Venice, California

The broad display window facing Pacific Avenue shuddered. A second gust of wind made the plate glass quiver and the sound was like the rolling flap of a huge banner in the wind. 

The big man at the counter turned toward the noise. A flurry of fat rain drops added to the wind’s brief attack on the window. In the quiet of the CoffeeCaker the clatter was reminiscent of the sound of the pea gravel he used to throw against a neighbor’s tin shed. As a kid of twelve, it was a mindless exercise he used to alleviate black fits of adolescent rage.

He dropped his head and ran thick, gnarled fingers through his shaggy hair. It was wild and coarse, the color neither black nor brown, but something in between. A full beard covered his face. Tangled and wilder than his hair, the combination gave him the look of an unattended bougainvillea, sans flowers.

“Partly cloudy with sunshine in the afternoon my ass. So much for Good Morning L.A. and their weather report,” he muttered.

A bellow of wind, followed by the drumming of rain, shook the window again. A phone warbled at the back of the coffee shop. After three irritating yodel like sounds it stopped. The big man straightened against the short back of the counter stool. He rotated his head in a slow circle and rolled huge shoulders and yawned.

He wore a black Maxwell, the color faded by years of use. Under the overcoat he wore a bright orange sweatshirt that covered his massive torso. Faded Levis and well worn Pipe Dragon pull-on hiking boots completed his casual, rumpled ensemble. A belch produced a sting of acid in his throat. Despite the indigestion, he wished for another pastry. He sighed instead and leaned forward for a sip of coffee.

Fingernails tapped at the cash register in front of him. The big man smiled beneath his curly beard. He heard her approach. A whisper of nylon, and the faint swish and thump of the kitchen’s café door, gave her away. Eyes down, Lincoln Pascoe picked up his spoon and swirled the strong coffee in his cup. “It’s the rain,” he said and reached for the creamer.

“What do you think? It’s never rained before?” Nancy’s voice dripped with victimized sarcasm. “Rain’s got nothing to do with it. It’s tax time, damnit. I don’t suppose you worry about that kind of stuff, but my customers do. They get tight with a buck around April fifteenth.”

“Look on the bright side,” he smirked, “summer’s in a couple of months. IRS’ll get their money, customers’ll take vacation time. You can go broke for real. Take bankruptcy.”

“Yeah whatever,” she said. “You ought’a be a comfort counselor at the hospice. Don’t let nobody get at the register, okay? I got to go to the can.” 

“Don’t worry, Nance. I’ll guard your fortune with my life, miserable though it might be.”