Blackening Song

ONE Ella Clah sat alone in her booth in a northeast L.A. coffee shop. The laminated menu lay untouched near the end of the narrow table. She knew it by heart, having come here practically every afternoon for the past year. It was close to the Southwestern Museum, a place she visited frequently. It was a little after five, too early for dinner, but she didn't feel like going home just yet. Today her bureau office had finally closed the fraud case they'd been working on for the last six months. Most of the other agents were celebrating at The Watering Hole, a favorite bar just a short walk from their downtown L.A. office. Ella wondered if she'd made a mistake by not going with them. She had a reputation for being a loner, and, in truth, she rarely socialized with her fellow agents. It wasn't the company she minded; it was all the drinking. She'd seen too much of it on the reservation where she'd grown up. Though the sale of alcohol was prohibited on the Navajo Nation, alcoholism was widespread. She stared at the red tile flooring, lost in thought. Her life on the Rez seemed like a century ago. In the last six years, she'd moved four times. The bureau kept her on the move and away from her home in northwestern New Mexico. She'd known about and welcomed the policy, which was meant to protect agents and their integrity, to keep agents far from investigations that might involve friends and family. The job-required travel helped Ella make a break with her past and start a new and different life. Ella watched the oleander bush in the coffee shop's courtyard sway in the hot Santa Ana wind. Tempers were short when the weather was like this. She glanced around the room, silently noting the faces of the few patrons who sat in the booths and at the tiny oak tables. Only Jeremy Jackson, the manager, seemed unaffected by the seasonal breeze. Ella had known him for months and had yet to see him in a bad mood. Jeremy was slowly working his way toward her booth. The tall, lanky, black man's easy stride matched his casual style. He stopped by every customer, greeting each as congenially as if they were old friends, making each feel special. He was good at his job. Business had doubled at the hole-in-the-wall coffee shop since he'd taken it over. Jeremy skirted the last few empty tables and slid into the seat across from Ella, flashing a wide grin. "Hey, Ella. Heard on the news the local FBI office broke open a big telephone fraud operation today. You in on that?" She nodded. "Why're you celebrating alone again, lady?" "You're here," she said, smiling. "Yeah, working, as usual." He shrugged. "You'd be happier if you had someone special. I know. That's why I keep getting married." He smiled. "Well, maybe five will be your lucky number," she answered, chuckling. Jeremy glanced toward the entrance as the tiny bell above the door rang and a man walked into the shop. "Damn. Not again. This guy getting to be a real pain." "Trouble?" Her view of the newcomer was blocked by the cigarette machine near the entryway. "Nah, he's harmless, just a headache. He applied for a job about a month ago. I hired someone else, but he keeps coming back, trying to get me to change my mind." "He must really want the job." "No, it's more than that. I get the idea he's racist as hell and didn't like getting turned down by a black man. I better go talk to him." Jeremy walked across the room. Ella saw the man clearly as he stepped into the middle of the diner to meet Jeremy. The guThurlo, Aimée is the author of 'Blackening Song' with ISBN 9780765302564 and ISBN 076530256X.