Holiday Grind by Cleo Coyle

it.”

NINE

    “WHAT are you wearing?” Esther whispered fifteen min utes later.
    “For what we’re about to do, I needed something black and grungy.”
    “Well, boss,” she said, making a theatrical show of looking me up and down, “you scored.”
    In the apartment upstairs, I’d shed my pressed slacks and sweater, replacing them with scuffed black denims, a navy turtleneck, a faded Best Mom in the World sweatshirt, and worn hiking boots leftover from my snow-shoveling days in Jersey. I’d draped a dark hoodie over it all and weighed down its deep pockets with a few devices I thought I might find useful on the little outing on which I was about to embark.
    “What about me?” Esther asked, gesturing to her ensemble. “Don’t I need to change, too?”
    From her rectangular glasses to her steel-toed shoes, Esther was usually dressed for skulking around in the dark. Tonight was no exception: shiny dark pants (leather, pleather, vinyl?) topped with knee-high boots. I paused for a moment, considering the Renaissance level of cleavage bulging out of her sweater’s plunging neckline—a garment layered over what looked like a deep purple lace-up bustier. (Since she’d started dating BB Gunn, aka Russian rapper Boris Bokunin, elements of Esther’s wardrobe had taken a decidedly racy turn.) Then again, her Doctor Who scarf was the length of a football field and her ankle-length black duster would certainly provide enough warmth.
    “You’re fine,” I told her.
    Unfortunately, our route to tonight’s snoop wasn’t.
    Dante Silva had begun bussing empty tables near the front door. When he saw my street duds, he laughed—loudly—and moved to stand right in front of us.
    “ Carumba , boss! Heading out for a rumble?” With one hand he brushed his shaved head in what I took to be a gang sign. “Did you join the Crips or the Bloods?”
    “The Latin Kings,” Esther replied flatly. “Her café con leche won them over.”
    Dante folded his tattooed arms and regarded us. “No kidding, you two, where are you cruisin’ together?”
    “Out,” I replied, grabbing Esther’s arm and hustling her around the overly curious painter.
    So far, so good , I thought, until someone else noticed me.
    “Sister Clare! Is that you?!” The voice was male, the Jamaican lilt all too familiar.
    I looked across the room, surprised to see Dexter Beatty sitting with Matt. When did he get here?
    “Come yuh !” Dexter waved me over with a grin. “Come, come!”
    Dex was in his early forties; his Rasta dreadlocks, which he always tied back on the job, were now loose, framing his light-skinned African features like a cocoa-brown mop. As Esther and I approached his café table, he pointed to us and said something to my ex-husband.
    Matt turned in his chair, and his gaze immediately narrowed on my oversized black hoodie. “What are you dressed for?” he demanded.
    “The latest trend,” I said flatly. “ Gangsta chic. I’m surprised Breanne didn’t tell you about it.”
    “Clare, what are you up to?”
    “Not a thing,” I lied. “Java needs Cat Chow. Esther’s coming with.”
    Matt scowled. “You mean you’re not all dressed up to play detective again? Because I’ll tell you right now, Clare, it’s a bad idea. You shouldn’t get involved in—”
    “Don’t be paranoid! I told you where I’m going.” Time to change the subject. I turned to Matt’s friend. “And how are you, Dexter?” I chirped with more perkiness than a caffeinated Brady sister.
    “Good, good,” Dex answered with a nodding grin. “You must come to Brooklyn, Clare, and see my shops all decorated for the holiday.”
    “Yes, of course. You know I love your shops!”
    No forced perkiness there. I really did love them. Like my grandmother’s grocery, which had kept the Italians in her zip code supplied in fresh mozzarella, prosciutto di Parma, salt-packed Sicilian anchovies, and chestnut flour; Dexter’s three Taste of the Caribbean shops kept the