I shifted the stack of folders to my left arm in order to pick up the trophy. Most of the files were face down, but I caught a glimpse of a tab marked ‘Competitive Strategies.’.
Whose strategies, I wondered. Janalee’s? Or, more interestingly, Marvin’s?
In an old cartoon, a light bulb would have appeared above my head. I had an idea. A strategy, even.
I’d been maneuvered into taking over the barista competition, right? Now it was up to me to make sure that Uncommon Grounds got as much visibility as possible out of it, especially since we didn’t have a barista participating.
Well, what was more visible than television?
I still had connections, after all. I’d talk one of the local stations into covering the event. I could see it now: Iron Barista, like Iron Chef America on Food Network. Maybe I could even trademark and syndicate it.
A menacing sound from Davy interrupted my thoughts. Father and son were still glaring at each other. Any second now, LaRoche would call the kid out and give him his choice of weapons. If it was wet diapers at twenty paces, my money was on Davy.
I was out of there. As I turned to leave, I saw Sun Tzu’s book on the desk. Why just win the Battle for the Barista, when I could win the whole war? Or at least go down fighting.
I grabbed the book and stuck it in with the trophy. ‘Thanks for offering to lend me The Art of War, Marvin,’ I said. ‘I would love to reread it.’
LaRoche, still holding the toy soldier, turned. He looked like he’d forgotten I was there, and he certainly had forgotten offering to lend me the book. Since he hadn’t.
I tapped my forehead. ‘Remind me. Wasn’t it Sun Tzu who said something like, “Know thy enemy”?’
LaRoche gave me that ‘she’s-smarter-than-she-looks’ expression again. ‘“If you know the enemy and know yourself”,’ he quoted, ‘“you needn’t fear the result of a hundred battles.”’
‘Sort of keep your friends close and your enemies even closer, huh?’
He set down the soldier. ‘Sort of,’ he said, mimicking me like he had Janalee.
I just smiled. ‘Then I’ll look forward to seeing you Thursday.’
With that, I retreated down the steps, armed with six damp file folders, a bubble-wrapped barista, and the words of a 2500-year-old Chinese general.
Chapter Five
Sarah met me at the bottom of the stairs. ‘Well?’
Before answering, I glanced over to where Henry’s hat had been. The fedora was gone. As was the top of Sophie’s head. I could just imagine Henry reaching up from behind the counter to retrieve the hat, and then the two seniors scurrying out the back hand-in-hand, like rats deserting a sinking ship. Not that rats have hands to hold. Or that Sophie and Henry had ever held them, to my knowledge. Besides, it wasn’t HotWired that was in danger of sinking. It was Uncommon Grounds.
So much for similes. Or metaphors. Or whatever the hell they were. I turned back to Sarah. ‘Well, what?’ I demanded.
‘So are you going to do it? Are you going to manage the barista competition?’
Sarah sounded enthusiastic. Sarah never sounded enthusiastic. Cynical, sure. And she had a corner on the market of snide, but enthusiastic? Nah. Maybe she was putting on a show for the man up above.
I glanced at LaRoche in his loft and, sure enough, he was watching us.
‘Not only am I going to manage the barista competition, Sarah,’ I said, beaming a big cheesy smile up at LaRoche before turning back, ‘I’m going to make it a star.’
Sarah’s eyes narrowed. ‘You still watching those old movies? You’re starting to talk like one.’
I linked arms with her and started walking her toward the door. ‘The moon, Sarah. We can have the stars and the moon.’
‘Now Voyager, 1942,’ she snapped, pulling away. Not a toucher, our Sarah – apparently not even to impress her biggest client. ‘And Bette Davis’s line is, “Don’t let’s ask for the moon. We have the stars.” If you’re going to quote movies, Maggy, at least get ‘em right.’
Now there was the Sarah I knew and loved, though sometimes I wasn’t sure why. I liked to think I was neither insecure nor a masochist, just perceptive enough to see the genuinely good person buried under all of Sarah’s bluster. Some days it might take a backhoe to reach it, but then I was no picnic, either.
Safely out the door, I reverted to character, too. ‘We’re doomed, Sarah.’ I moaned. ‘Doomed, do you hear me?’
‘Stop the theatrics, Maggy!’ Sarah snarled. ‘Do you hear me?’
She was right. I couldn’t afford to panic now. Not about HotWired and their free drinks coupons, or about the possible annihilation of life as I knew it.
I had a plan. A strategy, as LaRoche would put it. First step was:
1. Call Mark.
That was pretty much my plan, so far. My friend Mark headed up one of the local TV stations and, as soon as we got back to Uncommon Grounds, I would put a call into him and ask his advice.
As we climbed into the Firebird, I filled Sarah in on HotWired’s impending barrage of free-drink coupons and my idea for the televised competition.
‘It’s Tuesday, and the competition starts Friday,’ she pointed out as she turned the ignition key. ‘Isn’t three days pushing it to get the Chairman and the gang from Iron Chef America to Brookhills? Long as you’re dreaming, maybe Martin Scorsese could drop by and direct.’
Leave it to Sarah to put her finger on the crux of the matter. And then bury it up to the knuckle.
‘Very funny.’ The g-force of the Firebird’s acceleration pinned me to the seat. I wondered if my cheeks were flapping in the wind like a bloodhound’s with its head stuck out the window of a pickup truck. ‘I’m not stupid. I know that whatever we can put together this year will be barebones – more of a test run than anything else – but it would give us a tape to show people toward next year.’
‘Show who people?’
While the syntax needed work, I knew what Sarah meant. Problem was I didn’t have the answer to her question. Did you pitch a network with an idea like this? Or a production company? Or maybe public TV? I didn’t know. Hence my call to Mark.
‘I’m not sure,’ I admitted, ‘but I know people who know, which is more than half the battle. I’m thinking we may even be able to syndicate. Go national.’
Apparently I’d finally managed to capture Sarah’s imagination. ‘You need a catchy name.’ She glanced over at me. ‘Whatcha going to call it, Iron Barista?’
‘Only if I wanted a lawsuit,’ I said.
‘There’s no such thing as bad publicity.’
‘Yeah, so say people who have the money to ride out the bad publicity,’ I said. ‘No, it would have to be something unrelated to anything that’s on the air. I’m figuring it would essentially be the semis and the finals of the competition as it’s staged now, with the six finalists preparing three different drinks.’
‘KiloCup, MegaCup and GigaCup?’ Sarah made the quick left on to Civic and another hard left into our parking lot, tires squealing.
Kilo, Mega, Giga. HotWired’s ‘byte-sized’ drinks. I righted myself and rolled my eyes. ‘Again, very funny. Nicotine deprivation becomes you.’
A withering glance from Sarah.
I got out of the car. ‘The three drinks I’m talking about are an espresso, a cappuccino and a signature drink – one that’s theirs and theirs alone. The contestants make four of every kind, one for each of the sensory judges, who judge them on everything from the color of the espresso, to the consistency of the foam, to the china used to present the drink.’
‘Sounds fascinating, but we’re talking television here,’ Sarah said, still sitting in the driver’s seat. ‘Do people get hysterical when they’re eliminated? Maybe throw cups?’
I had closed my door, so I was forced to walk around to the other side of the car to continue the conversation. I thought as I walked. Sarah had a point.
‘Maybe some backbiting,’ I admitted when I got there. ‘But it normally wouldn’t escalate into violence. On the other hand, there is a lot of stress, not to mention hot water, steam, breakable objects. With the proper editing―’
‘Back to the name,’ Sarah interrupted. ‘You know what you should call this?’
‘Maybe “Uncommon Barista”?’ I ventured. ‘Then the show would have a natural tie-in to Uncommon Grounds.’
Which was the one problem with my idea, of course. How did I maintain control of something – the barista competition – of which I had no ownership? The telecast was my idea, of course, but could you copyright . . .?
‘No, no, no.’ Sarah was shaking her head. ‘You, with all your movies, I can’t believe you didn’t think of this.’
‘Of what?’ I was getting impatient. I wanted to go in and call Mark. Maybe move on to Step Two or Three, whatever they might be.
But Sarah wasn’t ready to give yet. ‘So when people are eliminated they have to leave, right? Some host, maybe you, gives them the boot?’
Maybe me. It wasn’t a bad idea. I’d done TV before, after all. It was a few years back, but . . .
‘Right?’ Apparently I hadn’t answered fast enough for Sarah.
‘Right,’ I agreed. ‘Soooo?’
‘Soooo –’ Sarah revved the motor of the Firebird – ‘when they lose it’s. . . “Hasta Barista, Baby!”.’
And with a wave of her hand and the screech of her tires, Sarah was gone, leaving me in a haze of burning rubber.
It was only when I stepped into the store that I realized I’d forgotten to talk to Amy.
Chapter Six
‘Well? Did you talk to Amy?’ Caron demanded, wiping her hands on her apron.
She’d just finished cleaning the espresso machine, despite the fact we didn’t close for another half hour.
Ignoring her, I pulled out my cellphone and punched in Mark’s number. Funny how I could remember a phone number I hadn’t dialed for a year, but still couldn’t . . .
‘What did you say? What did she say?’ Caron was asking eagerly.
I held up my hand as the outgoing voicemail message on the other end of the phone ended. ‘Hey, Mark,’ I said after the beep. Then I realized the voice on the recording had been neither Mark nor his secretary, Jamie. I didn’t have time to leave a message on an old number.
‘Never mind,’ I said into the phone. I pressed ‘O’ in hopes of connecting with a human being. It worked.
‘Hello,’ I said to aforementioned human being. ‘Could you connect me with Mark Strachota?’
‘Your name, please?’ the woman asked.
I told her.
‘Could you spell that?’
I did.
‘And how may I help you?’
I told her.
‘Mark who?’ she asked.
‘Mark Strachota.’ I was trying to be patient. After all, I could be talking to a computer chip.
‘Could you spell that?’
‘S . . . t . . . r . . .’ I continued with each letter, rolling my eyes at Caron.
‘Did you dial the right number?’ Caron asked in a stage whisper.
I nodded.
‘And you pronounce that, how?’ the woman was asking.
‘Station manager,’ I said flatly. OK, so I was losing it.
‘Could you hold?’ she asked. I was listening to canned music before I could respond.
‘They’re transferring me,’ I said to Caron hopefully. I’m a cup-half-full kind of person. ‘Now what were you saying?’
‘So what did you tell Amy?’ Caron asked eagerly. ‘Did you tell her we’ll top her salary at HotWired? Promise her we’ll go all-green?’
‘What? You didn’t want me to offer her my first-born?’ Barry Manilow was singing ‘Copacabana’ in my ear.
‘Eric and Amy are about the same age,’ Caron said, now attacking the smoothie machine. ‘Just think: grandchildren with Eric’s brains and Amy’s piercings.’
‘I thought you were a fan of Amy’s piercings.’
‘Copacabana’ morphed into a dial-tone. I flipped the phone closed. ‘And stop cleaning that damn machine,’ I said irritably, ‘or we’ll have the entire seventh grade of Brookhills Middle School in here ordering smoothies at two minutes to six.’
‘Cleaning the machines doesn’t bring in customers any more than washing your car makes it rain.’ She looked up from where she was swishing the blender container in hot soapy water. ‘And have you washed that filthy van of yours lately?’
I shrugged. ‘Why tempt the rain gods?’ My old Dodge Caravan – remnant of my past life – wouldn’t be much improved by a carwash anyway. A car-crusher, maybe.
‘So by your way of thinking, if you keep this up we’re in for a drought.’
‘Drought?’ a voice said. ‘Oh, is that what you call it when your customers desert you?’
Ahh, Kate McNamara. Turner of the pithy, yet nonsensical, phrase.
Caron – a former copywriter – rolled her eyes and ducked into the office, leaving me to deal with the newswoman. ‘Can I get you something, Kate, or are you just here to torture the English language?’
Kate gave me a withering look. ‘I thought I’d bring you a rate sheet. You might be wise to consider some advertising of your own.’
When I didn’t reach to take the paper she was brandishing, she added, ‘You know, I’m not the enemy here.’
She might have a point. But more importantly, she had a use.
‘Listen,’ I said. ‘I was just trying to call Mark Strachota over at TVR.’
Kate had worked at the station as a producer before she decided that it was ink that ran through her veins, not sound bites. Or maybe they just dumped the witch.
‘Mark? He took over their sister station in San Diego almost a year ago. It was a fabulous move for him – wherever have you been?’
Up to my ears in coffee beans, obviously. ‘Who’s taken over? Anyone I’d know?’
‘I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting him yet, but I hear he’s a very bright guy out of Syracuse.’ Kate said. She was sucking up to the guy, even in absentia. ‘Why?’
Syracuse wouldn’t help me. ‘Nothing, really. I―’
‘You want to televise the barista competition,’ she said slowly. ‘I heard you’re running it.’
Sounded like everyone had known about it except me. I held up my hands. ‘Hey, I never said―’
‘You didn’t have to.’ Kate was already digging through her purse for a pen. ‘I know how you PR types think. Mark Strachota couldn’t have done anything for you anyway, except perhaps get you some news coverage. Network affiliates can’t turn on a dime like that. Now cable, though . . .’ She’d found the pen and was tapping it rapid-fire on the rate sheet.