Portland Noir - Kevin Sampsell [52]
I’m curious about Ella Leggett, but I decide to start with the Red and Black. It will probably turn out to be a dead-end; too easy, really, to blame the anarchists. But the sight of the glowering, dreadlocked fellow behind the counter, arms folded across his chest, suggests maybe I shouldn’t be so hasty.
“You must be George.” His stature matches my ninja, but I see no evidence of a hoodie.
“And you must be that asswipe who’s working for Star-bucks.”
Hamilton’s decision to can me is starting to look pretty good, considering how effective my attempt at a covert operation had been. I step up to the long, wooden counter. The wall behind looks like it belongs in a tavern, though on closer inspection the lined-up bottles turn out to be a variety of flavored syrups and cane sugar soft drinks. Booths run along the opposite wall. The place is half-full, the customers a mix of young hipsters and older tweedie types. Talking politics, I presume.
I want my usual—coffee, black—but I decide to test George and order a grande latte. “We call it a medium here.” I hand him a five, leave the coins behind when he slaps my change on the countertop.
“What’s your beef with Starbucks anyway?” My tone is chatty. “Besides the jargon, I mean.”
He turns his attention to my latte, disinterested in enlightening an asswipe. He fills and tamps the portofilter, pulls the shot with his hand on a knob. He moves with fluid confidence, no wasted motion. The espresso dribbling into the shot glass is the color of warm caramel.
He notices me watching him. “You know what we got here?”
“Cockroaches?”
“Ambience.”
I look around. Red stars on the wall, monochrome photos of Latin American men and women picking coffee beans. Ra-diohead posters, Che Guevara. The music is a hip-hop remix of a Ramones song.
“And you know what else?”
There’s no need for me to answer. He’s given this speech before.
“Free WiFi.”
I stare, bemused.
“At Starbucks, you have to sign up first, use one of their cards. They want your secrets before they let you surf.”
“Okay.”
“You don’t get it.”
“Maybe if I had a laptop.” Or secrets.
“Couple of times a week, I’ll see a guy sitting at one the picnic tables outside.” George steams milk as he declaims, rotating the frothing pitcher and checking the temp with the back of his hand. “On his comp, surfing the web. Drinking from a Starbucks cup.” He shakes his head as he adds milk to the espresso in a ceramic cup.
“I can see where that would piss you off.”
“Hell yeah, it pisses me off.” He presents the latte with a flourish, a work of art, the surface foam an artful swirl resembling butterfly wings. “Try it.”
I take a sip. It’s like drinking silk, as good as any latte Ruby Jane ever served me. Not that I’ll tell her that. “It’s excellent.”
“Exactly. That’s because I give a damn. Nothing’s automated here, none of that homogenous chic interior design. This is an authentic café run by actual people with genuine pride in our work. We don’t charge for our WiFi, but is it too much to ask that you at least buy your coffee from us when you sit down to use it?”
“You can’t possibly believe that Starbucks is sending them down here.”
“They’re part of a larger problem.”
“So you respond by busting out their windows.”
That earns me a derisive snort. “I’d just be doing what they want.”
“You think Starbucks wants you to break their windows?”
“They want the Red and Black to fail. Cast us as villains, turn the neighborhood against us. We don’t have a corporate behemoth propping us up during slow times. One bad month, and we could lose it all. They’re counting on that.”
I’m dubious. I remember what Ruby Jane said about the chains, how they cater to a different customer base. I doubt anyone at Starbucks loses any sleep over the Red and Black. They’ve probably got their hands full with McDonald’s. But that doesn’t mean there aren’t others who might benefit from R&B closing. The landlord, for instance,