Heaven is a Cup of Coffee

Pretty George drummed his fingers along the table; he was humming along with the radio tune. It was something old and classic. His cafe latte arrived and was placed before him. He smiled at the waitress, who must have been in her late 50's, and she genuinely smiled back.

Pretty George had a quality about him. The waitress' face went flush and her heartbeat picked up. His eyes locked with hers, showing warmth and tenderness and promising a night of passion so intense that it could melt the butter in 13 states around them.

"You can turn it off now, Pretty," Mags said as she sat in the seat across from him.

Pretty chuckled, and the waitress looked at Mags. And for one instant Mags saw that the woman was intent on doing her harm, but that passed like a shadow from a small cloud. Mags shook her head and smiled; Pretty had that certain charm about him. Potent, but too gentle to be creepy.

"Hello Maggie Mae," Pretty said.

"Let's cut to the chase, Pretty," Mags said. "Did you get the stuff?"

Pretty feigned disgust. "After all these years do you think I don't know what I am doing?"

"Of course not," Mags said. "Just that it was an unusual request, is all."

"That's nothing unusual; it was easier than getting the sweat of Elvis in a vial," Pretty said. He toed the bag underneath the table so that it brushed Mags' leg. And she nodded.

Mags flashed him a smile and asked, "Sweat of Elvis?"

"It's a long story," said Pretty as he brought his latte to his lips. Before tasting what the aroma promised to be heaven, he added with a slight wink, "I shall tell you some morning when you finally discard that lugnut of a wingnut of yours."