don't know. Around seven hundred?"
"Thanks for the warning. See you later, Tari."
This was starting to get worrisome, John thought as he walked around the shed to the other entrance. Nick could be just about the most stubborn, contrary man in the world when he felt like it, and John wanted some answers—now, before Nick had time to concoct some kind of elaborate, cockamamie story. Obviously, a little psychology was called for, a little buttering-up.
A little coffee-talk.
[Back to Table of Contents]
Chapter 13
* * * *
"Hi there, Unc,” he said, nephew-like and chipper. “God, don't you love the smell of coffee beans?” He inhaled deeply, swelling his chest. “Nothing like it."
Nick, his matted shoulders running with sweat, was using a scoop to poke through the open lid of a large, slowly revolving drum full of beans, one of four identical drums connected to a thrumming furnace a few feet away. “Coffee beans don't have any smell,” he muttered without looking up. “Not till later."
"No?"
"No."
"Must be my imagination, then.” He cleared his throat. “Because they look so good, you know?"
Nick merely glanced at him. “Christ."
So the preliminary reports on Nick's mood were accurate. John watched the older man sift a few more beans, feel them between his fingers, toss them back through the opening, close the lid, and move silently on to the next drum. The only sounds came from the furnace and from the masses of beans, shifting as the drums turned: sshhpp...sshhpp, like surf on a sandy beach.
John made another try. “Roasting, huh?” he asked brightly.
Nick closed the lid on the drum, straightened up, and eyed him levelly. “I'm not roasting, I'm a coffee-grower. Growers don't roast. Roasters roast."
"No?"
"No,"
The count: no balls, two strikes.
"So what are you doing then?"
"I'm drying. I'm pretty busy here, John."
"I thought you only air-dried—the ‘slow, natural Paradise way,'” John said, plucking this happy tidbit from a Caffe Paradiso ad he hadn't known he remembered.
"Paradise beans, yeah,” Nick said grudgingly. “But these are for some of our not-so-picky wholesale customers. That was one of Brian's ideas, you know—putting in a drying furnace for people who didn't want to spend for air-drying. And it's earned us a lot of money. Not everybody gives a damn, you know."
"Oh,” John said.
"Oh,” Nick said. He looked carefully at one of the beans he'd taken from the drum, then bit judiciously into it. “How's it taste?” John asked.
"I'm not tasting it,” Nick snapped and spit it out. “I'm testing the moisture content. For Christ's sake, John."
"Moisture content? Really? So—"
"John,” Nick said, his voice rising, “is there something I can do for you?"
But John, like his uncle, was not over-equipped with patience. “Yeah, there's something you can do for me,” he shouted back. “You can tell me why you've been jerking us around."
"What do you mean, jerking you around? Where do you come off—"
"Nick, we were at the police station this morning—"
"Yeah, I know,” Nick said sourly.
"—and the colonel there told us— You know? How do you know?"
"I know. Things get around. It's a small place."
"Do you know what he told us?"
"Suppose you tell me."
"That you withdrew the exhumation order, that you don't intend to have Brian's body dug up at all, that you're hiding something but he doesn't know what, that you've been giving us a royal runaround."
Strictly speaking, this was quite a bit more than Bertaud had told them, but from Nick's deep sigh it was clear that all or most of it was on the mark. He took off the fireman-red bandanna that had been loosely tied around his neck and mopped his head and throat with it. “Lord, it's hot. Let's go outside."
Near the platform scales at one end of the open shed Nick pulled a couple of liter cartons of papaya-and-pineapple juice out of a cooler and handed one to John. They went to sit at an ancient, splintery
"Thanks for the warning. See you later, Tari."
This was starting to get worrisome, John thought as he walked around the shed to the other entrance. Nick could be just about the most stubborn, contrary man in the world when he felt like it, and John wanted some answers—now, before Nick had time to concoct some kind of elaborate, cockamamie story. Obviously, a little psychology was called for, a little buttering-up.
A little coffee-talk.
[Back to Table of Contents]
Chapter 13
* * * *
"Hi there, Unc,” he said, nephew-like and chipper. “God, don't you love the smell of coffee beans?” He inhaled deeply, swelling his chest. “Nothing like it."
Nick, his matted shoulders running with sweat, was using a scoop to poke through the open lid of a large, slowly revolving drum full of beans, one of four identical drums connected to a thrumming furnace a few feet away. “Coffee beans don't have any smell,” he muttered without looking up. “Not till later."
"No?"
"No."
"Must be my imagination, then.” He cleared his throat. “Because they look so good, you know?"
Nick merely glanced at him. “Christ."
So the preliminary reports on Nick's mood were accurate. John watched the older man sift a few more beans, feel them between his fingers, toss them back through the opening, close the lid, and move silently on to the next drum. The only sounds came from the furnace and from the masses of beans, shifting as the drums turned: sshhpp...sshhpp, like surf on a sandy beach.
John made another try. “Roasting, huh?” he asked brightly.
Nick closed the lid on the drum, straightened up, and eyed him levelly. “I'm not roasting, I'm a coffee-grower. Growers don't roast. Roasters roast."
"No?"
"No,"
The count: no balls, two strikes.
"So what are you doing then?"
"I'm drying. I'm pretty busy here, John."
"I thought you only air-dried—the ‘slow, natural Paradise way,'” John said, plucking this happy tidbit from a Caffe Paradiso ad he hadn't known he remembered.
"Paradise beans, yeah,” Nick said grudgingly. “But these are for some of our not-so-picky wholesale customers. That was one of Brian's ideas, you know—putting in a drying furnace for people who didn't want to spend for air-drying. And it's earned us a lot of money. Not everybody gives a damn, you know."
"Oh,” John said.
"Oh,” Nick said. He looked carefully at one of the beans he'd taken from the drum, then bit judiciously into it. “How's it taste?” John asked.
"I'm not tasting it,” Nick snapped and spit it out. “I'm testing the moisture content. For Christ's sake, John."
"Moisture content? Really? So—"
"John,” Nick said, his voice rising, “is there something I can do for you?"
But John, like his uncle, was not over-equipped with patience. “Yeah, there's something you can do for me,” he shouted back. “You can tell me why you've been jerking us around."
"What do you mean, jerking you around? Where do you come off—"
"Nick, we were at the police station this morning—"
"Yeah, I know,” Nick said sourly.
"—and the colonel there told us— You know? How do you know?"
"I know. Things get around. It's a small place."
"Do you know what he told us?"
"Suppose you tell me."
"That you withdrew the exhumation order, that you don't intend to have Brian's body dug up at all, that you're hiding something but he doesn't know what, that you've been giving us a royal runaround."
Strictly speaking, this was quite a bit more than Bertaud had told them, but from Nick's deep sigh it was clear that all or most of it was on the mark. He took off the fireman-red bandanna that had been loosely tied around his neck and mopped his head and throat with it. “Lord, it's hot. Let's go outside."
Near the platform scales at one end of the open shed Nick pulled a couple of liter cartons of papaya-and-pineapple juice out of a cooler and handed one to John. They went to sit at an ancient, splintery
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