Portland Noir - Kevin Sampsell [51]
“That won’t be necessary, Mister Kadash. Just invoice me for three nights.”
I’ve never written an invoice. “I was just thinking—”
He hangs up without saying goodbye.
You’d think I’d know what I’m doing. Maybe I should take a class, learn how to do the job right if I’m going to pretend I’m some kind of private investigator. But that wasn’t in the plan when I retired. The plan was to hang out at Uncommon Cup, my friend Ruby Jane’s café, and drink coffee. The only reason I originally agreed to the stakeout was because of her. RJ has been trying to get me involved in freelance investigation since I retired, but it took a coffee case and a fat paycheck to get my attention. Turns out she knows a guy who knows a girl who sleeps with the manager of the Seven Points Star-bucks. Apparently my name came up at some java maven’s secret society meeting. Next thing I know, I’m salivating over how much insurance money five nights sitting on my ass is worth.
I figure the least I can do is let RJ know how it worked out.
I catch her at her Hawthorne location, a few blocks east of the Bagdad. The place is three-quarters full and hopping when I arrive, the air thick with chatter and the smell of coffee. Customers cluster around tables or hunker down in the soft, well-worn couches against the walls. I order a black coffee and grab a table to wait until Ruby Jane can take a break.
When she finally joins me, her eyes are bright. She doesn’t blink as she examines my own sunken orbs. Her chestnut hair is shiny and full, a round cap that seems suffused with its own light. “Rough night?”
“I look that good?”
“I’ve seen prettier road kill.”
I don’t argue. I give her a rundown of my evening: the ninja, the jacket, the stolen camera. When I get to the Night Light and the woman at the table, Ruby Jane interrupts me.
“Wait. Orange hair, mammalian, acts like she owns the joint?”
“Yeah, that’s her. Who is she?”
RJ is quiet for a moment, thoughtful. “Well, in point of fact … the competition. Her name is Ella Leggett.”
“Oh?”
“She’s got a shop at the other end of Hawthorne. Not direct competition, I guess—there’s no foot-traffic overlap. But, you know, another shop owner.” She purses her lips. “What did she say to you?”
“Not much. She turned me on to some anarchists.”
“Red and Black.”
I’m not surprised she knows about them, or about Ella Leggett. Ruby Jane makes it her business to stay informed about the coffee crowd in Portland.
“She thinks they’re responsible for the windows at Star-bucks.”
“She might be right.”
“Seriously?”
Ruby Jane shrugs. “It’s no secret George Bingham, the lead partner there, has been pissed ever since that Starbucks opened. He thinks it’s cutting into his business.”
“What do you think?”
“Well, the chains mostly appeal to a different kind of customer than indies do.” She tilts her head. “Maybe I’d spin a different tale if one opened across the street, but I think they mainstream the idea of quality coffee. That helps all of us.”
I recall Ella Leggett’s phrase. “Corporate coffee as a gateway drug.”
She grins. “Something like that.”
“But the anarchists don’t see it that way.”
“I’m not sure George qualifies as an anarchist. He and his team are just small-timers like me trying to make it work.”
“Still, you think they might take out their frustrations on Starbucks?”
“Maybe. Or maybe they’re just working to stay afloat. It’s something of an open secret the building owner wants them out so he can redevelop the whole block, add upper-story condos and high-end retail on street level. When you’re working your ass off just to make rent, there may not be a lot left over for extracurricular vandalism.”
“Chucking bricks wouldn’t take a big bite out of someone’s free time.”
“You’re the cop.”
“Ex-cop. Ex-investigator too.” I tell her about Hamilton letting me go. “I should have taken that kidnapped dog with the MySpace page you told me about instead.”
“What are you going to do?”
Ruby Jane once described me as having the