CHAPTER 2
Bethany
“Lovely morning out there, isn't it Bethany?” commented Fred with a smile, the light of the early morning sun sparkling in his thick-lidded green eyes, set in a craggy, wrinkle-strewn face, crowned by a head of wispy gray hair.
“It is,” I said. “And it's lovely to hear the birds singing too.”
He nodded as he carried in another box of freshly-baked donuts.
“Aye, reminds me of my childhood in Ireland, it does.”
While he had lived in America for many decades now, Fred's accent still carried the hint of an Irish brogue.
“Don't you miss it?” I asked. “I mean, being here in downtown Detroit is about as different a place as I could imagine form rural Ireland. Gosh, it must be absolutely gorgeous there!”
“Oh, it's pretty alright. So much greenery everywhere; it's not called the Emerald Isle for nothing you know! And all the old architecture, the castles and the villages. Oh, and the pubs, I do miss those, I won't lie! But while it is, I suppose home in a sense, you know what they say about home.”
“What do they say about home, Fred?” I asked with a smile.
“Ah, you should smile more often Miss Bethany,” he said. “It does suit your pretty face well. I know that things must have been hard for you over the past month, since Sal passed, bless his soul, but you do have one of the loveliest smiles I've ever seen, if I don't say so myself.”
“Thank you, Fred,” I said. “But you didn't answer my question. What do they say about home, then.”
He chuckled warmly.
“Why Miss Bethany, they say that home is where the heart is! Have you never heard that before? Surely you must have.”
“I have, I have,” I said with a friendly laugh.
“Well my Annie is here in Detroit, so that's where my home is, and as much as I might miss Ireland sometimes, if I moved back there without my Annie, I know I'd miss her a whole lot more than I do the Emerald Isle. Besides, Detroit ain't a bad place to live, is it? You've been here your whole life, and I don't see you packing your bags to run elsewhere.”
“No, no, it's home for me alright,” I said. “Detroit born and raised, and I don't really have any desire to live anywhere else. I'd like to travel, and see different parts of the world, of course, but home is . . . here. Yes, home is here.”
“You really should travel, if you get the opportunity to,” he said. “My Annie and I, we backpacked around Europe when we were much younger. It really was one of the best experiences of my life, and I'd do it again in a heartbeat, old as I am now!”
I sighed wistfully.
“I'm afraid that ship has sailed for me, Fred. Maybe when mom was still alive and helping Sal out to run the diner, when profits were better and they had more staff, I would have been able to get away for a while to travel. But you know how it is now, how it is here. Things haven't exactly been booming here over the last couple of years, especially since mom passed away ten years ago. And now with Sal gone too, I have to run everything on my own, and it's not like I'm making enough in the way of profits to hire a manager or extra staff right now.”
He nodded sadly.
“Aye, aye, it's true Miss Bethany. I've been making deliveries here for nigh on twenty years now, since you were just a little girl, and I've seen the changes. All I can say is that with you at the helm now, instead of poor old Sal, perhaps you'll be able to turn things around, right? You've got your mother's businesses sensibilities, and her diligence and commitment. I can see that plainly enough. You'll do well here, with a bit of effort and good old elbow grease. Don't be discouraged by the state old Sal let things sink into. You can get this place going again, going like it used to when your ma was still with us.”
I nodded.
“I really hope I can,” I said.
“Chin up girl,” he replied with a smile. “You'll be able to handle it. No, not only will you be able to handle it, you'll be able to make this place thrive. You will, I'm telling ya!”
I couldn't help but smile when presented with Fred's almost tireless optimism. I only hoped that what he was saying had a chance of coming true. Still, he was at least part right – I had my mother's grit and determination, and I was a hard worker as well, and since my step-father passed away a month ago, leaving me the diner, I had been making all sorts of plans to revamp and revitalize the place, after I had been taken to the point of near ruin by my irresponsible step-father.
“Thanks for giving me encouragement and hope, Fred,” I said. “I really do appreciate it.”
“No need to thank me, girl, I'm just pointing out the truth. You're a hard worker, and you're smart too, and you have vision – and those three things will enable you to make a success out of this place.”
“I hope so.”
“Don't hope – do it. You can, and you will. I sincerely believe that.”
He looked at his watch.
“Oh, look at us, jabbering on like this! I'll be late for my next delivery, I will! You take care now Miss Bethany, and I'll see you tomorrow morning at the same time for another delivery of piping hot donuts.”
“Thanks Fred,” I said. “I'll see you tomorrow.”
I let him out the back door and then locked it up, and took the donuts over to the warming drawer with its glass front, where they would be on display for the customers, and started unpacking the donuts and setting them out for display.
As I did this, I started doing calculations in my head, figuring out just how much of everything I needed to start selling in order to be able to start recouping some of the losses we had incurred during Sal's period of ownership.
As I ran over the facts and figures in my head, I couldn't help but feel angry. We had been doing so well when my mother had been running the place. I had been seventeen, just starting my final year of senior high, and planning on going to college in California when my mother had passed unexpectedly. Ownership of the diner had passed on to Sal, to whom she had only been married for three years. She had left almost everything to him – including power of attorney over my college funds.
Sal had taken out the money meant to use to pay for my education, and had supposedly used it for 'upgrades' to the diner. The upgrades had been little more than a bit of new paint here and there, a new sign and an extra waitress or two. He had promised that with these upgrades we would make a lot more money, and that after a year or two we'd be making so much profit that I'd be able to go to an even better college.
Needless to say, none of that had ever materialized, and I had been left helping him, and watching the business crumble away month after month, year after year, while hemorrhaging cash at a rate that seemed almost beyond belief.
I knew that Sal had problems, and some sort of secret addiction – or addictions – but he had always flat out denied this, and had made all sorts of outlandish claims about where all the money was going.
It had taken him dying for me to find out that all my college funds had been squandered, and that my inheritance had been plundered too. All he had left me was the title deed to the diner, which was only barely breaking even. In fact, if he hadn't passed away, we would have been running at a loss by now; that's how bad things had gotten.
I could have been angry, I could have been bitter, but what would that have achieved? Nothing. What was done was done, and all I could do was try to turn things around and see if I could turn this back into the bustling, profitable business it had once been.
I looked up at the clock on the wall and saw that it was a quarter to eight. Fifteen more minutes, and then it would be time to start yet another long day of serving customers. Manny, my cook, hadn't arrived yet, which was unusual. He was almost always here at least thirty minutes before opening time, and on the rare occasions on which he was ill he would phone well in advance to let me know.
Just as I finished placing the final donut on the display rack, there was a knock on the back door. Ah, that would be Manny. I wondered what had made him late today, and I walked over to the door to open it for him. I hoped that the first customers wouldn't be mad that their morning coffee would be a couple of minutes late; Manny usually had it brewing by this time.
I turned the key in the lock and opened the heavy wooden door, frowning as I prepared to grill Manny over being late.
Instead of seeing his familiar round, cheerful face with its deep ebony skin though, I was greeted the sight of two other faces, also African American, like Manny, both glaring menacingly. Something seemed wrong, and I felt a tingle of nerves stirring in the pit of my belly. The men looked like gangsters; they were wearing saggy jeans, gold jewelry, Timberland boots and tank tops, which revealed muscly arms and necks covered with tattoos. And, most terrifying, they each had pistols tucked into their belts.
“Yes?” I asked nervously. “Can I help you?”
They didn't speak. The closest one, a tall, muscular young man who seemed to be about my age – twenty-seven – simply punched me in the stomach. The force of the blow had me doubled over in pain, and I gasped with shock as I staggered back, and then both of them forced their way inside and slammed the door shut behind them.
My first thought was that this was an armed robbery, and I turned to run over to the cash register, where I had a nine-millimeter pistol hidden in a drawer. This diner was the only thing I had now, and I was prepared to defend it with my life.
I didn't get that chance though, as I turned to run, the man kicked my legs out from under me, sending me crashing to the ground. He then pulled out his pistol from his belt and pointed it at me as I lay groaning in pain and trembling with fright.
“Don't try nothin' stupid, bitch,” he growled, revealing a mouth full of gold teeth. “You stay right there.”
“I don't have anything worth taking,” I managed to groan. “You're robbing the wrong place.”
“Oh no, we're in the right place alright. Canfield Grille. This is Canfield Grille, isn't it?”
Before I could answer, the other one spoke, speaking in a raspy, growly voice.
“Sure is Tyrese, at least that's what the sign out front said. Canfield Grille. Yeah, this is it alright, and this right here is the bitch that owns it.”
“Yeah,” said the one who seemed to be called Tyrese, “this is the bitch I want, this is the bitch I want alright, leering at me in a way that made me both disgusted and utterly terrified.
“Who . . . who are you? What do . . . what do you want?” I managed to stammer.
“Oh Bethany, Bethany Bethany Bethany,” murmured Tyrese as he squatted down over me, still pointing his pistol at me. “You don't know anything, do you? Your pretty lil' head is full a' ignorance, ain't it?”
“You . . . you know my name?”
Tyrese chuckled darkly.
“I know a lot about you, girl. Oh, yes I do. Yes, I do – but you don't know jack shit about me, do you? You don't know shit about who I is, who we is, ain't that right?”
I shook my head slowly, my limbs trembling violently with fear and my eyes wide with terror.
“Please, whoever you are, just don't . . . don't hurt me, please, please don't hurt me,” I managed to utter.
“We won't . . . if you do what we say.”
“Yeah,” echoed the other one. “Your pretty little white girl ass is safe for now . . . if you do what we say.”
A whole glut of emotions was rushing through me at this moment; fear, terror, confusion, panic . . . and anger. Oh yes, anger too. Who the hell did these guys think they were, coming in here and roughing me up and threatening me! As if I hadn't put up with enough crap over the last few months and years, and now this!
“What do you want? What is this about?” I demanded, feeling an unexpected surge of confidence coming through.
“We come here to get what's owed, Bethany,” growled Tyrese.
“What's owed? What the hell are you talking about? I don't owe you anything! I've never even seen you before in my life!”
He suddenly lunged for my throat with his free hand and grasped it tight between his fingers, squeezing my throat so hard that I couldn't breathe. A fresh wave of terror ripped through me, all but extinguishing the little flame of anger and confidence that had just been ignited.
“Don't get cocky wid' us, bitch,” he snarled, his dark eyes full of cold menace. “Know yo' place. I'mma say that again: know yo' place, bitch.”
“I'm . . . I'm sorry,” I managed to stammer. “But please . . . I don't . . . I don't know . . . what this is about . . .”
“Myself and my associate here are representatives of your friendly local protection agency,” he sneered. “We known as CM – that's Coup Militant. A name that strikes fear into the hearts a' the weak. Ya hear, bitch? CM – that's where it's at. Now you know who we is. My name is Tyrese, and that over there is my good friend LaJon. And we're here to collect what you owe us.”
“But . . . I still . . . I still don't know . . . what it is that I owe you,” I stammered.
“You are the new owner of Canfield Grille, ain't you, Bethany? At least that's what you became when yo' pappy Sal went on to another place. Ain't that right?”
I nodded.
“Sal left the diner to me, yes.”
“Well then you owe us a grand, bitch.”
“Why?” I asked, feeling both confused and afraid.
“Your pappy Sal, he paid us, like the other suckers in this 'hood all pay us. Fo' protection, see? You pay us every month, and we make sure yo' diner here is safe. Yeah, safe an' sound, Bethany, safe an' sound. Sal made this deal with us six months ago, and he been payin' us ever since. But after he left this place, forever, well, we didn't get no mo' pay. And now our patience is up. So, where the fuck is our thousand dollars for last month, Bethany?”
“I—I don't have a thousand dollars on me,” I murmured. My heart was beating so fast in my chest now it felt like it was going to explode.
Tyrese looked up at LaJon and shook his head, scowling.
“You hear that LaJon? She say she don't have our money.”
LaJon, who was tall and lanky and sported a head full of dreadlocks, shook his head disapprovingly.
“I think the bitch is lying,” he said. “An I'mma make her tell the truth.”
He walked over to the display cabinet where the donuts were, and pulled out a baseball bat that he had strapped to his back. He grinned, and then swung the bat with all his might at the glass front of the display cabinet, shattering it and sending a shower of glass shards flying everywhere.
“No!” I shouted. “No, stop, please, please don't!”
“Where the hell is our damn money?!” shouted Tyrese, yelling mere inches away from my face. “Where's the damn money?!”
LaJon then walked behind the counter, casually swinging his baseball bat by his side. He took a look at a shelf full of coffee mugs, and then suddenly took a big swing at it, smashing all of the mugs to smithereens. After that he walked over to a table, and brought his bat down in a vicious arc, smashing the glass surface of the table.
“Please stop, please,” I begged, “I'll come up with the money, alright? Please . . .”
Tyrese looked up at LaJon and gave him some sort of hand signal, after which LaJon stopped his rampage of destruction and put the baseball bat back into the sheath on his back.
Tyrese then stood up and stepped back, and LaJon walked over to join him.
“You have twenty-four hours to come up with what you owe us, Bethany,” snarled Tyrese. “Twenty-four hours, and not a damn second more. Don't test me on this, I'm warning you. If I don't have that money in my hands by this time tomorrow, shit's gonna get real ugly for you. And that pretty little white girl face of yours . . . it won't be pretty no mo', not after we've finished wid' you.”
They turned around and stormed out, slamming the back door shut behind them after they left. For a while, all I could do was simply lie on the floor, trembling. In a sense, what had just happened didn't quite feel real. It felt more like a dream – or a nightmare, rather. But the signs of what had happened were everywhere; broken glass and porcelain littered the floor, and it looked like a hurricane had just hit this place.
Finally, I heaved myself up off the floor. My throat was sore from where Tyrese had grabbed and squeezed it, and my stomach was still aching from where he had punched me, but otherwise I seemed to be uninjured.
I hobbled over to the kitchen and retrieved a broom; all I could do now was clean up, and try to figure out a way to deal with these thugs. I sure as hell didn't want to pay them, but as a lone female running this place on my own, with the only other person here being a disabled old man – who still hadn't showed up yet – it wasn't as if I could actually stand up to them.
While I was lost in thought, I heard a knock at the front door. I checked my watch and saw that it was ten to eight – not yet opening time. I ignored the knock and carried on sweeping up the broken glass, but then whoever it was knocked again, more loudly and forcefully this time.
I guessed that whoever it was wasn't going away, so I reluctantly walked over to the front door, where I saw a tall, broad-shouldered man dressed impeccably in what looked like an actual Armani suit standing there. I was at once taken aback by his appearance; not only was he very classily dressed, but he was also strikingly handsome. He looked to be in his mid-thirties, and his deep-set, dark eyes and olive-toned skin and dark hair marked him as being of Mediterranean descent; Italian or maybe Spanish.
“Hi,” I said, aware that my voice would be muffled through the glass.
He waved at me through the glass and gave me a friendly smile.
“Can I come in?” he said, his deep voice muffled and barely audible.
I pointed at the writing on the glass which showed our opening hours, and shook my head.
“I just need a cup of coffee,” he said. “Can you open the door please?”
Still shaken up by what had just happened, I didn't want to open the door, but it didn't look like he was going to go anywhere, and besides, he didn't look at all like the gangsters who had just roughed me up – I mean, he was wearing an Armani suit after all. He looked like some sort of high-profile businessman. I opened the door a crack so that we could at least hear each other.
“Sir, I'd love to help you out, but uh, there's a big mess in here and I need to get it cleaned up before I open the doors for business, so, uh, please excuse me if I sound rude, but could you just wait ten minutes?”
He peered past me and saw the shattered glass everywhere.
“Looks like more of a mess than you can clean up by yourself in just ten minutes,” he remarked. “But I'll tell ya what – how about I help you clean it up, and in exchange I get a free cup of coffee?”
I was surprised at this suggestion; from the way he was dressed, I would have assumed that simple cleaning work would have been beneath him. Still, he was right; it was too big a mess for me to clean up on my own in such a short space of time. If I wanted to get things cleaned up before opening time, I would have to accept his offer.
“That's very kind of you,” I said, “and a cup of coffee is a small price to pay for your help. Thank you so much, and come on in.”
“It's a pleasure to help such a beautiful lady,” he said with a warm smile.
“Thank you!” I said, feeling a lot better than I had a few moments ago. “My name is Bethany Verde, by the way.”
He held out a big, strong hand, which I took and shook politely.
“And I'm Benito Sciotti. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”