Roast Mortem

Eighteen

For twenty minutes the Arsonist observed the activity in the slick chain coffeehouse — the customer traffic, the counter service, the café tables — all while nursing the contents of an absurdly large cappuccino...

This whole thing should have been over by now. The old man’s place was supposed to be empty. It’s all because of that bitch things got so screwed up...

“Excuse me, ma’am.”

Across the room, a Latina worker apologized for bumping a female customer and then resumed rolling a stainless steel cart filled with bottles, cleaners, rags, and sponges. She pushed it through the restroom door, and then hung a Closed for Cleaning sign on the knob.

There’s my ticket...

The Arsonist stayed focused on that closed door, listened to sounds of running water, continued taking hits off the twenty-ounce paper cup. But the dregs of steamed milk tasted cold, the last drops of espresso bitter.

If only I could set off the damn bomb right now...

All around the Arsonist, young urban professionals were complaining about stalled careers and condo costs, lost benefits and airline delays, needy kids and presumptuous parents — a petty list of privileged problems. A few more minutes of listening to whining in quad and the Arsonist wanted to nuke the place, not just torch it.

Impatient, the Arsonist bent over the orange shopping bag. A small alarm clock sat inside, along with a large battery, a giant jar of high-octane spiked petroleum jelly, and a bleach bottle with no bleach inside. The Clorox bottle had been refilled with a mix of gasoline, naphtha, and benzene — all of it rigged to that clock. When the alarm went off, a quiet spark would awaken the sleeping beast. Then the petroleum jelly would ignite and poof, instant napalm.

Highly destructive, hell to put out...

The Arsonist reached into the orange bag, attached two wires sprouting from the battery, fixed them to circuits on the converted bleach bottle.

All ready...

The young coffeehouse worker finished cleaning the unisex facility. After tucking her cleaning products back onto her stainless steel cart, she rolled it into a closet adjacent to the restroom.

Time now...

The Arsonist rose and walked — easily, casually — to that restroom. Pretending to choose the “wrong” door, the Arsonist opened the closet, quickly slipped the bag onto the bottom shelf of the cart, between two giant bottles of cleaning fluids. The closet door was closed and the restroom door opened.

No one took notice of the Arsonist’s “mistake” — not one customer or employee.

After leaving the Long Island City shop, the Arsonist turned for one last look at the posted hours of operation. The timer on the bomb was set for 10 PM, well past the seven o’clock closing. Outside, the day was still pleasant, but the chill was coming.

Another package still had to be delivered — to the Village Blend coffeehouse in Greenwich Village. This one would be for that troublemaking bitch who’d tipped off the fire marshals to look beyond Testa for their torcher...

Two firebombs started us down this road. Two more will end it. And if that Cosi bitch doesn’t get the message after tonight, we’ll just have to end her.