Page 21 of Loverboy
“Dude. There’s got to be another way. How about I take up a position on the roof across the street—”
Max cuts me off with a slice of his hand through the air. Then he points at a guy wearing a plaid shirt and a beanie. The man is standing with his hands in a prayer position, and his eyes are closed. “Meet your trainer. He just flew in from Portland.”
“Portland…Maine?”
“Portland, Oregon,” Max corrects. “Hipster capital of the world. Rico won the 2018 Barista World Championship. Rico, your trainee is here.”
The man opens his eyes. “Moment. I’m meditating.” His eyes flutter closed, but he speaks anyway. “Coffee is a life force. I’m tapping into the soul of my dark master.”
“Oh brother.” I hope Max isn’t paying this guy too much.
“We’re on a deadline, my man,” Max says. “You’ve got twelve hours to turn this guy into a world class barista.”
His eyes fly open again and he drops his hands. “I’m just fucking with you. People have weird ideas about Portland.” He lifts a hand to the beanie and whips it off, revealing a buzz cut tight enough for the Marine Corps. “Okay. Let’s pull some motherfucking shots.”
“You’ll do nicely,” Max says. “Rico, this is Gunnar. He’s smart, and he’s good with his hands. He can build an explosive device out of household cleaners and ten dollars’ worth of hardware store items. He can hack into your phone, your car, and your bank accounts. But none of that matters now. Only the coffee. It’s life or death.”
“That’s laying it on a little thick,” I grumble.
“Coffeeislife or death,” Rico says. “So get over here and let me see you pull your first shot.”
“One moment.” I drag Max aside, whether he likes it or not. “How much is this costing us?”
Max shrugs. “Just a charter flight, the machine rental, a hotel room, and his fee for one day. It could be worse.”
That’s easily fifteen grand. The flight alone could be ten. “You mustreallywant to get to the bottom of this mystery that nobody has asked you to solve.”
“So what if I do?” He crosses his arms. “Your annual profit-sharing bonus is not in any danger, Gunn. It’s not like you to give me a hard time about this. This Posy chick must be a real ball-buster. Who knew Gunnar was afraid of a pastry chef?”
I growl, because Posy has got nothing to do with it.
Okay, she has a little to do with it. But still. “Max, this is borderline psycho. This hacker you’re chasing might not lead you where you think he will. Meanwhile, we have paying clients we could be servicing.”
“My gut says the murders are part of something big,” he says quietly. “And if I’m right, many of our clients are in danger. As is the entire information economy.”
This shuts me up for a moment, because security work has its own breed of logic. It’s the only job in which you hope thateverythingyou do is unnecessary.
Although it often isn’t, because the world is a scary place. And hunches are not to be ignored. Especially Max’s.
“Fine,” I grunt, shooting a glance toward the drill sergeant who’s going to teach me to be a barista. “But my next assignment better be something where I get to hack into something or shoot at something.”
Max snorts. “You’re looking at this the wrong way, Gunn. Think of the look on Posy’s face tomorrow when you walk in there and make cup after cup of award-worthy espresso. When she realizes she won’t have the satisfaction of firing you.”
“Hmm,” I say, because the idea does have a certain amount of appeal. “Okay. But you still owe me.”
“I know it.” He gives me a little push toward the coffee machine.
“Let’s go, recruit!” the trainer says, rubbing his hands together. “Jump right in and make your first shot.”
“Sure,” I say, holding in a sigh, rounding the bar to flip the switch on the grinder. I count to three Mississippis and turn it off, just like Posy does. Then I measure out the first shot of coffee grounds and carry on.
It’s all going fine until I’m about to put the tamped-down shot into Lola’s twin.
“Whoa, recruit!” Rico barks. “Dude. Always clean off the edge of the portafilter before you load that shot. No excuses. You’re not respecting your beans!”
“Huh? Clean thewhat?”
“Port. A. Filter,” he enunciates. “That wand in your hand has a name. Don’t you have an espresso machine at home? Don’t tell me you drink coffee frompods.” He shudders.
