London Twist: A Delilah Novella

were the case, she would know soon enough.
    St. Martin’s was a quiet, narrow street, apparently notable mostly for its antique dealers and secondhand booksellers and, as Fatima had said, the ornate Coliseum Theatre. Notes, a modest storefront announcing itself with stenciled letters on the front glass, was just a little ways up the road on the right. She headed in, and found herself in a long, rectangular room with a high ceiling, wood floors, and lots of natural light from a large skylight. There was a pleasant mix of conversation, laughter, and jazz playing through an unseen speaker system, the background hum punctuated by the mechanical buzz of burr coffee grinders, the
ka-thwack!
of hand-pulled espresso baskets being dumped, the hiss and bubbling of steam being shot into milk. The air was redolent with the delicious smell of fresh coffee.
    She scanned the room and detected no obvious problems, just a collection of men and women of various ages, types, and ethnicities. She kept moving ahead, past a giant poster of Miles Davis. Tables lined the wall to her right; to her left, extending half the length of the shop, was a long wooden counter, manned by three baristas and dominated by a massive, gleaming Strada espresso machine. The rear of the space was more open, with two large communal tables, a bench, and walls lined with tall shelves of DVDs and music CDs
    Fatima was sitting in the corner seat of the communal table all the way in back, facing the front of the store. A tactical view of the entrance, or a courteous way to make it easier for Delilah to spot her? Perhaps both. There was a laptop open in front of her—a MacBook Air. Good. She was wearing a black button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up and her hair was tied back in a ponytail. There was just a bit of makeup—eyeliner, a touch of foundation—and the overall effect was of effortless beauty.
    She looked up, saw Delilah, and smiled. She closed the laptop and stood. “Delilah, hello. Thank you for coming.”
    Delilah shook her hand, noting the care she had taken to close the laptop. “Not at all. Thank you for taking the time. I like your office.”
    Fatima laughed. “The rent is good, and the coffee is better. Would you like something?”
    Delilah glanced down at Fatima’s empty cup. “What’s that you’re having?”
    “Red Brick espresso.”
    “Looks like it was a double.”
    “Yes.”
    Delilah set the camera bag down on the table. “Why don’t you watch my bag, and I’ll get one for both of us.”
    They wound up talking for hours. Rather than using a recorder, which she thought might make Fatima unhelpfully self-conscious, Delilah took notes. But at times the conversation was so involved and so comfortable that she forgot her role as journalist. Which was fine, of course, because she was trying to establish something more than just that.
    “I read about your brothers, of course,” she said at one point. “I’m sorry.”
    “It was hard. Have you ever lost anyone?”
    “Like that? No. I doubt many people have. But my older brother died when I was sixteen.”
    “I’m so sorry. May I ask what happened?”
    “A car accident,” Delilah said. In fact, her brother was killed in combat in Lebanon, but like every other aspect of the legend she lived, this one was so painstakingly backstopped, custom tailored, and carefully rehearsed that the legend was what felt real to her, while the details of her actual childhood were suffused with the vagueness and improbability of an interrupted dream. “So I can only imagine what your family has endured.”
    “Imagine? But you know.”
    “Well, yes. But two children instead of one, and a deliberate killing—murder, really, rather than an accident. Your parents… I don’t know how people survive these things. My own were never the same.”
    She could have pushed further, turning the subject to the brother, Imran, and what happened to him. But pushing on that topic too soon might set off warning bells. Besides, there was no reason to rush.
    At one point, they ordered sandwiches. During the hours they’d been talking, the clientele had completely turned over. Fatima might have had people watching Delilah—enough of them so they could tag-team and remain unobtrusive. Or someone might have been waiting outside, to pick up Delilah as she left. But she doubted it. Maybe Fatima didn’t have, or didn’t tolerate, minders. Either way, Delilah’s sense was that she wasn’t yet on anyone’s