It was early Friday evening and Seattle Bean on Second Avenue— one of some eight dozen coffee bars which had mushroomed, seemingly overnight, all over Manhattan—was filled with a young, outdoorsy- looking crowd. "The coffee happened," Kenzie said. "They served shit." "Yeah, but this? Seattle's revenge, that's what this is." Kenzie, sitting on a stool opposite him, was slowly working on a slice of dense chocolate cake and sipping cappuccino. "What this city needs," he growled, "is a proliferation law. For coffee bars." "And here I always thought you Italians liked good coffee." "Good coffee," he said, "doesn't have to cost three bucks a cup." Kenzie used her fork to cut a minute sliver of cake, speared it on the tines, raised it to her mouth, and chewed in slow motion. "Heaven," she sighed, shutting her eyes in ecstasy. "For what it cost, it had better be." "Charley, I'm trying to enjoy my calories. So get off this thrift kick and let's change the subject." "Okay." He folded his hands on the tiny table.
