winking at me conspiratorially. “I think you all have a really interesting culture.”
Oh, I was so not in the mood for this. “Actually I’m Irish. I’m just wearing a lot of bronzer.” I turned back to my cashier. “Could you make my drink now?”
The cashier wrote some illegible words on a paper cup and quickly entered my order into the register.
I looked back at the newspaper thief. He was watching…and laughing. The fucker was laughing at me. That’s it, he was on the list. In my next book I would be sure that the first murder victim would be a dark-haired New York tourist and the police would find him bludgeoned to death in an alley behind a Starbucks with a New York Times shoved up his ass.
I picked up my drink and sat down at a table by the window that happened to have a discarded Chronicle resting on top. Although it was probably not the intention of its previous owner, it felt like the paper was left there for the sole purpose of further pissing me off. I pushed it aside and busied myself by mentally formulating the details of how I was going to whack the jerk who had just screwed up my morning. The task plus the extra dose of sugar and caffeine were just beginning to perk me up again when my desired victim strolled over to the table, winnings in hand.
“I read the articles I wanted to read. Would you like this now?”
Oh, this was too much. “No, thanks, I’m pretty happy with the Chronicle.”
He gave me a little half smile and sat down opposite me. “Now, you obviously want it. You’re not going to let your pride keep you from taking what you want, are you?” He pushed the paper toward me, and I unwillingly noted his hands…big, strong… God, I loved guys with hands like that, with the exception of this guy. This guy was a schmuck.
“Shouldn’t you be out taking pictures of cable cars or something like that?”
“Oh, I’m not a tourist. I was just in New York wrapping up some old business. I made San Francisco my home a few months ago.”
“Oh goody, another East Coast transplant moving to our wonderful city. How original.”
He laughed. “Actually, I was originally a Russian transplant moving to Israel and then an Israeli transplant moving to New York. So, you see, I’ve been condescended to by the natives of three continents. You’re going to have to work a little harder if you plan on offending me now.” He gently pushed the paper a little closer to me. “Take the paper.”
I gave him my best glare but I couldn’t quite keep my fingers from inching toward the publication.
“There are some really interesting articles,” he said. “Corruption in the political world, greed in the business world—violence in the art world, all the usual sensationalism.”
I begrudgingly took the paper. “Violence in the art world?”
“Mmm…it seems there’s been a conviction in the KK Money murder trial.”
I noted the headline on the front page. “It’s JJ Money.” JJ Money was a gangsta rapper who, seven months ago, had been killed in the exact same manner as one of his songs, shot in both kneecaps, once in the stomach and once in the head. Rival rap star DC Smooth, who already had a rather long criminal history that included a few assault-and-battery charges, had been tried for the murder and had now been found guilty, despite his continual protests of innocence, a detail I found a little odd. After his previous arrests he had been known to brag about his crimes. But then again, this was a different situation. This time his victim didn’t just end up in a hospital but in a morgue.
“Well, I knew it was some letter of the English alphabet. The basic premise is the same, reaping what you sow and all that.”
I nearly choked on my Frappuccino. “What did you say?”
“What, that the premise was the same?” he asked.
“No, the other part…you know what, never mind. Look, thanks for the paper. Now if you don’t mind, I’d like to read it and enjoy my coffee by myself.”
The man nodded and stood up. I couldn’t help but notice his physique. He certainly spent enough time at the gym. He turned to leave, then paused and leaned over me, causing me to shift uncomfortably in my seat.
“By the way,” he said, his Russian accent a bit more pronounced, “That’s not coffee, that’s a milk shake.” And with that he walked out.
I stared at the door. Had he just insulted my coffee drink? Unbelievable! Everyone who had evolved passed the Cro-Magnon level knew that one should never make snide remarks about a person’s weight, religion or choice in caffeinated beverages, which meant he was most likely a Neanderthal. A Neanderthal with really good hands.
I grabbed my drink and paper, and stormed home. At least my cat knew how to shut up and let me enjoy a few minor indulgences. When I reached my building, I struggled to retrieve my keys from my purse without putting down either of my two purchases. You never knew when a greedy tourist was going to sneak up and snag your periodical.
“Hello, Miss Katz.”
The voice from behind startled me enough that I dropped my Frappuccino, spilling the beverage all over my suede boots. “Fuck!” I looked up from the disaster to see the pitifully distressed eyes of Andy Manning looking down at me.
“I’m so sorry, Miss Katz. I didn’t mean to scare you. I just wanted to say hi. I guess I should go.” He rubbed his massive head in a way that caused his fine blond hair to stick out in a rather awkward spiked configuration.
Everything about Andy was massive and awkward. He worked as the stock clerk at the corner market, and at six-seven and with a body weight that had to be well over the two-hundred-and-fifty-pound mark, he was pretty hard to miss. Andy also suffered from brain damage. I wasn’t sure how that came to be. Alice, the market’s proprietor, had said something about his being seriously abused as an infant. Whatever had happened, it certainly hadn’t affected his disposition, which was one of the sweetest I’d ever come across.
I carefully extricated the sports section and used it to absorb some of the liquid penetrating my shoes. “No—I’m sorry, Andy. If I hadn’t have been so preoccupied, you wouldn’t have been able to surprise me. I didn’t mean to swear.” Well, I sorta had, but not at him.
He bent down and examined the mess. “I’m really sorry about your boots and your drink. Was it a Frappuccino?”
“Yeah, they’re one of my favorite vices.”
“I like them too. They’re kind of like a milk shake.”
The paper crinkled as my fist tightened around it. “Andy, I really have to go upstairs and see if I can salvage these. I’ll see you later okay?”
“Okay, Miss Katz. I really am sorry.”
“I know, Andy.” I stuffed the soiled pages inside the now-empty cup and went upstairs.
Mr. Katz was spread out on the love seat, leisurely grooming himself. “Well, at least one of us is having a relaxing day.”
The phone rang and I dumped my stuff onto the dining table in order to free my hands to answer. “Hello?”
No response. That was
