Crazy Blood (14 page)

He turned on the baseboard heaters, lights and lamps, and suddenly he was twelve years old, doing this exact thing on his first official morning shift thirteen years ago, thinking that he would spend many hours of his life in Let It Bean. It was exciting to be part of the family business, though he had to get up awfully darned early. He was a quiet boy, serious, tall for his age and slightly rounded by the endless pastries that a two-baker family produced. He looked at his reflection in the window, watched it morph from a twelve-year-old to a twenty-five-year-old.

“Here we go again,” said Beatrice, setting out the cup lids and napkins and insulators. “I hope it's a good day. I'm afraid what Gargantua is gonna pull on us next.”

“Fear not,” said Wylie. He wadded up some newspaper and set it in the fireplace, covered it with kindling, and made a tepee of logs on top. The cold newsprint resisted the match; then a good orange flame climbed up.

He knew that today would be busy in town and they should be able to sell coffee and pastries as fast as they could serve them. In a little over an hour, Kathleen would be here for the seven o'clock bulge. It would take all four of them to service their customers, if today went the way Fourths always did. Biggest day of summer, easy.

But Gargantua Coffee had launched their “Gargantua Froth of July Blowout,” which was half off all purchases, with Gargantua paying the sales tax, too. Swag giveaways, drawings for snowboards, skis, mountain bikes, apparel.
Portion of Proceeds Benefits Mammoth Ski Team!
They'd taken out ads in both local papers, and Wylie had seen the Mammoth cable channel and the Weather Channel running more ads for the Froth Blowout.

Not only that, he thought, looking out the window, but every streetlight stanchion in town was draped with banners, many of them featuring the Gargantua gorilla logo, writ large. What had riled Wylie the most was the cute yellow Piper Cub that had towed a Gargantua Froth of July Blowout sky banner back and forth over the mountain for the last three days running. Wylie had watched it, fairly sure he could shoot it down with his M16, so plump and slow and incredibly annoying it was.

“We took out ads in the
Mammoth Times
and
The Sheet,
” said Bea. “They were only six-by-six. I designed them.”

“I saw them, Bea. I liked the way the steam became the words.”

“Gargantua is gonna kill us.”

“We're going to do what we do,” said Wylie.

“Another of your random optimisms,” Bea said. “Like Dad would come up with.”

“I hope he slams a homer out there today.”

This would be Steen's first day with the Little Red Pastry Shed, which he had gotten permission to set up in the Mammoth Sports parking lot. The lot was where all the store's bikes were racked for rental and sale, and plenty of tourists were sure to come by. Steen was expecting substantial sales, which would cover the time and material for the cart, and pave the way for profit.

A few minutes later, when Wylie opened the front doors of Let It Bean, it was to the half-dozen hale locals who met there every morning. He held open the door and greeted most of them by name, making small talk while scanning the parking lot to make sure there weren't more coming. He held open the door after the last regular drifted in. If you hold it open, they will come—but they did not.

Wylie's sisters had learned their regulars' habits by now, and set about filling the standing orders. Two customers did venture out for some of the new exotic pastries, one of them remarking that everyone would be at Gargantua today, trying to win prizes.

Kathleen came in at seven, but there was no bulge of customers at all, just a young tourist couple with twins in a double-wide stroller who told them Gargantua was too busy and the lines too long. The dad asked about fishing and the mom wanted to rent bikes that could pull baby carriers. They'd heard that bikes were being stolen in Mammoth a lot this summer. Wylie pointed out the Troutfitter across the street for fishing, and told them about Mammoth Sports, just up Old Mammoth—look for the Little Red Pastry Shed. He waited for them to make up their minds, looked back at Kathleen standing in the doorway to the kitchen. She was assessing things. Wylie hated the disappointment on her face.

The sun rose and the customers trickled in and out over the next hour. Only a few of the cutting-edge pastries sold—four burritos, some muffins. The customers just weren't there. There was usually a nine o'clock bulge, too, especially in summer, when there were no ski lifts to catch. So maybe at nine things would pick up.…

At one point, all four Welborn-Mikkelsens found themselves lined up with their backs to the rear counter, facing out toward the smattering of customers, with nothing really to do. Looking through the windows, they watched the vehicles coming in and out of the parking lot. Across the street, the pines were heavy and high and the sky was a chipper summer blue streaked with cirrus clouds. It would be dry and hot today.

“I used to think this was the worst place in the world,” said Beatrice.

“Oh, why is that?” Kathleen asked.

“Because all winter it's so cold and so dark, and I have to be here so early.”

“Well,
we
have to be here,” said Kathleen.

“Yeah,” said Belle. “Then off to school, with your clothes stinking like steamed half-and-half starting to spoil. You get there all sleepy and you're stuck all day. Classrooms too hot. Then home to homework, all afternoon. And in bed super early because the next day's going to be the same. Cold, dark, work. Cold, dark, work. Steamed half-and-half. School. Homework. Morning. And you can't work out early with the team when the snow is good, so you get stuck with slushy afternoons and weekend crowds. And you and Dad expect us to be great athletes. What a joke! Ask Wylie—he had to do it, too. No
wonder
he went to a war.”

“I know it's hard,” said Kathleen.

“There's something worse, though,” said Beatrice. “It would be worse not having a here to wake up for.
Losing
Let it Bean.”

“Oh, don't even think that, honey! We're doing just—”

Belle whirled around, turned her back to the customers so they would not hear. Her voice was a sharp whisper. “We're dead, Mom! The numbers have been going down for a year. You know it. You think because you and Dad keep the books, only you and Dad know. But we know! We feel it every day. We
see it every day!
Then Gargantua shows up. Now they have a line out the door and halfway to Von's. We've got this.”

Wylie saw his mother's stricken look, watched her glance past Belle to the few customers.

“What we're saying is this is ours and we want to keep it,” said Beatrice. “That no billion-dollar multinational has a right to take it away. And to make our dad have to go out and sell pastries from a street cart so we make enough money to live. And the new lease? And the roof at home? I hold Gargantua personally responsible even though he's a gorilla.”

Eyes fierce but moist, Kathleen turned to the shelf of drink flavorings, fiddled with the bottles. “We'll talk about this
later.”

“Sure, Mom,” said Beatrice.

“Carry on, team,” said Belle, stepping to the counter to service a couple of fishermen who were looking at the Let It Bean staff with uncertain expressions. “Welcome, anglers!”

Wylie caught up with his mother in the kitchen. She was slamming around the pots and pans harder than she needed to, anger frozen on her face.

“Mom, what gives?”

“Rent doubles in November, if we stay here. Stan over at Mammoth Commercial told me that Gargantua has made an offer for this space. And he told me what it will take to beat them. I don't know how the girls found out, but it's a fact.”

 

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Anger simmering, Wylie walked up Old Mammoth Road and saw Steen manning the Little Red Pastry Shed, and a line of customers waiting. Steen was gesticulating enthusiastically, and even from this distance Wylie could tell that he was retarding his own business. The only thing Steen liked more than baking was talking about what he'd baked. He could go on for an hour on a certain grind of cocoa. The Mammoth Sports parking lot was busy with tourists, some checking out the bikes and racks of postseason snow apparel, some eating and drinking in the warm July sun, some letting their children try to net a tagged prize-earning fish in the aboveground “Trout Derby Catch-and-Release Pool” sponsored by the Mammoth Chamber of Commerce.

From here, Wylie could also see Gargantua Coffee across the street, with its tethered balloons fluttering in the sky and its inflatable plastic logo large as a dirigible floating high, and of course the streetlight banners up and down the street with more ape-faced logos on them. There was a sun shade set up in the parking area out in front of Gargantua, and Wylie could see skis and boards and even a couple of bikes gleaming under it. A woman's amplified voice announced winning numbers.

Wylie and Steen were busy for the next hour solid. Wylie outsold his stepfather two-to-one due to Steen's yapping, but Wylie noted that the yapped-at customers just yapped right back. He didn't understand how people could be so happy buying and selling coffee and pastries. Steen had gotten the smart phone app to run credit cards. The change box had lots of twenties, some fifties, at least a couple of hundreds, and even several of the personal checks that Steen was always too cordial to refuse, though they almost never bounced.

Steen jovially blathered on. “Oh, yes, I have permission from Mammoth Sports to be here. They know I will bring in business for them!”

“No,” said a young man wearing hiking shorts, trekking boots, and a Gargantua barista's shirt. He stood at the front of Steen's line, sipping from a
venti
Gargantua cup. His nameplate read
JACOBIE
. “I said the town. Did the
town
of Mammoth Lakes issue you a sidewalk vending permit?”

“We are very far from the sidewalk!”

“Funny,” said Jacobie.

Wylie looked at him. “You're holding up the line.”

“Pardon me.” Jacobie stepped aside, turned to the people behind him, and swept his free arm toward the cart in an exaggerated gesture of hospitality. “I'm looking forward to the first Gargantua Mammoth Cup, Wylie. We're now the featured sponsors, as you might know. I'm Jacobie, regional manager.”

Wylie looked up at the nearest Gargantua banner, then back to Jacobie. “I recognized you from the banner.”

“Cute.”

“It's unethical for you to undercut us like you did today. This used to be one of our biggest days all year.”

“Are you calling unnecessary roughness? I feel bad now. But Froth of July is
national,
Mr. Welborn. Not just here in Mammoth. You don't take everything this personally, do you?”

“I take it personally when I see your prices cut in half and my store empty.”

“To be honest, we're looking to win here in Mammoth Lakes. But back to the Gargantua Mammoth Cup—good luck. I love it that you and Sky have squared off. Like a good weigh-in. Like the Rumble in the Jungle. It'll build the gate. Now that Robert canned up.”

“‘Canned up' is disrespectful. Don't say that about Robert again.”

Jacobie stared at Wylie. “So now Sky's the most talented ski crosser on Mammoth Mountain. Though you used to be a real bruiser.”

Wylie considered Jacobie as he used to consider tactical situations. It always boiled down to consequences and what you thought they were worth. He tried to find that calm place inside.

“Are you judging something?” Jacobie asked.

“How far into that Trout Derby pool I could throw you.”

“Violent bastard, aren't you?”

Wylie came around the cart. Steen squawked and tried to stop him. Jacobie held his ground with dissolving confidence. In the end, all he could do was drop the
venti
cup and raise both hands in frank capitulation. Like a strongman, Wylie jerked him by his belt and the scruff of his shirt, holding him high like a barbell, teetered a few yards, and pitched Jacobie into the fish pool.

The kids screamed and got splashed and the parents tried to gather them to safety. Some took pictures and video. Jacobie surfaced, throwing his head to shed the cold water.

“You'll pay,” hissed Jacobie.

“You
should
pay
,
” said April Holly. Her dour-faced mother was not far behind, bodyguard Logan towering next to her, and a square-jawed, clean-cut young man caught uncertainly between them and April.

“What do
you
want?” Wylie asked her. Right now, he was less angry at Jacobie for pissing him off than at April for seeing him this way.

“I want to know why you're violent. Why are you so violent?”

“This … he … okay, yeah, violent at this moment in time, but…”

“But why?”

“Ask the prick yourself.”

“No call for language like that,” said the clean-cut young man, stepping toward Wylie.

Wylie raised a hand and ordered Clean Cut to halt. It worked. Logan took a few steps Wylie's way, then stopped, too. Jacobie vaulted the shaky wall of the pool and plopped to the asphalt, soaked and dripping. He briskly brushed his hands together back and forth: a job well done. April was addressing Wylie and he heard her voice, but because of the water splashing off Jacobie, and the amplified voice across the street announcing the winning number, and the Trout Derby contestants bickering over whose turn it was next, and a teenaged girl now offering April a pen and a Gargantua T-shirt to autograph while she told April that her switch backside 540 was, like, epic, Wylie couldn't hear what she was saying.
“What?
Can't you speak up? I can't hear you.”

April cleared her throat and projected with some effort. “I'm asking
you.
Why are you so violent?” She smiled down at the girl, signed the T-shirt, and handed it back. Clean Cut tried to help in this transaction but was too late.