A Brew to a Kill (5 page)

C
UTTING
the line, I planted myself in front of the Kupcake Kart’s service window. “Shut off those speakers.”

For more than four decades, my West Village neighborhood—an amalgam of twisting lanes, secluded gardens, quaint bistros, and Federal-style town houses—existed under an umbrella of laws protecting its historical integrity. Generally speaking it was a neon-free zone, a picturesque respite from the city’s flash and zoom.

Not tonight.

The kaleidoscopic bulbs encircling Kaylie’s truck lit our tranquil café sidewalk with all the subtlety of a pole dancer’s stage. Even her front bumper blinked with the glittering LED message:
Squee! I Won!
(This was a reference to the previous year’s Vendy Awards, an annual event to honor the street chefs of the city. For that achievement, I couldn’t fault her. She took home both the Dessert and Rookie of the Year Cups.)

But the lights were only part of it. Her truck’s awful rendition of “La Vie en Rose,” punctuated by—“Pea-nut Butt-
tair!
Car-a-mel! Va-nil-
la-la
!
”
—made me want to dig out my eardrums with a latte spoon.

A bit of jostling occurred inside the truck with my arrival, then Kaylie Crimini’s smirking face was in mine. From previous encounters, I put the girl in her late twenties. Tonight, her tight lips and squinty glare more resembled someone entering a bitter and angry middle age. Leaning forward, she gave her head a prissy little shake. Then she made like Marcel Marceau, mutely cupping one ear to indicate she couldn’t hear me.

I’d met Kaylie many times in this town. She was a sweetly perfumed, strawberry-glossed shark with a toxic competitive streak. Back in high school, she would have thought herself the most charitable, generous, virtuous person in the entire world—and would have laughed like a hyena when one of her BFFs tripped some awkward, unpopular “weird” kid in the cafeteria.

I, on the other hand, was that quiet “nobody” girl who’d commit social suicide by helping the poor picked-on kid clean up her ruined lunch—while suggesting we hurl the sloppier bits in the general direction of the catty hyenas.

“I
said
, turn that jingle off!”

Now I was resorting to pantomime, slashing my right hand across my throat in the universal signal for
Kill it!
And, yes, I couldn’t stop myself from imagining Kaylie’s throat in convenient proximity of stainless steel cutlery.

In response to my demand, Kaylie aloofly reached up to adjust the Paris pink paper tiara pinned to her hair, a honey-blond sculpture that resembled a double-dip ice cream cone—or the Mostly Frosting cupcake gracing her sugarcoated menu. The paper tiara was (apparently) her cupcake queen crown. How did I know? It literally read
Kupcake Kween
.

This indifferent act of Kaylie’s didn’t last, however. The saccharine monarch turned petulant, snapping her fingers at a member of her haughty staff.

A wiry Asian kid with a pink paper hat and Chinese dragon tattoo snaking around his leanly muscled arm glared at me and threw a switch. The jingle ended, bringing down silence like a heavy curtain.

“Can I help you?” Kaylie asked, her pistachio eyes gleaming with superiority. “Perhaps you’d like to sample our new espresso cupcake? We use the very
finest
coffee beans, roasted by Jerry Wang at the Gotham Beanery.”

“This parking space is reserved. Move your truck.”

Touching a plastic gloved finger to her dimpled chin, she playacted consideration of my demand. “
Nah
. I don’t think so. Not when I have
sooo
many customers. Next!” she called to the man behind me.

“No.” I said, straight-arming him back. “It’s quitting time, Kaylie. I want you and your truck gone. Now.”

Before she could answer, a familiar honk startled us all—and I was very glad to hear it.

The Muffin Muse had rolled home. The Blend’s boxy food truck was trying to pull into its reserved parking place beside our sidewalk tables, the spot Kaylie had usurped.

From behind the wheel of the diesel-fueled bus, Dante Silva frowned. The shaved-headed, tattooed-armed, fine-art painter was one of the nicest guys you could ever meet—and the
crema
on his espressos was just as sweet as his disposition (as every swooning college coed in the neighborhood could tell you).

Next to Dante sat my Rubenesque goth girl Esther Best (shortened by her grandfather from Bestovasky). A locally renowned slam poetess, Esther was an NYU grad student whose latte art skills were close to national competitive level. I’d promoted her to second assistant manager (partly on the principle that she drew legions of fans to our shop), and she’d proven herself with hard work and bright ideas. More offbeat than Dante, she was far less sweet—a hitch in character that often proved an asset in New York retail.

As horns blared on the wide lanes of Hudson Street, Esther shook a fist. “Get out of our spot!”

Kaylie calmly examined her fingernails. “They’re blocking the intersection. That’s very dangerous. You’d better tell your people to move along.”

Okay, I’m done.

“Listen up, Crimini, unless you want a Three Little Piggies
thousand-dollar repeat-offender summons for playing your jingle while stationary, you’d better move along. Pronto!”

“Don’t threaten me—”

“I don’t have to threaten,” I said, leaning into the precious, rainbow-framed window. “I have a shop full of witnesses to your stupid, childish,
repeated
stunts…”

As one of New York’s five thousand food-truck vendors, I had received the same consumer affairs paperwork that she had about EPA codes. “So be warned,” I said. “The next time I see you in front of my store, I’m not calling 311; I’m walking straight up to the officers of the Sixth Precinct and demanding they send a city tow to confiscate your sorry showboat for
multiple
noise violations.”

“You tell her, boss!” Hands on her ample hips, Esther was now standing behind me, providing useful backup (mostly by herding sidewalk customers into our shop).

“Stick it in your demitasse, Cosi,” Kaylie shot back. “If your stupid old coffeehouse can’t take the heat, then maybe
you’d
better get off the street.” The woman’s insufferable smirk returned. “See? Your chubby goth barista isn’t the only one who can rhyme. So why don’t you leave, before you make my customers heave?”

I was about to answer back, but Esther stopped me.

“I got this,” she said, stepping forward. (I almost felt sorry for the Kupcake Kween.)

A small gang of spectators closed in. A lean kid in aquamarine spandex stepped out of the pack. I’d seen this young cycling enthusiast in the Blend a few times. He said he practically lived on the Hudson River Greenway, the most heavily used bikeway in the country, with entry points only a few blocks from our Blend.

In a whip-fast move, Cycle Boy pulled out his smart phone camera and hit record. When my “chubby” barista motioned him closer, I knew a worldwide Internet audience was about to be treated to slam poetry, Esther style.

Adjusting her black-framed glasses, she cleared her throat and let it rip—

“Listen up, bouffant brain! Are you listening?
Good!
’Cause you’re not in Kansas. You’re in
my
’hood…”

“Woooo!” The crowd cheered.

“Your cupcakes are mealy, your élan is fake, and your infantile jingle gives the world an earache!”

“Uh-ooooh!”

“I may be ‘chubby,’ yeah, I’m busty, too, and my boyfriend
loves
the way my booty moves…”

“Tell her, Esther!”

“You sell the world
pink
with a cheap, plastic smile, but there’s no heart in your mart. You got no class, no style. Your frosting, I hear, comes out of a can. And your beans? Sorry, honey, you can’t brew worth a dang! So get your buttercream butt
off
my grass, or I’ll plant my big black boot in your prissy little—”

Beep! Beeeeeep!

Behind the wheel, Dante had grown impatient and inched our Muffin Muse forward, lightly tapping the Kupcake Kart’s rear bumper.

Kaylie instantly shrieked. “He hit us! Did you see that? Did you see! I’m going to call the police, Cosi. The police!”

“Please do,” I said. “Advise them to bring a tow truck.”

“And don’t forget the ER bus,” Esther added, tapping her watch, “because in thirty seconds’ time, I won’t have to rhyme—and you’re going to need a boot-ectomy!”

The crowd screamed with laughter.

Inside Kaylie’s truck, the young guy with the dragon on his arm glared with pure fury at Esther, then at me. Finally, he tugged Kaylie aside and spoke quietly. Her line of patrons was gone now, most of them gawking and laughing or inside our coffeehouse.

“We’ll move,” Kaylie declared. Then she bent over the customer counter and lowered her voice. “I’ve got friends in this town, Cosi—and they know how to back me up. You’ll be sorry for messing with me.”

“I’ll file that information under ‘who cares.’ Now get lost, Kaylie.” Stepping back, I pointed to the empty street ahead
of her and channeled my inner NYPD traffic cop. “Okay! Move it! Clear outta here! Now!”

With a clang, Kaylie’s window slammed closed, her engine started, and the lumbering truck rolled down the block.

“Chocolate! Oo-la-la…
Fla-
vours
for
vous…”

As the murmuring crowd melted away, I heard a single pair of hands clapping. Turning, I found Matt standing tall, white teeth grinning through his pirate beard.

“Very impressive. And entertaining, too.”

“Yes, admirable job.” Madame nodded. She shook her head at the truck’s disappearing backside and sniffed, “Gotham Beanery indeed!”

Lilly Beth laughed. “The next time I need that woman exorcised, I’m calling
vous
.”

With a low rumble, our Muffin Muse eased into its berth. Dante cut the engine, which coughed once before blessing us with a wash of exhaust. Esther held her nose. Matt stepped backward. His mother coughed, and Lilly Beth headed back inside the Blend.

“Sorry, guys,” Dante said, climbing out of the cab. “I’m still tinkering with the mechanics. I’m sure we’ll pass the emissions inspection, though.”

“Maybe—if you
bribe
the inspector,” Esther cracked.

Dante shook his shaved head and strode into the Blend. “I have some phone calls to make.”

Matt frowned at our truck. “It’s kind of minimalist, isn’t it?”

For once, Matt was putting it mildly. The truck’s flat white paint job and stiff block letters identifying the vehicle as the Muffin Muse was not even close to the visual pyrotechnics of Kaylie’s Vegas-worthy showboat.

“Don’t worry, my boy.” Madame winked. “Our
artiste
in residence is giving her a new paint job tomorrow, and when Dante’s finished, I’m launching her with a bottle of Laurent-Perrier Grande Siécle!”

“Well, don’t whack her too hard, Mother. I’m not sure which will break, the bottle or the truck.”

“Oh, pooh. She’s a rock. And the interior has been completely refurbished.”

“Is that right?” Matt looked over the truck once more. “Okay,” he said, turning to me, “how about you show me the inside of our investment?”

“You’re willing to keep an open mind?”

“I’m willing to keep listening.”

Ten minutes later, we were back on the sidewalk.

“Seems solid,” Matt conceded.

“It is.”

Madame stepped toward us. “And after tomorrow our Muffin Muse will soon be just as attractive on the outside.”

Just then, I noticed Lilly Beth moving through our sidewalk café tables, a Village Blend paper cup in hand.

“Lilly,” I called, waving her over, “are you coming to our truck-painting party tomorrow? You should! And bring little Paz. We’re serving his favorites.”

“I’d love to come, but this is a working weekend for me.”

“Something with the mayor’s office?”