Nat was pouring water into a large, Italian-made machine. "What kinda work you doing?" he asked over his shoulder.
"Real estate."
"Man, that's original."
"Pays the bills.Pretty cool store you have here, Nat. Curry tells me you're doing well."
"I'm just trying to breathe some culture into this desert. Paul loaned me thirty thousand bucks to get started, can you believe that? I had nothing but an idea, and eight hundred bucks, and, of course, my mother was willing to sign the note."
"How's she doing?"
"Great, thanks. She refuses to age.Still teaching the third grade."
When the coffee was brewing properly, Nat leaned next to the small sink and stroked his bushy mustache. "Rake's gonna die,Neely , can you believe that?Messina without Eddie Rake. He started coaching here forty-four years ago. Half the people in this county weren't born then."
"Have you seen him?"
"He was in here a lot, but when he got sick he went home to die. Nobody's seen Rake in six months."
Neely glanced around."Rake was here?"
"Rake was my first customer. He encouraged me to open this place, gave me the standard pep talk—have no fear, work harder than the other guy, never say die—the usual halftime rah-rah. When I opened, he liked to sneak down here in the mornings for coffee. Guess he figured he was safe because there wasn't exactly a crowd. Most of the yokels thought they'd catch AIDS when they walked in the front door."
"When did you open?"
"Seven and a half years ago. Couldn't pay the light bill for the first two years, then it slowly came around. Rumor spread that this was Rake's favorite place, so the town got curious."
"I think the coffee's ready," Neely said as the machine hissed. "I never saw Rake read a book."
Nat poured two small cups, on saucers, and placed them on the counter.