Twenty blue devils

Chapter 13

"Hi there, Unc,” he said, nephew-like and chipper. “God, don't you love the smell of coffee beans?” He inhaled deeply, swelling his chest. “Nothing like it."

Nick, his matted shoulders running with sweat, was using a scoop to poke through the open lid of a large, slowly revolving drum full of beans, one of four identical drums connected to a thrumming furnace a few feet away. “Coffee beans don't have any smell,” he muttered without looking up. “Not till later."

"No?"

"No."

"Must be my imagination, then.” He cleared his throat. “Because they look so good, you know?"

Nick merely glanced at him. “Christ."

So the preliminary reports on Nick's mood were accurate. John watched the older man sift a few more beans, feel them between his fingers, toss them back through the opening, close the lid, and move silently on to the next drum. The only sounds came from the furnace and from the masses of beans, shifting as the drums turned: sshhpp…sshhpp, like surf on a sandy beach.

John made another try. “Roasting, huh?” he asked brightly.

Nick closed the lid on the drum, straightened up, and eyed him levelly. “I'm not roasting, I'm a coffee-grower. Growers don't roast. Roasters roast."

"No?"

"No,"

The count: no balls, two strikes.

"So what are you doing then?"

"I'm drying. I'm pretty busy here, John."

"I thought you only air-dried-the ‘slow, natural Paradise way,'” John said, plucking this happy tidbit from a Caffe Paradiso ad he hadn't known he remembered.

"Paradise beans, yeah,” Nick said grudgingly. “But these are for some of our not-so-picky wholesale customers. That was one of Brian's ideas, you know-putting in a drying furnace for people who didn't want to spend for air-drying. And it's earned us a lot of money. Not everybody gives a damn, you know."

"Oh,” John said.

"Oh,” Nick said. He looked carefully at one of the beans he'd taken from the drum, then bit judiciously into it. “How's it taste?” John asked.

"I'm not tasting it,” Nick snapped and spit it out. “I'm testing the moisture content. For Christ's sake, John."

"Moisture content? Really? So-"

"John,” Nick said, his voice rising, “is there something I can do for you?"

But John, like his uncle, was not over-equipped with patience. “Yeah, there's something you can do for me,” he shouted back. “You can tell me why you've been jerking us around."

"What do you mean, jerking you around? Where do you come off-"

"Nick, we were at the police station this morning-"

"Yeah, I know,” Nick said sourly.

"-and the colonel there told us- You know? How do you know?"

"I know. Things get around. It's a small place."

"Do you know what he told us?"

"Suppose you tell me."

"That you withdrew the exhumation order, that you don't intend to have Brian's body dug up at all, that you're hiding something but he doesn't know what, that you've been giving us a royal runaround."

Strictly speaking, this was quite a bit more than Bertaud had told them, but from Nick's deep sigh it was clear that all or most of it was on the mark. He took off the fireman-red bandanna that had been loosely tied around his neck and mopped his head and throat with it. “Lord, it's hot. Let's go outside."

Near the platform scales at one end of the open shed Nick pulled a couple of liter cartons of papaya-and-pineapple juice out of a cooler and handed one to John. They went to sit at an ancient, splintery picnic table under a row of eucalyptus trees that bordered one side of the drying shed.

Nick slowly, wearily pulled his carton open, tipped it up, and swallowed a long, gurgling draft, his Adam's apple bobbing. Then another. He looked tired, washed-out.

"I'm sorry I lost my temper, Uncle Nick,” John said when he set the carton down.

"I'm the one who should be sorry, Johnny. I guess I owe you an explanation. Your friend too."

He crushed the carton against the table, carefully flattened it out, smoothed down the seams, took his time getting going.

"It was Therese,” he said, still working over the carton. “I sat down with her and told her we were having him exhumed and why, and she just about came apart. You can understand that, can't you? You know she's kind of…delicate. And she took Brian's death hard, John. They really loved each other."

"Yeah, I can understand that. So you called it off?"

"No, not then. I thought she'd come around after a day or two…” He shook his head. “…but I just couldn't get through to her. She was really…so yesterday I finally called the health department and canceled it. You guys were already on your way so I couldn't tell you not to come, and then when you got here I just didn't want to tell you you'd made the trip for nothing in the middle of the night.” He finally pushed the mashed carton aside and looked up. “So that's the story. I'm sorry if it screwed you up, but I still think I did the right thing."

John was silent for a moment. “I don't, Nick."

"Hell, it's not as if it was going to amount to anything."

"That's not true, Nick. There are a lot of unresolved questions here."

"I tell you the truth, John, I don't much care. Even if Gasparone's goons really knocked him off, then let that be the end of it. I don't think you understand how shook up she is, and I'm not going to put that girl through hell all over again. For what? I mean, let's say you turn out to be right, which I don't think you are, but just for the sake of argument. So what happens then, a trial? Testifying? Drag it out for two more years? And then what? Have you thought about that?"

John peered at him. “That doesn't sound like you, Nick."

Nick shrugged. “I'm not the man I was, John. I don't do battle with the world anymore. I'm almost seventy, you know. Wait'll you get there; you'll see."

That didn't sound like him either. “Nick, you can't just let this go. This was Brian. I want you to change your mind."

"No.” But Brian's name had brought a wince. “I can do whatever I damn please, John, and in this case I'm putting Therese first.” He got up. “I've got to get back to the dryers.” But he stood there a little longer, leaning on his knuckles on the table. “Look, I'm really sorry about your friend Gideon coming out here for nothing. But as long as you're here, I know Therese would appreciate it if you stayed for the service. Gideon too, if he wants; he's more than welcome. Until then, why don't you loosen up and relax, for Christ's sake? Lay back for a few days, see some of the islands, go over to Bora Bora, eat some good food, get reacquainted with the family. Some people actually like it here, you know."

John replied with a shrug, not unfriendly but meaningless. He walked back with Nick and watched for a while as he scooped, studied, poked, and bit the revolving beans. “You have any objection if I talk to Therese about it?” he said after a few minutes.

"Jesus, can't we even have one dinner like a normal family before you start-"

"I don't mean today,” John said quickly. “Tomorrow, maybe."

Nick stopped his work and looked at John for a while. “I don't want you browbeating her, Johnny. She's been through enough."

"Hey, Nick.” He put his hand on the shaggy forearm and stopped him in mid-scoop. “You really think I'd browbeat Therese?"

Nick studied him hard for a moment, then relaxed. “No, I guess not. Sure, talk to her about it if you want. Just take no for an answer, will you?"

"Don't worry,” John said. “I've had lots of practice at that.” The air between them had almost cleared. “So tell me, how do you tell moisture content from chewing on the beans?"

"Don't start patronizing me. I'm not that decrepit."

"No, I'm really interested. Tell me."

Nick told him. The beans had to be dried to a ten percent moisture content before being bagged. Dryer than that and they lost flavor. Wetter-with a moisture content of even twelve percent, say-they were likely to mold within a few weeks. But at ten percent they stayed fresh indefinitely.

"You can do it scientifically, of course,” Nick said, “but I like the old eyetooth-crunch technique. Here, take one of these. Have a bite."

John bit.

"Sort of gummy,” Nick said, “right?"

John nodded.

"That's because the moisture's at twelve or thirteen percent. Now try this one.” He handed him another bean, slightly paler, from a drum that he had turned off earlier. “This one's right at ten percent."

John bit again.

"Crisp, isn't it?” Nick said. “Sort of snaps right in two. Feel the difference?"

"I sure do,” John said, nodding. “That's really interesting.” Nick's good-humored laugh rolled easily out of him. “You always were a good faker. Can you really tell the difference?” John grinned back at him. “Not if my life depended on it, Unc."