Blake leaned in close enough that I smelled his cologne and whispered that women like me were the reason cities never grew up. Old Mr. Alvarez, my 6 a.m. regular for seven years, quietly slid off his stool and stepped outside. I thought he was leaving too. I signed nothing. I just asked Blake to please leave. He laughed, knocked over the tip jar, and told his assistant to film “the moment the peasant folds.” Then the bell above the door chimed. Mr. Alvarez walked back in, but he wasn’t alone. Behind him came a tall woman in a charcoal coat, two men with earpieces, and a silver-haired gentleman I’d only ever known as “Hank,” the guy who tipped me twenty bucks for a two-dollar drip and always asked about my daughter’s spelling tests. Except Hank set a business card on my counter, slid it toward Blake, and said, very softly, “Son, you just threatened a tenant of mine.” Blake’s face went the color of skim milk. The card read Henry J. Alvarez-Cordell, Chairman, Cordell Holdings, the parent company that owned every square foot of the Halston Tower Blake worked out of, including his corner office and his parking spot. Hank told Blake he had until Friday to clear his desk, cancel every complaint filed against my shop, and personally apologize to each barista he’d bribed, or Cordell Holdings would be reviewing Halston’s entire lease portfolio by Monday. Blake tried to speak. Hank just tapped the tip jar Blake had knocked over, dropped a fifty inside, and asked me for his usual drip coffee, no sugar. The suits left without their boss. Blake was escorted out by his own security two days later. My cafe is still on the corner of Prescott, and Hank still comes in at 6 a.m. sharp.
