Roast Mortem Read Online Free PDF Page A

mouthed to Madame.
    â€œShe’s trying to fix you up?” Madame asked, obviously curious.
    â€œI take her to dinner a few times. Nothing special. A movie once or twice. Now the woman stalks me at my game every Thursday, and how she talks my ear off! Madonna mia! ”
    Madame sent me an amused look.
    â€œKnows all the gossip in the neighborhood, that one! And she’s always complaining—the daughter-in-law, the store clerk, the upstairs neighbor, eh! Enough already! I told her last week, as clear as I could, that my business was taking too much of my time so she should leave me alone .”
    Enzo crossed the room with a small tray, set the espressos in front of us. “I don’t want to hear complaining tonight.” He lifted his demitasse and made a toast. “Tonight I am visiting with my ravishing Blanche and her Clare . . .”
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    TWO hours later, Enzo and Madame were reliving their past via an illustrated narrative of old photo albums. They’d continued toasting, too, only now they’d moved on to grappa.
    â€œIt’s so quiet down here,” Madame declared (because we’d also moved on to the caffè’s basement). She proffered her drained glass for a refill.
    â€œI’ll put on some records,” Enzo said. “Good stuff, too. Not that crap kids listen to today.”
    He rose, a little wobbly, and crossed to an ancient machine with an actual diamond needle. I checked my watch. Being the designated driver, I’d declined the Italian brandy—no big sacrifice since I was still drying out from last night’s green beer—and I was beginning to wonder when this visit was going to end.
    As Madame and Enzo fox-trotted around stacks of clutter, I felt my jeans vibrating. Assuming a certain NYPD detective was the reason once more, I dug into my pocket with relish. (Watching these two old friends reflame their affections had me aching for my own man.) But it wasn’t Mike on the line. The cell call came from Dante Silva, one of my baristas.
    â€œHey, boss. Did you get it? The Blend’s old roaster?”
    In fact, the vintage German Probat was standing right in front of me. It was about the girth of a small washing machine (only taller) and tarnished with age and neglect—nothing I couldn’t remedy with a lot of polish and elbow grease. (Seeing Glenn’s restoration job was sufficiently inspiring.)
    Of course, I wasn’t enough of a mechanic to get the thing up and running again, but that was never my intention. I wanted the antique for display purposes.
    â€œHow did you know about the Probat?” I asked Dante, raising my voice over Tony Bennett’s dulcet crooning. “You didn’t have a shift today.”
    â€œI called in to check my schedule and Tuck told me about it. And since I was here in Queens anyway, I thought I’d snap a few pics.”
    â€œYou’re in Queens now? Where?”
    â€œHere. On the sidewalk out in front of Caffè Lucia,” he said. “Unless I’m at the wrong Caffè Lucia. The lights are off and the place looks closed.”
    â€œWe’re in the basement. I’ll be right up to let you in.”
    Topside, I spotted Dante’s form hovering near the picture window, his trendy chin stubble a textural contrast to the clean geometry of his shaved head. A distressed leather jacket covered the self-designed tattoos on his ropy arms, and around his neck hung a digital camera, which he used for artistic studies, capturing the play of light on urban images from dawn till dusk.
    He waved at me as I emerged from the back of the shop. The door’s old lock was gluey as Marshmallow Fluff, but I managed to throw the bolt. Then my young, talented barista breezed in, full of beer and good cheer.
    â€œIs that knockwurst on your breath?”
    â€œAnd sauerkraut. But mostly hops, boss. Lots of hops.”
    â€œWhere were you, anyway?”
    Dante grinned,