Mac slides my mug onto my table, the one by the front window. He leaves to take care of one of the small group of customers scattered around the shop.
A man who could pass for a beach bum sits down at the square wooden table in the chair across from mine. He’s about five foot eight inches tall. White, not like a sheet of paper but like people from Europe. He has brown hair tied back into a ponytail (at least while he’s at work). He keeps his whiskers from becoming a beard but I’ve never seen him clean-shaven. He has brown eyes that dart about like he’s hiding something or wants to make sure no one sneaks up on him. He’s closer to skinny than fat but is neither. He smiles at me, not because I’m special but because he smiles at everyone. His name is Trenton, don’t call him Trent, he hates that. He’s the owner of Cayucos Coffee.
“Hey, Mr. Owens, haven’t seen you in at least a week, been busy catching the bad guys?”
“Sometimes I get the feeling I’m helping more of the bad guys get away. They seem to be the ones who are willing to pay my fees. But, no, I’m not busy. Sally’s busy, Randolph W. Owens Investigations is busy, but I’m just passing time.”
“That sister of yours won’t give you something to do? That doesn’t sound like her.”
“She offers, but I’m picky.” Trenton waves Mac over and requests an Americano.
“Your talents are too valuable to waste on finding out if some guy is cheating on his wife right?” Mac sets Trenton’s coffee down in front of him, Trenton takes a sip and leans back into his wooden chair until it creaks. “You have enough time on your hands to help me catch a guy?”
“Maybe, what’s up?”
Trenton leans forward in his chair so I lean towards him, “It’s about Mac, that computer interface you gave me,” Trenton whispers.
“You know he can hear every word we say,” Mac can hear our conversation through the holo emitters in the shop and through my personal communications pad.
Mac doesn’t have his image walk to our table he just appears. In a split second he moves from behind the front counter to the edge of our table.
“What about the computer interface Randy gave you and he didn’t give you anything I’m public domain.”
“Just messing with you Mac,” Trenton grins up at Mac.
Mac has nothing to say, which is very rare for Mac. He just dissolves slowly and re-appears behind the shop’s sales counter.
“Want to take this conversation outside? I can turn off my pad.” I look over at Mac and he’s trying to burn a hole in me through his bottle cap glasses with his piercing green eyes. Something about the way his glasses make his eyes look giant makes the look far from threatening.
“No, I really was just messing with Mac. He’s a lot of fun. I don’t know what I’d do without him.”
Mac, still standing behind the counter, lets the holo emitters give his face a bit of a blush to acknowledge Trenton’s praise.
“The sun should burn off this fog in an hour or so, you going to stick around?”
“No, I came for the fog, it was already ninety degrees in Bakersfield when I left. The forecast is a hundred and three for today.”
“Our forecast is for sixty-six. Hard to believe a hundred miles makes that much difference. How come you don’t move here to paradise, you’re a rich man.”
“I like the heat and it’s a dry heat.”
Bakersfield and it’s dry heat is an old traditional Bakersfield joke but it’s also true. We talk about the weather, a little politics and about how I should marry and settle down. Before I leave the sun is shining and the shop has filled with worshipers of all ages, sizes. When the tables are all full, even the tables outside along the walkway, I decide it’s time to head home. Trenton walks me to the corner. I turn to the right and walk in the sand next to the waves of salt water for another half an hour before I return to my ground car and let Mac drive me back to Bakersfield.
david blankenship 