The Deavys (18 page)

The fight was over. Relieved, Simwan moved to rejoin his victorious siblings.

“Nobody messes with the Deavy sisters!” Rose proclaimed proudly as she walked up and gave N/Ice a congratulatory pat on the back. Her hand went right through her kinswoman.

“Sorry, sis.” N/Ice promptly went solid and returned the embrace.

That was when Simwan saw one of the lingering gang members pull a gun. The girl was standing a goodly distance away, but that didn't lessen the threat posed by the weapon. Especially since it glowed with an unholy reddish light. She was in the process of aiming it at Amber, who was still standing on the spot where the hawk had carried off her transmogrified tormentor.

There was no time to analyze, no time to think. Reaching down, he picked up a fist-size rock, laid on it as hasty an enchantment as ever he had uttered, and threw it with some force. Before she could get off a shot, the gang girl with the gun saw the rock coming toward her. She promptly jumped to one side. The rock shot past, missing her by a good couple of feet. It then proceeded to curve around in a tight, neat arc and retrace its path. Letting out a bleat of alarm, the girl turned and ran, dodging and twisting with a nimbleness that was more than human. It didn't matter. Appropriately commanded and admirably committed, the rock followed the girl's every twist and turn. A minute or so passed, by which time the rain and mist had swallowed up both girl and stone. The echo of a dull
thunk
, however, was sufficient to assure Simwan that the thrown stone had finally found its intended target. Sure enough, no sign of movement showed itself through the steady drizzle, nor did any gunshots ring out above the sounds of rain falling on grass and pavement.

Amber was putting her innocent-looking lipstick back in her purse. No wonder, Simwan mused as he walked over to rejoin her and the others, his sisters and their friends often spoke of good makeup as being a girl's best friend.

“I remember people back home in Clearsight who had been to New York always talking about how nice it was to take a walk in Central Park,” Rose ventured as the Deavy clan reunited, “but they just have no
clue
.”

They resumed their trek northward. The girls' rehashing of the fight gave way to the realization they were all more than a little thirsty.

“Hot chocolate.” Amber eagerly searched the mist-shrouded trees for signs of a concession stand.

“Tea with sugar,” countered N/Ice. “First blush, like Mom prefers, and only the tips.” Thinking of her hospitalized, Truth-starved mother caused her expression to drop.

“Coffee with cream,” declared Simwan manfully. Having voiced his preference, he then joined his sisters in looking expectantly at Rose.

“Actually,” she responded a little defensively, “I kind of feel like ice cream.”

“Ice cream?” Amber's disbelief was magnified by a desire to express her astonishment. “In
this
weather?”

Rose pushed out her chin. “I
like
ice cream.”

“Oh well,” N/Ice observed diffidently, “each to their own. Maybe with
hot
fudge.”

And none of them noticed the smoke that wasn't curling just off the path. …

The concession stand was in the park but not of it. It was no bigger than any of the thousands of other portable, rollabout food carts that populated the streets of Manhattan. In addition to the usual giant, hot, soft pretzels and the less common churros dusted with cinnamon sugar, it also advertised drinks. That was what the three thirsty Deavys were looking for, and they made a beeline for the cart.

A colorful striped awning shielded the proprietor from the rain while the heat from the pretzel and churro warmers kept the temperature comfortable in the cart's immediate vicinity. In his late middle-age, the proprietor looked to be of Middle Eastern or perhaps Pakistani origin; plump and seriously mustachioed, he wore his floppy cap like a helmet against the autumn air.

“A slow day and a damp one,” he told Simwan in response to the question that hadn't been asked. “What can I get for you kids?”

N/Ice pushed to the front, drawing frowns from her less aggressive sisters. “Tea! Hot tea, with sugar. First blush, brewed with the tips only.”

The cart operator's expression underwent an abrupt and remarkable transformation. Suddenly, he was no longer a jaded, overweight vendor of fast food. His eyebrows rose and a gleam appeared beneath that hinted of experiences and knowledge gleaned from sources even more exotic than the streets and avenues of central Manhattan.

“Oho! What have we here? A connoisseur, and one both young and pretty, at that!”

“She's not pretty,” put in Rose quickly. “Just pushy.”

“Ah, but,” observed the proprietor sagely, “she looks just like you. So if she is not pretty, then you must also be not. …”

“Maybe a little pretty,” a chastened Rose hastened to correct herself.

“They both look like me,” Amber hurried to add.

“You are all pretty.” As the Deavy coubet stood there in the drizzle, the cart's owner seemed to have grown in wisdom and stature before their very eyes. No more a vendor of cheap snacks and paper-cupped drinks, he had been subtly transformed into a potentate of potions, a purveyor of the purest potations. “Except you, of course, young sir,” he told Simwan. Leaning forward to peer down over the front of the cart, he added, “And you too, oh architect of a wicked tail.”

The man turned to a speed boiler capable of brewing either tea or coffee. “First blush, tips only, you said.” As his fingers performed sleight of hand with water and infuser, he cocked one shrewd half-closed eye in her direction. “Plantation? Altitude?”

Out of her depth now, and aware that her sisters were watching her, N/Ice gulped and mumbled hesitantly, “Surprise me.”

The proprietor nodded. Water began to boil, though Simwan could not see how the brewing machine was powered. Batteries? Or something less … ordinary? The soft, pulsing yellow glow that came from somewhere within the machine itself seemed to suggest the latter.

“Nepal? Sri Lanka? Darjeeling? Assam?” He was smiling encouragingly.

Feeling less intimidated, N/Ice smiled back. “Darjeeling, please.”

The man nodded. Whisking fingers through the air like a magician feeling for invisible cards, he produced a half handful of tea-leaf tips. Blowing on them to add moisture, he then crushed them in his fist, brought the result close to his nostrils, inhaled, and nodded with satisfaction. Into the water they went, a small pot of water that had come to a steady boil unnaturally fast. Without pausing, he turned his attention to the other girls. “Ladies?”

“Hot chocolate?” inquired Amber tentatively.

Another small pot was filled with milk and brought to another preternaturally rapid boil. The round-faced operator eyed her expectantly. “All Criollo single-origin cocoa, of course. Plantation?”

Amber exchanged a look with N/Ice, then turned back to the kindly snack master. “Surprise me,” she replied, echoing her sister.

By the time the man's attention came around to Simwan, the combined fragrances from the two pots—one light and delicate as the finest perfume, the other thick and cloying as the memory of a particularly intense kiss—threatened to overwhelm him. He could barely gasp out, “Coffee, with cream and sugar.”

“What kind—no, let me guess,” the man murmured, catching himself. “You want me to surprise you.”

“Why not?” was all Simwan could murmur.

Rubbing the heavy stubble that landscaped his cheeks and chin, the proprietor studied the teen standing before him while Rose and N/Ice immersed themselves in their tea and cocoa. “Let me see, let me see. You look to be a sturdy type, well read and reasonably athletic, but not overpoweringly physical or overpoweringly confident.” He gestured conclusively. “Yes, I think a nice Jamaican Blue for smoothness, with a touch of Goroka to give it a little kick.” Having concluded his caffeinated analysis, he busied himself with the brewing machine that seemed capable of turning out just about any kind of exotic libation one could wish for. Once again, he seemed to draw the basic ingredients for the chosen brew out of thin air.

When Simwan accepted the steaming paper cup, the aroma rising from the dark liquid within threatened to send him into a swoon. He would have uttered “Wow!” except that he was too busy drinking.

“And what for you, last little miss?” The proprietor smiled encouragingly at Rose, who had been silent until now. She looked simultaneously embarrassed and rebellious.

“Actually, I'm not thirsty. I'd just like a scoop of ice cream. If you've got any.”

If her sisters and brother expected the man behind the cart to recoil, to demur, or even to laugh at this request, they were mistaken. He merely nodded. “To everyone, her likes and dislikes, her large tastes and little defiances. Why
not
ice cream?” Turning away, he bent to open a small cooler and began to fumble within. “I am afraid my selection today is somewhat limited. The weather, you know. I only have vanilla, chocolate, mint, frankincense, acajou, rambutan, Hanuman-nut, Loki-scramble, and everyberry.” He poked a little farther into the cooler. “Oh, and pismashio.”

Simwan lowered the astounding coffee from his lips and frowned. “Don't you mean
pistachio
?”

The proprietor looked up and smiled. “No, pismashio.”

Simwan really wanted to have a taste of that, but Rose disappointed him by ordering everyberry. Nodding agreeably, the cart owner dug into the depths of the cooler and scooped out a big ball of something blue and red and purple and—Simwan discovered that he couldn't quite identify the exact color of the paper cup's contents. It wasn't his fault. The color kept changing even as he looked at it, and the transformation wasn't an artifact of the afternoon light, which was pretty consistently drab. In contrast, the contents of the cup all but smoldered with a continuously shifting inner sparkle.

Accepting it, Rose used the accompanying plastic spoon to dig in. Sipping at their own astonishing distillations, Amber and N/Ice crowded close around their sister.

“What's it taste like?” N/Ice asked with unconcealed interest. “Strawberry?”

“Yes,” Rose admitted as she smacked down spoonful after spoonful. “Strawberry.”

“Looks more like raspberry to me,” Amber countered.

“Yes, raspberry,” her tastebud-transported sibling agreed.

Simwan sensed that they were in the presence of something special, dessert-wise. “Blueberry?” he inquired. “Blackberry?”

Rose nodded enthusiastically, but only between tastings. “Uh-huh. Blueberry. Blackberry. Also marionberry, loganberry, juniper berry, query berry, and every other kind you can think of.”

“Wow.” N/Ice pushed closer. “I wanna taste.”

“Me too!” Amber crowded Rose's other side.

While the coubet clashed over their sister's unexpectedly diverse scoop of ice cream, Simwan noticed that the affable proprietor had set a small bowl in front of Pithfwid. The cat took one look at the dish's ivory-hued contents, settled himself comfortably, and started lapping away. Clutching his coffee, Simwan moved closer to the cart and to the radiant warmth of the pretzel heater. He nodded in the direction of the contentedly consuming Deavy cat.

“What did you give him?”

“Fresh Devon clotted cream. I thought he deserved something nice, too. ” The man rubbed at the back of his head, scratching his scalp through the floppy cap. Looking on idly while the girls squabbled for samples of Rose's everyberry ice cream, Simwan did his best to make conversation. “Your stuff is good. I mean, really, really good. On a sunny day you must get a lot of customers.”

The man shrugged. “Some days are good, some are slow. Location is everything in this business. Baghdad in the time of the caliphs, now
that
was truly good for the coffee business. And outside the grand mosque in the days of Suleiman the Magnificent I hardly had time to chat, so busy was I brewing. Or for the Soongs—that was a proper dynasty, I tell you. As for the Mak-ah, of all the rulers of Chichen-Itza, they were the ones who were serious about their hot chocolate.” He winked conspiratorially.

“In the same way, I could tell as soon as your first sister asked for her tea that you five were not your usual stroll-in-the-park family.” He glanced meaningfully upward. “Young travelers such as yourselves must have a very important reason for being out on a gloomy, wet day like this.”

Though instantly on guard, Simwan had the feeling he could trust this omniscient vendor of snacks. “We're looking for someone who took something that belongs to our family and was being looked after by a friend.”

“I see. Well, don't tell me about it. If you don't tell me, then I can't tell anyone else, no matter how they put the question to me.” He gestured at Simwan's cup. “Want a refill? Half price.”

No fool even at his age, and realizing that if he lived to be two hundred he might never taste coffee this good again, Simwan immediately agreed.

“What do I owe you?” he finally remembered to ask, as Rose's shrinking scoop of ice cream was reduced to its final four flavors.

“Hmm.” The proprietor considered. “Three drinks, one coffee refill, one ice cream, single scoop.” He smiled down at Pithfwid. The cat was sitting back on its haunches and using a paw to clean its face and whiskers. Glancing up at the man, he put the paw over his mouth, burped a delicate compliment, and methodically resumed his grooming.

“That's a dollar each. Four dollars, please. The cream for the kitty was a gift because I like cats. They have gourmet taste buds, don't you know, and many've been the time I've asked a cat to check an ingredient of mine to see if it had gone bad.

Simwan looked stunned. “That's all? Four dollars?” He indicated his sisters, who were dumping their empty cups into the plastic trash bag that was clipped to one end of the cart. “For—everything?”