Page 9 of To Catch a Latte Thick as Thieves

An old song about a widow who would only marry guys named Henry continued to play.

Fisher slapped the button again. The song kept playing. Fisher opened one eye and glanced at his alarm clock. The red digits glowed five-thirty. He’d set his alarm for seven. The singing started again and he groaned.

He forced both of his eyes open and then it hit him. The smell of cinnamon filled his nostrils like salt on a sea breeze. He glanced at his unfamiliar surroundings. Oh yeah, he was living above The Coffee Break. That explained the cinnamon but not the singing.

He pushed his covers aside and pulled on a pair of jeans. Harpy had started to squawk in accompaniment to whoever was belting out the tune in the alley. There was no way he would be getting any more sleep this morning. He took his key and wandered out into the hallway.

The singing grew louder toward the back of the house so he let himself out the back door and onto the deck at the top of the stairs. The rich baritone was deafening now. Fisher glanced over the rail and saw an older man, who looked to be in his fifties, standing outside the kitchen door.

Just as he started the third verse, the back door flew open and out marched Annie. Although she was fully dressed, her red hair stuck out in all directions as if she hadn’t had time to comb it. In her hands, she held a plate with three huge muffins and a glass of milk.

“Here you go, Henry,” she said. “You can stop singing now.”

Henry took the plate and glass of milk and gave her a broad grin. “I was only on the third verse.”

“I have a new tenant. I hope you didn’t wake him,” she said.

“Early bird catches the worm,” Henry declared.

“Yeah, well, I need the rent so let’s hope the early bird is a deep sleeper,” she said with a worried glance up. Just then, she caught sight of Fisher leaning over the rail. “Oh, good morning.”

“Tweet, tweet,” he said. “This early bird is not a deep sleeper.”

“Oh.” She winced and twisted her fingers together. “I’m so sorry. This is Henry.”

As if that explained anything, he thought with a shake of his head.

“Henry, this is Fisher,” she said.

Henry didn’t even glance up. Instead he took his muffins to the picnic table at the side of the house and sat down to enjoy his breakfast in peace. Fisher tried to ignore the irony.

Annie sighed and tripped up the stairs to his side. Even on the dark side of dawn, she moved with a speed that made him woozy.

“Henry?” he asked.

“I don’t know if that’s his real name,” she said. “That’s just what I call him, because of the song.”

“The song?”

“You must have heard it.” She began to sing the same song Fisher never wanted to hear again.

“I heard it,” he interrupted. “But how does that explain him?”

“Well, a few months after I opened The Coffee Break, Henry just showed up. I kept finding him picking through our garbage every morning and he was always singing that song. I told him not to...go through the trash that is. I mean it’s just not sanitary, but he said we had the best dumpster in town.”

“And?” he prompted her.

“And he kept raiding the dumpster, so I gave up. I told him to knock on the backdoor and I would bring him some fresh muffins. Well, Henry never got the knack of knocking.”

“So he sings for his breakfast?”

“Yeah. I’m so sorry he woke you up,” she said. “I’ll make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

“How will you do that?”

“I’ll just get up earlier and make sure I meet Henry at the door.”

Fisher glanced over the rail at the man seated below them devouring his breakfast. His skin was leathery from years on the streets, his clothes were ragged and his hair was uncombed and filthy. Breakfast from Annie every day was probably the one certainty in his life.

---