Roast Mortem (21 page)

“I'll be right back,” James said with another unhappy glance at his captain, who was still silently standing and staring.

When James was gone, I stuffed the thermometer into my pack and crossed the room. “I want to talk to you,” I quietly told the man. “I need to ask you some questions and I want honest answers.”

“About my love life?”

“No.” I gritted my teeth. “Not about your love life. I don't care about your stupid love life.”

He raised a skeptical eyebrow.

What was that? A Quinn family trait?
“Okay,
maybe
I'll ask some questions about your love life, but it's not why you
think
I'm asking—”

“You're a terrible liar, darlin'.”

“Me! You're the one who said you wouldn't be here!”

The captain smirked. “Now why would I have said a thing like that? This is my firehouse, isn't it?”

I was about to reply (with a string of less-than-ladylike verbiage) when the blare of a truck horn made me jump. A second later I heard rumbling engines, so powerful they reverberated the floor along with the hanging pots and pans.

Captain Michael looked down at me. “Looks like your burnin' questions will have to wait.” He unfolded his thickly muscled arms. “My boys are back and you've got some teachin' to do.”

 

 

A
few minutes later, a masculine monsoon swept into the kitchen. For an unnerving second I feared I'd have to teach almost twenty outsized men the art of espresso making—an undertaking I feared would take all night. But after wolfing down plates of James's dinner, the horde vanished into a nearby community room. The entire evening meal took seventeen minutes flat.

Only eight firemen remained in the kitchen, counting James Noonan and his friend Bigsby Brewer (and not counting the unnamed probie who was put to work cleaning the dishes and pans).

While Captain Michael continued his silent watching from the sidelines, the eight arranged folding chairs in a semicircle around the espresso machine.

“So this is everyone?” I asked James.

He nodded. “Yeah, from every shift, too. Some of the guys came in just to learn how to use the Gaggia.”

“Great,” I said. And I meant it. If these were the core espresso drinkers of this firehouse, they were the most likely to have frequented Caffè Lucia and had continual contact with Enzo's daughter. Scanning the faces, I recognized Oat Crowley and Ronny Shaw. The final three I'd never met. Well, now was the time . . .

“My name is Clare Cosi and—”

A hand shot up. I recognized the lined face under the gray flattop as one of the men in the photos with Lucia.

“No offense, Miss, but I don't know why I'm here. I can't stand coffee. It smells real nice, but most of the time it tastes like brown water.”

The speaker leaned back and folded his arms. The kitchen was so quiet I could hear the metal folding chair creak under his weight. Suddenly the group laughed, and I realized I'd missed out on a private joke.

“Dino's just yanking your chain, Ms. Cosi,” James informed me from the front row. “Elfante lives on coffee. Like ten or twelve cups a shift.”

“Yeah,” said Bigs. “We make him kick in extra for beans, the weasel drinks so much—”

“
And
it tastes like brown water. Around here, anyways,” Dino insisted, and then he continued to rant about their typical firehouse brew until Ronny Shaw beaned him with a balled-up paper napkin.

“Let the lady talk!”

The last time I saw Shaw, he was lying on a stretcher in the ER, Oat Crowley hovering near. Both had eavesdropped on my conversation with Madame, and I still wondered why they seemed so interested. When he raised his left hand to throw the paper ball, I noticed it lacked a wedding band. Then it occurred to me that getting injured in a fire you started yourself is a good way to deflect attention away from your guilt.

“Thank you,” I told Ronny. “But Mr. Elfante actually makes a good point—”

“Call me Dino, honey . . .”

“The delicate flavor oils in the bean are volatile,” I said, ignoring Dino's wink. “The reason is because if they're released too soon during the brewing process, they go up in steam and you experience them through your nose instead of your palate.”

“Told ya,” Dino cracked smugly—and got beaned again.

“The purpose of an espresso is to extract the essence of those oils in such a way that the flavor goes into the cup. A perfectly pulled espresso should taste as good as great coffee smells.”

As I walked the men through the anatomy of the Gaggia machine, the heads, the control functions, the proper readings for the temperature and pressure, I got to know them a little better.

“Pressure and heat. Like brewing illegal hooch, eh, ma'am?”

This was Ed Schott, the senior member of our class. A pink-skinned man with a bald pate, pug nose, jutting chin, and perpetually clenched fists, he spoke in short, staccato bursts, like a military drill instructor (which he may very well have been, given the Marine Corps' eagle and fouled anchor was tattooed on his meaty forearm).

“Let's move on to the coffee itself. A good espresso starts with a good bean, so—”

“You mean espresso bean, right, ma'am?” said Ronny Shaw. “I've seen them in the grocery store. Is that what we should use?”

“There's no such thing as an espresso
bean
,” I explained. “What you saw was an espresso
roast
. Any type of good Arabica bean that's roasted dark can be called an espresso roast.”

“What about caffeine, Ms. Cosi?” Bigs said. I noticed he got up to stand beside his chair like a kid in Catholic school called on by his teacher. “Will I get a bigger jolt from espresso than, say, a regular cup of joe?”

“What's the matter, Brewer? Worried you won't be
up
for that hot date after your mutual?” Dino Elfante asked.

Bigsie's smile was lopsided. “It's just that I need a lot of energy. Pep, you know. My lady friends expect it. I got a reputation to uphold.”

Bigsby Brewer seemed so guileless it was difficult to see him as a cold-blooded fire bomber. But I had to consider that one of his many “lady friends” could be Lucia Testa. Sweet as he was, Bigs would be an easy mark to manipulate, especially if someone convinced him the fire would end up helping Enzo instead of hurting him.

Alberto Ortiz spoke up just then—I recognized him as Mr. “Puerto Rican Pride” in the Lucia photo.

“If you need pep, Big Boy, try a Red Bull. Or maybe that little blue pill if the situation is code red. But, dude, if you're having
real
trouble with one of those Manhattan fillies, just send her over to me—”

A silver cross hung from Ortiz's neck, and a thin gold band circled his ring finger, but outward symbols aside, Ortiz seemed as randy as the rest of this pack.

“Mr. Ortiz is right,” I cut in. “About gulping espressos, I mean. It's not a very efficient way to perk up.”

Bigs frowned. “But I thought espressos
had
caffeine.”

“Of course there's caffeine in an espresso. But espresso's high-pressure, high-heat extraction process removes more caffeine than regular drip brewing.”

“In other words,” James said, “if you want a jolt, stick to drip,
drip
.”

Bigs poked his friends so hard James tumbled from his folding chair. “Ahhhh!”

“Snots don't know how to behave,” muttered Ed Schott.

When things settled down again, I demonstrated the best way to grind the beans for espresso. “If you grind too finely, friction and oxidation from the grinder will ruin your dream of a perfect cup. Grind too coarsely and some of the flavor stays in the portafilter.”

I ground enough beans for a few shots and dosed a single into the basket. Then I showed them how to even out the grinds before tamping.

“Grip the portafilter handle with one hand. Using the other, gently sweep the excess grinds away with the edge of your finger. By moving forward, then back, you're evenly distributing the grinds in the basket while you level them. Now it's time to pack.”

I rummaged through my bag and produced the brand-new scale from my duplex closet. (Unfortunately, it was pastel blue with pink sea horses—Joy had picked it out a few years ago, and I'd never taken it out of its plastic until now.)

“We don't have to weigh in to make coffee, do we?” Bigs asked.

“I'm not gettin' on that girly scale,” Dino said, pointing at the pink seahorses. “It'll make me look fat.”

The man laughed.

“What we're going to measure is the amount of pressure applied as we pack coffee into a portafilter. This is the most important step in the espresso pulling process, and the one you're all going to have the most difficulty mastering—”

“Why is that?” asked James.

“The grinds in this filter basket have to be perfectly packed and level when the hot pressurized water streams from the spout, or you're facing disaster.”

“Because?”

“Because like all things under pressure, water can turn insidious . . .”

I heard someone shifting uneasily in his chair at that. I looked up to see who, but all the men appeared settled again, gazes expectant.

I cleared my throat. “It's the barista's job to create an even, consistent resistance to that streaming force. If there's even one tiny crack or irregularity in your pack, the pressurized water will find that weakness and exploit it, gush right through, missing the rest of the grinds and completely ruining any chance you had at success.”

I handed the tamper to Al Ortiz and placed the full portafilter in the center of my bathroom scale. “I want you to press straight down on the coffee with that, giving the tamper a twist at the end to dislodge any coffee grinds that are sticking to the metal.”

“Sure.” Ortiz raised his shoulder.

“One more thing,” I said. “Watch the scale as you press down, I want you to use about forty pounds of pressure.”

“Okay,” he said, a little less sure of himself.

It took Ortiz several tries before he got the pressure right, and even his final result was anything but level.

“My turn,” Bigs declared. Avoiding the scale, he set the portafilter down on the edge of the espresso cabinet. Gripping the tamper, he pressed until the veins bulged on his sculpted arms.

A tremendous crack boomed as the edge of the particle-board surface broke away. Following a moment of stunned silence, the room exploded with laughter. Even Oat and the captain looked amused.

“Ya stupid mook!” James cried. “Oat just built that!”

Bigsie's cheeks blushed redder than an Anjou pear. “Guess I don't know my own strength.”

Ed Schott rubbed his chin. “Maybe you better warn your dates, Hercules.”

“My girls work in Manhattan office buildings,” Bigs replied with a cocky grin. “Believe me, after ten hours with smooth dudes in penny loafers, most of them are downright desperate for a guy who'll pop their buttons—”

“O-kay,” I cut in. “Mr. Brewer, let's give it another try—and this time use the scale.”

“Sure, Ms. Cosi, but where's your tampie thing?” Bigs asked.

“It flew off somewhere,” Ortiz said.

“Can somebody look for it?” I asked.

“Why don't we improvise?” Bigs suggested. “We can use my roof spike. It's got a flat head like your tampie.”

“Tamp
er
, and I don't think your tool—”

But Bigs was already rushing off, retrieving a foot-long piece of stainless steel. “See, Ms. Cosi,” he proudly announced upon returning. “This is my roof spike . . .”

I stared at the thing. “Okay, I'll give. What's a roof spike?”

“When we vent the fire, you know, like you saw us do at the caffè the other night?”

I nodded. “You go up to the roof and saw holes in it?”

“Right, well, in case of an emergency, we all carry PSS—personal safety systems. It's a rope with an anchor hook.”

“We didn't always carry them.” The voice was Oat Crowley's. It was the first time he'd spoken.

I glanced at the man. “Why not?”

“Ask the damn brass,” he said. “Back in '05 two good men died because they weren't carrying ropes.”

“Well,
now
we carry them,” James pointed out.

“And we got these roof spikes, too,” Bigsie said. “They're new. We trained on them for two months, but none of us have actually used them in a fire yet.”

“Yeah, Big Boy, and you can thank your lucky stars about that,” Dino said.

I frowned. “What's it for, exactly?”

“If you're on the roof, venting the fire, and you can't get off again by the fire escape or the building stairs, then you need to attach your escape rope to something to rappel down. But if you end up trapped and there's nothing around to hook onto, then you use the roof spike. Here, Ms. Cosi . . .” Like a student eager to impress his teacher, he grinned with pride. “You want to hold it?”

“Uh . . .”

“It's okay, honey,” Dino said. “You don't have to be afraid of handling Bigsie's spike. I hear the ladies all enjoy the experience.”

Oh, brother.
I took the thing—at the very least to prevent more ribbing. It was heavy in the hand, like an espresso tamper, with a flat head (also like a tamper). Its girth was also the perfect thickness to hold comfortably. But that's where the similarity ended. The spike was a foot long and, well, a
spike
, just as the name suggested.