and standing, the cutlery replaced with fresh, gleaming ones. This is Landon’s favourite part of the day.
Samantha slumps over the counter. “That man asked for you.”
Landon looks up from his washing. “What man?”
Samantha throws an arm over Landon’s shoulders and, with a brightly-painted nail, guides his sight to a man in a red-chequered shirt sitting by the mullioned window at the far corner reading papers by the daylight.
“There’s a sign outside that says ‘business from eight to three’ but I can’t possibly throw him out, can I?” Sam straightens up. “You know him?”
Landon sniffles at the candy scent of her perfume. “What did he ask about?”
“Your shift schedule. Careful boy, he seems to know it pretty well.”
“What’s he having?”
“Medici,” says Sam, accentuating the ci in a sensuous pout, as in chi. “Doppio, strong stuff.” She lifts her florid cheeks.
“Perhaps a connoisseur who appreciates my craft.”
“Your craft at what?” Sam puts her fist to her mouth.
“That’s your thing, Sam.”
Sam breezes away from him and his words fall upon nothing.
Landon steals another look at the patron. He appears to still be reading the papers when he folds them down to reveal his large, leonine face.
John.
Landon tries to appear calm but his expression comes out stiff. He is sure he is being stalked, and his heart aches to know if the stalking has anything to do with what he learned from the police officer’s visit this morning. Yet his mind roils; he can’t conjure the words he needs to confront John.
John makes no move either. He empties his cup, gently replaces it on the saucer and scans the papers again. Then without warning he looks up and their gazes meet.
In haste Landon picks up a tea towel and starts drying the cups that are already dry. From the edge of his sight he sees John rise from his seat, saunter past the counter and exit the café soundlessly. But he does not leave just yet. He lingers a few feet from the doorway and lights a cigarette.
No point being docile in this. Stalk the stalker. It’s your best bet in having your questions answered. Just as Landon resolves to confront John the door comes ajar and a young lady pops her head in.
“Are you open?” she asks. It is the caregiver.
Sam marches up to her. “Sorry, we’re closed for lunch. Dinner’s at six.”
“Drinks are still on.” Landon breaks in and, in his eagerness to show himself, hurls his chest against the edge of the counter more forcefully than he intended. His ribcage hurts, and against the pain he musters a grin.
She enters, carrying a handsome little knapsack of burgundy suede edged in leather. Her hair is now an updo, loosely held together with a long silver barrette.
“No more lunches.” Donovan’s voice drifts in from the kitchen.
Landon’s heart leaps to his throat. “I’m sorry, but we do have snacks like pies and quiches and whatever drinks you’d like.”
“That’ll do.” She slides the knapsack off her shoulders. “I was looking for a light bite actually.”
“Please.” Landon beckons with an open palm. “By the counter if you don’t mind.”
Sam gets the point and shoots Landon a dirty look and moves out of the way.
The young lady picks the seat right in front of Landon. She folds her arms over the cool granite tabletop and tilts her head at him. “Quite a coincidence,” she says, smiling charmingly.
Landon hands her a glass of iced water and responds in a modest chuckle. “It is, for the number of cafés we have around here.”
“Why do you call it FourBees?” she takes a sip.
He thumbs at the rhyme on the wall behind him.
“Ah, I see. Cute.”
She turns to look outside and squints at the daylight, dabbing at her forehead with tissue. There is a sort of distant melancholia in her gaze. “A lot has happened here,” she says.
“Like what?”
“Used to be barracks back in the Great War.” She studies the interior. “It’s amazing how resilient places are to change, how they invoke memories, if only we’d let them be.”
“You speak like a historian.”
“I like history.” She fingers the condensation on her glass. “Well, the nice bits of it.”
“This place’s been refurbished many times over,” says Landon. “There was another restaurant before ours,” he pauses in consideration and then pops the question, “How’s the old—” He stops himself. “Sorry, whoever you’re looking after.”
“Asleep.”
Landon treads carefully. “Don’t mind me prying, but is he your—”
“Someone close to me.”
“I see.” He throws up his hands in a gesture of apology. “Forgive my snooping. You must be hungry.”
She cups her chin and gives a slow, dreamy blink. “Recommend something.”
He rattles off a string of delis, and just to impress, a host of names enumerating the range of premium coffee beans available at the café. She decides quickly and settles for a regular Americano with a pecan pie, which disappoints him a little. Nevertheless he dives into the alchemy with a moka pot and twice the vigour he had when he started his shift.
“Heavenly.” She sips the coffee. “I never thought Americanos could be this good. There’s even cocoa overtones in this one.”
“It’s all in the temperature and beans.” Landon props himself against the countertop, now more confident of himself. “You have a very sensitive palate. I could make you even better ones if you would like. There’s much more to coffee than just Americano.”