Through the Grinder (6 page)

N
OT
pretty.

Not a disaster by any means. But definitely not a thing of beauty.

My first official “date” of the last two years had started out badly and went downhill from there.

Frankly, the last thing I expected to be doing exactly one week after “My Dinner with Quinn” (as I now thought of it) was sitting across from a guy who looked like he’d stepped off the cover of the Metrosexual’s Handbook.

Yet here I was, sitting in the Union Square Coffee Shop, which, despite its name, was not, in fact, a coffee shop, but a trendy restaurant made to look like a 1960s-style coffee shop/diner, with the addition of mood lighting, loud music, a slick crowd, and a Brazilian-American menu.

Later, when I was happily back at the Blend, Tucker would inform me that the waitresses there were employed by a major modeling agency—which owned this restaurant, as well as another, called (appropriately enough) Live Bait. And I would consider myself a heel (in retrospect) for consenting to eat at a place where a twenty-two-year-old reed-thin underwear model with long blonde hair asked my date, “What would you like?”

This man had e-mailed me as a result of the profile Joy had helped me post on SinglesNYC.com—and the only reason I’d even posted in the first place was to check out the dating service my daughter intended to use.

“What would you like?” Paris Hilton asked again.

Ensconced in the vinyl booth, I’d already ordered the churrasquino carioca; however, my date, a forty-something with curly black hair, refined features, watery hazel eyes, and a profile that listed his occupation as “Director of Fundraising,” seemed to be having an issue with the menu.

“I thought you had vegetarian fare?” he asked unhappily.

“We have a veggie burger and a ton of fish dishes,” suggested the waitress.

“I’m a vegan. No animal products, which includes the swimming animals.”

A vegan?
I thought. His profile hadn’t mentioned that. I could have sworn it said nonsmoking gourmet food lover.
O-kay.

“Veggie burger?” asked the model-slash-waitress hopefully.

Brooks Newman sighed the sigh of a martyr. “I suppose.”

“Cheese?”

“Yes.”

“You know cheese is an animal product,” I pointed out. “I mean if you’re a vegan.”

“Oh, yes,” said Brooks. “Of course. It’s only been three days.”

“Three days vegan?” I asked. “Is that like three days sober?”

Brooks wasn’t amused. He gave me a little squint. “No cheese,” he told the waitress.

“Anything else, sir?”

“Yes,” said Brooks. He snapped the menu shut. “And another martini. Dry. Got that? D-R-Y.”

“Yes, sir.”

The Hilton look-alike spun on her go-go boot heel and left.

“I hate it when girls that age call me ‘sir,’” said Brooks, his eyes glued to the waitress’s retreating ass. “Makes me feel old.”

“Well…” I said.
No reason for that. After all, you’re acting like a child.

“You, uh, don’t look forty.”

“Thanks. I know. It’s the botanicals.”

“Botanicals?”

“Yes, in the facial products. I find a weekly spa visit to be vital for people our age. You should try it. Really.”

Oh, for pity’s sake.

“Renu Spa,” he said, draining the last of his not-dry-enough martini. “Park Avenue, by the W Hotel.”

“Renu, eh? Funny…”

“What’s funny?” he asked.

“Renew! Renew! Renew!” I said. “You know,
Logan’s Run
? Do they have a ‘Carousel’ treatment for clients over thirty?”

Brooks made his little squinty face again. “Why would they have a merry-go-round in a spa?”

I shook my head. “Not merry-go-round. Carousel. Don’t you remember
Logan’s Run
? That sci-fi movie from the mid seventies?”

“Sure, I remember it. Farrah Fawcett, right?”

“Right. Well, the entire premise is based on the idea that it’s the twenty-third century and Big Brother takes care of everything for you. Your whole life is spent in the pursuit of pleasure. The only catch is when you turn thirty, the red crystal embedded in your palm begins to blink. So you have to report to this ritual they call ‘Carousel,’ where you’re supposedly ‘Renewed.’ But in reality they zap you with enough volts of electricity to light up Detroit.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“‘Run, Runner!’ doesn’t ring any bells?”

“No.”

“Forget it.” I sighed and found myself thinking,
Quinn would have laughed.

Brooks adjusted his pale yellow Armani sweater and looked around the room, his eyes snagging on the tight clothing of the model slash waitresses more frequently than my cat Java’s claws on my goose down duvet.

“So…” said Brooks. “What’s it like managing these…I mean, this place?”

“This place? I don’t manage this place,” I told him.

Brooks frowned. “Your SinglesNYC profile said you managed Coffee Shop.”

“Coffee
house
. I manage a coffeehouse. Of course, I didn’t put the name of it in my profile. The site instructions said not to put down any information on the public profiles that would give away your identity.”

“Your profile said you managed Coffee Shop.”

“I don’t see why it would say that. Does SinglesNYC.com change the profiles of people?”

“No…but there’s an automatic spell check after you send. Didn’t you review the profile once it was posted?”

“Not really.”

“I see.” Brooks now made a show of looking around the room. “So you don’t manage any of these girls.”

“No.”

The atmosphere got even chillier after that. I politely asked about his work, and he talked about directing the fundraising campaigns for various charities.

“There are myriad techniques,” he said, “depending on the not-for-profit’s history. Donation patterns can grow stale over time. So I can direct anything from phone solicitation blitzes and letter writing campaigns to gala benefits.”

“Interesting.”

“It can be.”

Not to me. Not then. I couldn’t stop thinking about Detective Quinn. Since last week’s Chicken Francese dinner, he hadn’t been by the Blend. Not for his usual latte, not even to bolt an espresso. For a full week he’d avoided the coffeehouse entirely. I tried to tell myself it was his work, or his marital issues, which appeared to be as emotionally straining as mine and Matt’s had been.

Still, I couldn’t help suspecting that he was intentionally avoiding me. Maybe he’d regretted opening up. Maybe he felt embarrassed on some level and was worried I’d put him on the spot the next time I saw him. I didn’t have a clue—but I refused to let it tear at me, which was another reason I’d gone out tonight after getting Brooks’s call. I needed to get my mind off the police detective. The
still married
police detective.

After the food was served, Brooks bit into his vegetarian burger. He chewed, swallowed, and made that squinty face again.

“What is that you ordered?” he asked, eyeing my platter.

“The churrasquino carioca,” I told him.

“And that is…?”

“A Brazilian-style grilled steak sandwich.”

“Steak?”

“Yes. Steak. Beef. Cow,” I said, around a mouth of deliciously marinated meat. “Listen, Brooks, my profile never said I wasn’t a meat eater. There’s no spell check I know that would change ‘gourmet food lover’ to ‘vegetarian.’”

“No, I know,” he admitted, his tone less chilly. “But I have found that everyone lies about something on these sites. One girl had this dominatrix vibe to her profile, but when we went out she mainly talked about her pain-in-the-ass parents, the sex was vanilla, and afterward she just wanted to play Scrabble.”

“Brooks, let me be honest with you so we can both digest our food. The only reason I’m here is to see what this on-line dating thing is like. My daughter insisted on signing up, and I wanted to check out the site, see how it worked. I’m really not interested in…hooking up…or anything.”

“Oh.” The man leaned back in his chair. “Oh.”

“Honestly, you’re not interested in me, right?”

He took a sip of his martini and made an unsatisfied face. “I usually go out with women much younger than you. But for thirty-nine…you actually look okay. I dislike what you’re wearing, that sweater is too big for you and I don’t like women in pants, but you have a very pretty face…In fact…” He took a closer look. “You
are
kinda cute.”

“Thanks.”
Creep
.

“And you look a little familiar for some reason.”

“Ever been in the Village Blend coffeehouse—on Hudson?”

“That’s the coffeehouse you manage? Oh, sure. I’ve been in there. Good cappuccinos.”

“Thanks.”
Okay, maybe not a total creep.

“To be honest with you, I thought this could be more of a networking thing than a date,” he said. “I’ve arranged a new approach to fundraising that’s going to involve the sort of beautiful young women who work here. And I thought if you managed this place, then you might be able to help me secure the donation of services.”

“Services?”

Brooks nodded. “A lingerie show at the Puck building. And, after the show, the girls will serve drinks.”

“While still in their underwear?”

“Brilliant, isn’t it?” Brooks said with a grin. “I am such the Genius. The big spenders will love it, and I’ll certainly be reeling in some new whales, too. As far as the models, I’m sure, if they’re forced to work here, then they’re between gigs anyway—and they already know how to serve drinks.”

“But why would they do it for free?”

“Because, given the type of spenders we’ve already invited to the event—media and ad execs and the like—it will be good exposure for them.”

“Good exposure. Right.” (Serving drinks in flimsy underwear would do that for a girl.)

“And it’s also for a good cause,” he added.

“What cause would that be?”

“M.N.M. I’m in charge of their national fundraising drives for the next six months.”

“M.N.M.? Oh, right, I’ve heard of them. Meat No More—the vegan activist organization? So that’s why you’ve only been a vegan for three days?”

Brooks shrugged. “Let’s just say after two weeks on the job, they encouraged me to give the lifestyle a try.” He sighed, dejected. “It was just one take-out order of Chinese spare ribs delivered to their offices. You’d think I killed the damn pig myself.”

I took another bite of my delicious Brazilian steak sandwich. He frowned at his veggie burger. Then he looked around the restaurant and whispered, “Can I have half of that?”

I smiled. “Sure.”

The meat seemed to restore him. He actually smiled, too. “You know, you are really cute. I don’t see why we can’t hook up…you know, just for the night.”

“Sorry, but, uh…I do.” I almost added, “nothing personal,” but stopped myself. Of course, it was personal.

He frowned. “Oh, well…worth a shot.” He shrugged.

“So, what do you think of the SinglesNYC site? I mean, for my daughter?”

“Your daughter, huh? That’s an interesting idea.” He took a drink of his martini and gave me a leer. “Does she look like a younger version of you? And if she does, what’s she doing tonight?”

I pictured Brooks coming in for a cappuccino—and me pointing the steam valve at his face.

“You’re too old for her,” I said with great relish.

He shrugged. “Can’t blame a guy for trying.”

Yes I can.

“Look, SinglesNYC is a pretty edgy site. Most of the people go there to widen their sexual circle.”

I nearly choked on my marinated cow. “Widen their what?”

“Their sexual circle. How old is she?”

“Nineteen. She turns twenty very soon.”

Brooks nodded. “Tell her not to go out with anyone over twenty-five. That should help cut down on the guys who might be married. And here’s a warning label: get the guy’s home number, home address, and work number. Because if he’s reluctant to give any of those out, he could be married or already have a girlfriend.”

A pained sigh escaped me.

My e-date leaned forward. “Hey, look…” He pulled out his business card, flipped it, and wrote something down. “If I had a daughter, I’d want her to be on one of these two sites instead. They’re total duds as far as I’m concerned—people who want, you know, ‘meaningful relationships,’ and talk about things like ‘favorite hobbies.’ A lot tamer than SinglesNYC.”

“Thanks,” I said, and meant it.

We finished our meal and contemplated the desert selection. Both of us ordered the flan, then I asked the waitress for a cappuccino.

“I’ll have one, too,” said Brooks.

I was just about to conclude the guy was okay when he opened his mouth one more time and said the one thing that absolutely put an end to even the remotest possibility of a relationship with me—

“Just make sure mine’s a decaf.”

A
LMOST
time.

The air was crisp tonight, polluted with the occasional acrid fumes from the historic district’s wood-burning fireplaces, but there was little wind off the nearby river, and the Genius found tonight’s mission almost tolerable.

For one thing, the sorry parade of single men and women brought the Genius a mild degree of amusement.

Saturday night in the Village was always loud and crowded, but each Single seemed to file down this dark street in a particularly pathetic way. There was something pensive and a little desperate about them as they negotiated the clutching couples and raucous revelers. Hands in pockets, eyes cast down.

Standing in the shadowy recesses of an alley across the busy street, the Genius found the perfect vantage from which to watch them file past the faux gas lamp and trudge into the coffeehouse.

Through the Blend’s tall, brightly lit windows, the Genius studied them as they bumped and squeezed their way around the crowded tables, then adjusted their clothing before climbing up the wrought iron spiral staircase to arrive on the second floor, their false courage now in place—hands out of pockets, eyes lifted up, plastic smiles applied like last-minute lipstick.

There was a bald guy in his fifties with a slight limp.

Two women in their thirties, laughing a little too hard.

An over-dressed fortyish man with enough grease in his hair to qualify as a Mafia don.

A brunette with tight clothing and too much makeup.

A geeky twentysomething.

A geeky thirtysomething.

Three Goth girls.

A forty-plus woman with spike-heeled boots and a trendy leather coat meant for someone twenty years younger.

And they just kept coming…

This Cappuccino Connection thing certainly brought out the losers. Oh, there were a few somewhat attractive women in the mix, but nothing special.

The Genius was actually surprised it had come to this for him.

But SinglesNYC.com really had become a bust.

The last match had taken place at a nearby restaurant. She’d been too old for his taste, which might not have mattered, but there was no chemistry. Nothing about the woman seemed to turn him on. She’d been a bore.

As usual, the SinglesNYC profile didn’t match the reality. Everything from her photo to her occupation had seemed better in the on-line profile than it had been in person. A big yawn for him.

The Genius hadn’t been all that surprised. The only question had been, “What next?”

Cruising more SinglesNYC profiles was an option. Giving up was an option, too. But then, of course, so was this…

The Genius emerged from the shadows and crossed the street, heading into the Blend.

“Ah, well,” murmured the Genius, “at least I’ll get an excellent cappuccino out of the evening.”

“Clare, I have one word for you,” whispered Tucker as he offered me a French café cup of cappuccino from his half-empty cork-bottomed tray.

Cradling the heat in my cold hands, I sipped at the warm froth, then peered over the cup’s rim, apprehensively taking in the crowd of milling bodies filling up the Blend’s second floor.

“One word?” I asked Tucker.

“Tadpoling.”

“Excuse me?”

“That’s what they call it when an older woman dates a younger guy.”

“Tadpoling. Right. I see. Thanks for clearing that up, Tuck. And I thought you were having a bayou flashback.”

“No, seriously, sweetie. I know you probably wouldn’t look twice at a guy who was like ten or twelve years younger than you.”

“Tucker…”

“But tadpoling is the hottest trend around.”

“Older women and younger men?” I asked. “In what universe?”

“Uh, honey, don’t you know? It’s totally
all that.
Demi Moore and Ashton Kutcher? Hugh Jackman and his wife? Cher, Madonna…the list just goes on and on. Don’t you remember that movie with Diane Keaton and Jack Nicholson—the one where cutie Keanu Reeves has the hots for post-menopausal Diane? You know she even got an Oscar nomination for that role.”

“Hollywood, Tucker. All of your examples are Hollywood. I’m sure if I were a millionaire movie star with houses in the Hamptons and Malibu, tadpoling would be a lovely option to consider, but this is the real world.”

“My point exactly! The real world does nothing but obsess over Hollywood—trends trickle down, Clare, remember that. Trends trickle.”

“Everyone! It’s time to get started!” called Nan Tulley, our Cappuccino Connection hostess.

Although these sessions were nondenominational, even advertised in
New York
magazine’s Personals, these evenings were actually part of the fundraising and outreach committee work for Grace Church over on Tenth and Broadway (one of the most magnificent examples of Gothic Revival architecture in the country, with lacelike stonework and gorgeous stained glass. New Yorkers always gape when they pass it, but few realize it was built in 1845 by the same architect who would later erect the monumental uptown landmark St. Patrick’s Cathedral.).

“Come, everyone! Gather ’round…” Nan called again, clapping her hands.

Nan’s regular job was managing the Wee Ones daycare center on Twelfth, which might have explained why I couldn’t shake the impression I’d just entered an elaborate playgroup.

“Shoo, Tucker,” I whispered. “I’m not really here to meet anyone anyway. You know that.”

“If you say so, sweetie.”

With an annoying roll of his eyes, Tucker was off to serve more caps to the crowd.

I moseyed over toward Nan, trying to keep my distance from my daughter, Joy, as I’d promised.

Right after my date with Brooks Newman two days ago, I’d phoned Joy and made her promise to quit the SinglesNYC on-line dating site. She agreed to try the tamer (a.k.a. “dud”) sites that Brooks had scrawled on the back of his business card for me, but Joy also informed me that she’d decided to sign up for the Blend’s Cappuccino Connection night.

I let it go for about twenty-four hours. Then I signed up, too.

Joy was furious.

“Mom, I can’t believe you’re doing this!” she’d said when I told her.

“It’s got nothing to do with you,” I lied. “They’ve been meeting in my coffeehouse two times a month for how long now—and all I’ve ever done is send my part-timers upstairs with trays of cappuccinos. It’s about time I saw for myself how the whole thing works, don’t you think?”

Joy really didn’t buy it, but I promised her I wouldn’t interfere with her participation—and she finally said that maybe it would be good for me after all.

My daughter was still under the delusion that I needed to discover that no man out there could hold a candle to her dad, an admittedly larger-than-life type, who, despite his inability to remain monogamous, had loved Joy unconditionally and with all his heart—and therefore could do no wrong in Joy’s eyes. As exasperating as it was for me, I saw no reason to rob the girl of her love for the man, even though there were still times Matteo could make me angry enough to fantasize about pouring a few steaming hot Speed Balls down his pants.

Nan clapped a final time in a way that made me feel like I’d have to raise my hand before using the little girls’ room.

“Quiet now, quiet! Okay, good! Now, I want you all to put your Listening Caps on. The first rule of connection night is that everyone must make at least three connections. Even if you think you’ve only met
one
person with whom you have chemistry, you
must
make dates with three people. This rule ensures that many of you will have more than one chance to connect! Isn’t that great!”

Nan had the sort of enthusiastic voice I imagined worked very well on a dozen sugared-up four year olds. This crowd, however, seemed less than receptive. They murmured warily.

“Now, now, I know what you’re all thinking!” Nan continued. “Why? Why do I need to ask people out with whom I don’t necessarily feel a strong connection? Well, I’ll tell you why: many happily married couples have had bad first meetings—and many fantastic first meetings have ended in bitter splits. You can never tell what may happen if you just give a person a chance to grow on you!”

“Like fungus?” some joker called.

“Hostility will get you nowhere,” snapped Nan. “Remember, a bad first impression can still lead you to the right person…maybe not the
perfect
one, but the
right
one…”

I was dying to look around a little more, check out the people who’d gathered, but I didn’t want Joy to think I was spying on her. The room was packed, too, which made it hard to see the entire field very clearly, anyway. So I just sipped my cappuccino and kept my eyes on Nan.

“Now, let’s get started!”

The second floor of the Blend was quite roomy, with marble-topped tables and chairs as well as an eclectic mix of mismatched furniture. Overstuffed chairs and French flea market sofas, along with floor and table lamps, gave customers the feeling of relaxing in a bohemian living room. (With so many Village apartments being nothing more than tiny cramped studios and one bedrooms, it literally was that for many.) And tonight it was romantically lit with a roaring fire in the brick hearth at the front of the room.

To start what was termed the “Power Meet” session, our chipper hostess told us she was going to position all the women around the room at different tables and seating areas. She would then select men at random and pair them with the various women.

But before Nan began seating us, I noticed her having a little side discussion with Tucker. It looked rather tense. I motioned him over.

“Everything all right?” I asked while Nan got busy seating the women around the room.

“Nan’s upset,” he whispered. “You’re not going to believe this, but your group is actually short a woman—someone cancelled without calling.”

“She just figured this out?”

“Yes, and she asked me to find someone downstairs who’d be interested in trying the Power Meet for free tonight.”

The usual fee was forty dollars per participant, which included your three cappuccinos. It worked well for the Blend—since the cappuccinos were pre-purchased by the church group, we were guaranteed to move one hundred and twenty drinks right off the bat, and often couples would descend the stairs and hang out for another hour on the first floor, talking and purchasing even more coffees. All in all, the singles sessions were a boon for the Blend.

“Got any ideas?” I asked him.

Tucker shook his head. “I’ll make the rounds. Latitia’s down there, but she’s already on a date with a guy from the symphony. Kira Kirk’s doing a crossword, but that woman acts like she hates all men. Martha Buck is at a table editing a manuscript, but I think she’s meeting someone. And Winnie Winslet stopped in, but she’s already said this isn’t her style.”

I thought a minute. “What about Inga?”

Tucker paled a little. “You mean Inga Berg?”

“I do indeed. Maybe shop and drop Inga will actually meet someone here worth holding onto.”

“Clare, Inga’s dead.”

“Dead!”

I’d said it a little too loudly. A few heads turned.

“Dead?” I whispered. “How? When?”

“Suicide. She jumped from the top of her building last Thursday night. I just heard about it from a
Voice
journalist doing a piece on it. The police kept the lid pretty tight on what happened at first, and she was so new to her building that the tenants weren’t even sure of her name—”

“Which is why we didn’t hear any rumors until now,” I guessed.

“It’s a terrible shame,” said Tucker. “But I better get going. Nan’s coming our way.”

My head was still spinning after Tucker left and Nan guided me to an armchair by the brick fireplace.

Inga Berg and Valerie Lathem. Both Blend customers. Both attractive young women. Both seemingly had everything to live for—yet both had committed suicide within weeks of each other.

Coincidence?

I’d once heard Mike Quinn say, “In my business, there are no coincidences.” And thinking of Quinn made me remember he’d been called to a crime scene the night of our dinner—and the night of our dinner was the night Inga had killed herself.

As Nan passed out small Hello Kitty notepads and pencils to everyone, I wondered if that was the reason I hadn’t seen Mike. Had he been assigned to investigate Inga’s suicide?

By the time Nan was done, Tucker had reappeared with the twentieth woman, Kira Kirk. She seemed a bit apprehensive, still clutching her crossword puzzle book. As usual, her hair was in its long gray braid, but she’d probably stopped in after a consulting appointment because she was dressed much nicer than usual—in a tailored black pantsuit rather than her usual oversized sweaters and jeans. And she was wearing makeup, too. She looked quite pretty, actually, and I was glad to see her up here.

My eyebrows rose at Tucker and he just shrugged. As Nan took Kira to a seat across the room, I motioned him over again.

“How did you manage to persuade her?” I whispered.

“Free, unlimited cappuccinos for two weeks, that’s how.”

“You’ll have five minutes to get to know each other,” announced Nan. With the women already seated, she quickly paired the men and women randomly. “When you hear the timer, shake hands and the gentlemen must then move one seat to the right. You then have a new five minutes to get to know the next person. There are twenty men and twenty women in this room, which means this session will last two hours. You’ll have fresh cappuccinos delivered to you during the course of the night; and don’t worry, we’ll take a few breaks so you can visit the little girls’ and little boys’ rooms!”