Rahm took a long, meandering jog in the direction of Harry and Mac's. He wasn't planning to wait outside the door, more...saunter in a few minutes after they opened. He'd scheduled his run purposefully to manage that.
A too-tall man was fiddling sleepily with the lock on the storefront. Rahm checked his watch. 10:02 a.m.; supposedly they should be open. The man's key finally found its way in, and he grunted as he shoved open the door. Rahm followed him in quietly.
The man poked around with a few things, flipping a sign to "open," slipping behind the counter to start tending a gleaming, well-cared-for antique coffee maker. Seriously, the thing had to be at least 90 years old, and it was huge.
"I take it espresso's not your thing," Rahm said casually. The man yelped, jumped, and smacked his knee loudly into the cabinet in front of him. He whirled around, muttering furiously under his breath.
"Who - whoawhoa. Mayor Emanuel?" he blinked.
"That's what they call me," Rahm said with a grin.
The guy gulped.
"And what do they call you, sweetcheeks?"
He turned beet red. "Harry. Harry Dresden, nice to meet you," he mumbled to the floor. "What brings you here?"
"One of my staffers let me have a sip of her coffee. Your coffee. I decided I'd get a cup of my own, but you're not open mornings on weekdays. This displeases me."
Harry took a small step back. "I work late nights in the pub, to pay for using the space," he told the floor.
"Not on Fridays, though?"
"Friday's my day off. I work long Saturdays to make up for it, though," he shrugged one shoulder.
"How much is the coffee, kid?"
"Dollar for straight black, extra fifty cents for anything fancy."
Rahm's jaw dropped. "How the hell do you live with the prices that low?"
Harry blinked, and shrugged. "Well, the service is always kinda slow since there's only one of me. But the tips are pretty good and business is picking up. I got this cheap," he patted the coffee maker, "'cos it was broken. Me and Mac fixed it. I pay Mac in kind for the space and utilities, so I'm making some profits."
"How long have you been open?"
Harry tilted his head. "Uhhh. Three weeks or so?"
"Jesus. Alright, kid. Gimme some coffee."
"What kind?"
"Black."
Harry grinned. "What about a dash of cinnamon? You look like the type."
"What does that mean?" Rahm asked, eyes narrowed.
"It's hard to explain, I guess. Just...unique. And a little surprising. If you don't like it I'll make you a new one, no extra charge," he smiled. The coffee was almost done brewing.
"Sure," Rahm shrugged. Harry poured one for himself and one for Rahm, and gave Rahm the one with cinnamon.
It was better than the staffer's milky, sweet soup. He couldn't believe how much he'd enjoyed that crap when there was something this perfect in the world. The tensions melted away again and he hummed.
"Would you like to stay for a while?" Harry asked.
"Mmm." Rahm sat at one of the bar stools. "You should think about selling pastries, kid. If you're gonna do this much longer."
"I did think about it, but it would be one more thing to pay attention to, and buying them somewhere else and selling them here isn't the same as making them on my own. Cheaper, in terms of time, but..." he shrugged.
"Maybe it's time to hire an assistant, then," Rahm suggested.
Harry shifted his weight uneasily. "I don't know if I have enough for that."
"If you can get more coffee out, you can make more money. An assistant could open in the mornings, too." And then Rahm could get his fix when he really needed it.
"I'll think about it. I've never really done anything like this before. I, um, grew up on a farm in Missouri and my, um, guardian got me a job with Mac. Mac was the one who encouraged me to do this instead of just working for him for the rest of my life."
"How old are you?" Rahm asked. Harry's height made it impossible to believe he could still be growing, and his face and eyes had the look of a man who'd seen a lot of things, not all of them good.
"Twenty-four."
"How long have you been in Chicago?"
"About four years," he shrugged. "I helped Eb out on the farm before he said I should go, y'know, do my own thing."
"Never went to college?"
"Didn't have the money. I got a GED when I was, I dunno, fourteen? But it wasn't like I could do anything with it then."
It sounded a lot like people were taking advantage of an innocent foster child. Rahm took a slow sip of his drink. "You realize you could probably charge five dollars for just black coffee and people would still line up out the door, right? This is Chicago. We reward good products with our continued business."
"I don't know about that, sir. I don't buy all that much, except groceries. And anyway, the markup is already at least 30 percent. More than that feels like robbery."
"Harry. I have had a lot of coffee in my life. Some has been good, some terrible, some overpriced, some hilariously overpriced. I have never had coffee even approach this quality under $3 a cup."
Harry licked his lips. "Maybe I'll try that. I just like being able to give people the coffee that suits them best. It's a guessing game. I don't need the money so much."
"But you could hire staff, or buy a new coffee maker..." this was frustrating and confusing. Someone who didn't want to make money off his customers.
"I can use the tips for that, I think. If I wait long enough."
"Maybe you should have folks vote. Whether they want faster service even if it costs a little more," Rahm said.
"Voting is a good idea. And a suggestion box." Harry beamed. "Thank you, sir."
"Call me Rahm. What you need, kid, is an investor."
"Investor? Why?"
"So if you want to make a purchase, you don't have to wait until you have the savings - you get the investor to do it and pay them back at a little bit of interest."
"But I don't mind waiting..."
"Your customers might. And then they might not recommend you to their friends - all the little coffee mysteries going to the wrong shop. You got me?"
"Hmm. I never thought of it like that."
"I've handled all kinds of investments before," Rahm said, starting to feel like he was getting somewhere.
"Shouldn't I go to a bank for something like this?"
"At your age, with this kinda establishment? And I bet you don't have a credit score. Probably not a good idea. Besides, if you can't trust your mayor, who can you trust?"
Harry snarked back, "Because the Chicago political machine is sooooo trustworthy."
The kid had a sense of humor. Rahm grinned wider. "Haven't you seen the ads, kid? I'm not part of the machine."
"But you know how this city works. We run on cronyism and nepotism."
"Then let's be friends," Rahm offered his left hand, his right being too busy with the coffee. "Hell, someone makes me coffee this good, they've got to really work to get me pissed off at them."
"Friends with the mayor? I'd rather not. He sounds like a vicious politician," Harry said, teasing. "But I'll be friends with Rahm, sure. I mean that, no - I don't want any favors. Those can kill a guy's reputation."
"Have it your way. The only favor I'll do for you is telling my friends to come try the coffee," Rahm smiled.
Rahm: Searching for Heaven [3/?]
A too-tall man was fiddling sleepily with the lock on the storefront. Rahm checked his watch. 10:02 a.m.; supposedly they should be open. The man's key finally found its way in, and he grunted as he shoved open the door. Rahm followed him in quietly.
The man poked around with a few things, flipping a sign to "open," slipping behind the counter to start tending a gleaming, well-cared-for antique coffee maker. Seriously, the thing had to be at least 90 years old, and it was huge.
"I take it espresso's not your thing," Rahm said casually. The man yelped, jumped, and smacked his knee loudly into the cabinet in front of him. He whirled around, muttering furiously under his breath.
"Who - whoawhoa. Mayor Emanuel?" he blinked.
"That's what they call me," Rahm said with a grin.
The guy gulped.
"And what do they call you, sweetcheeks?"
He turned beet red. "Harry. Harry Dresden, nice to meet you," he mumbled to the floor. "What brings you here?"
"One of my staffers let me have a sip of her coffee. Your coffee. I decided I'd get a cup of my own, but you're not open mornings on weekdays. This displeases me."
Harry took a small step back. "I work late nights in the pub, to pay for using the space," he told the floor.
"Not on Fridays, though?"
"Friday's my day off. I work long Saturdays to make up for it, though," he shrugged one shoulder.
"How much is the coffee, kid?"
"Dollar for straight black, extra fifty cents for anything fancy."
Rahm's jaw dropped. "How the hell do you live with the prices that low?"
Harry blinked, and shrugged. "Well, the service is always kinda slow since there's only one of me. But the tips are pretty good and business is picking up. I got this cheap," he patted the coffee maker, "'cos it was broken. Me and Mac fixed it. I pay Mac in kind for the space and utilities, so I'm making some profits."
"How long have you been open?"
Harry tilted his head. "Uhhh. Three weeks or so?"
"Jesus. Alright, kid. Gimme some coffee."
"What kind?"
"Black."
Harry grinned. "What about a dash of cinnamon? You look like the type."
"What does that mean?" Rahm asked, eyes narrowed.
"It's hard to explain, I guess. Just...unique. And a little surprising. If you don't like it I'll make you a new one, no extra charge," he smiled. The coffee was almost done brewing.
"Sure," Rahm shrugged. Harry poured one for himself and one for Rahm, and gave Rahm the one with cinnamon.
It was better than the staffer's milky, sweet soup. He couldn't believe how much he'd enjoyed that crap when there was something this perfect in the world. The tensions melted away again and he hummed.
"Would you like to stay for a while?" Harry asked.
"Mmm." Rahm sat at one of the bar stools. "You should think about selling pastries, kid. If you're gonna do this much longer."
"I did think about it, but it would be one more thing to pay attention to, and buying them somewhere else and selling them here isn't the same as making them on my own. Cheaper, in terms of time, but..." he shrugged.
"Maybe it's time to hire an assistant, then," Rahm suggested.
Harry shifted his weight uneasily. "I don't know if I have enough for that."
"If you can get more coffee out, you can make more money. An assistant could open in the mornings, too." And then Rahm could get his fix when he really needed it.
"I'll think about it. I've never really done anything like this before. I, um, grew up on a farm in Missouri and my, um, guardian got me a job with Mac. Mac was the one who encouraged me to do this instead of just working for him for the rest of my life."
"How old are you?" Rahm asked. Harry's height made it impossible to believe he could still be growing, and his face and eyes had the look of a man who'd seen a lot of things, not all of them good.
"Twenty-four."
"How long have you been in Chicago?"
"About four years," he shrugged. "I helped Eb out on the farm before he said I should go, y'know, do my own thing."
"Never went to college?"
"Didn't have the money. I got a GED when I was, I dunno, fourteen? But it wasn't like I could do anything with it then."
It sounded a lot like people were taking advantage of an innocent foster child. Rahm took a slow sip of his drink. "You realize you could probably charge five dollars for just black coffee and people would still line up out the door, right? This is Chicago. We reward good products with our continued business."
"I don't know about that, sir. I don't buy all that much, except groceries. And anyway, the markup is already at least 30 percent. More than that feels like robbery."
"Harry. I have had a lot of coffee in my life. Some has been good, some terrible, some overpriced, some hilariously overpriced. I have never had coffee even approach this quality under $3 a cup."
Harry licked his lips. "Maybe I'll try that. I just like being able to give people the coffee that suits them best. It's a guessing game. I don't need the money so much."
"But you could hire staff, or buy a new coffee maker..." this was frustrating and confusing. Someone who didn't want to make money off his customers.
"I can use the tips for that, I think. If I wait long enough."
"Maybe you should have folks vote. Whether they want faster service even if it costs a little more," Rahm said.
"Voting is a good idea. And a suggestion box." Harry beamed. "Thank you, sir."
"Call me Rahm. What you need, kid, is an investor."
"Investor? Why?"
"So if you want to make a purchase, you don't have to wait until you have the savings - you get the investor to do it and pay them back at a little bit of interest."
"But I don't mind waiting..."
"Your customers might. And then they might not recommend you to their friends - all the little coffee mysteries going to the wrong shop. You got me?"
"Hmm. I never thought of it like that."
"I've handled all kinds of investments before," Rahm said, starting to feel like he was getting somewhere.
"Shouldn't I go to a bank for something like this?"
"At your age, with this kinda establishment? And I bet you don't have a credit score. Probably not a good idea. Besides, if you can't trust your mayor, who can you trust?"
Harry snarked back, "Because the Chicago political machine is sooooo trustworthy."
The kid had a sense of humor. Rahm grinned wider. "Haven't you seen the ads, kid? I'm not part of the machine."
"But you know how this city works. We run on cronyism and nepotism."
"Then let's be friends," Rahm offered his left hand, his right being too busy with the coffee. "Hell, someone makes me coffee this good, they've got to really work to get me pissed off at them."
"Friends with the mayor? I'd rather not. He sounds like a vicious politician," Harry said, teasing. "But I'll be friends with Rahm, sure. I mean that, no - I don't want any favors. Those can kill a guy's reputation."
"Have it your way. The only favor I'll do for you is telling my friends to come try the coffee," Rahm smiled.