La Belle
It was his favorite place, serving his favorite drink.
La Belle Cafe, small and rustic, but with enough covered outside space, to always get a table overlooking the busy street and enjoy his favorite pastime.
People watching was more than just a job, it was a window into a world, he chose to be only a part of on occasion, a world whom he used, to gain information, to manipulate if necessary, to remove a piece from, sometimes quickly, sometimes violently.
But in this spot, with a simple cup of coffee in his hand, at La Belle, he felt almost as if he was not the distant observer, but a part of the whole. The cup, white, without any of the delicate frazzle, and flowers, held the warmth nicely, and allowed him to nurse in comfort and quiet style, on the standard two beverages he indulged in, every time he came back home.
La Belle was home, more home than any hotel room, hiding suitcases of assorted arsenal, more home than a quickly rented shack, in their various stages of decay, during and after assignments. It was the place of warmth, a smile of recognition of the beautiful ginger waitress, a nod from the owner, a quiet solitude.
With a small, perfectly shaped silver spoon, he merged the sweetness of the sugar with the exquisite liquid and almost smiled, despite himself.
Even killers needed a little peace.
Copyright Claudia H. Blanton 2014
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