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He got me their signature drink, which I’m pretty sure was just a watered down cheap powdered mix with canned whip cream on top.
I took a sip and wrinkled my nose.
“I don’t know why it doesn’t do well,” he said, looking around. “It’s got a good concept.”
“It’s seasonal. There are no gift options, the customer service sucks, the assortment is basic, there’s nothing allergen friendly, no ancillary items, and the hot chocolate looks boring and tastes like it’s been in someone else’s mouth.”
He pulled his face back. “Wow. You got all that from one sip and two minutes?”
“This is what I do,” I said, looking at the messy napkin station.
“So how would you fix it?”
“Off the top of my head? Well, the first thing I’d do is expand the menu and rework the recipes with better ingredients. Maybe a salted caramel hot chocolate, a white chocolate one, a vegan option—they’re probably all naturally gluten free already—mention that right on the menu, put it on the window. Have a few fun ones for social media. Call one Buddy the Elf, top it with spaghetti whip cream and candy. Rim the cups in sprinkles, pile the whip cream on top, drizzle with chocolate. Get branded cups. Sell hot chocolate kits in mason jars for gifts. They’d make good stocking stuffers. You could even ship those, just add water or milk. Offer coffee, too, and some assorted pastries. Sell ice cream for the summer…”
He was nodding. “That’s impressive.”
“Yeah. I’m kind of good at that stuff. I really turned around the store I work in. Or worked in, until today.”
He drew his eyebrows down. “Did something happen?”
I puffed air into my cheeks. “I think my job is a front for the mafia.”
“What? Why would you think that?”
“Because the FBI showed up last week and said this is a front for the mafia?”
He blinked at me.
“Let’s walk,” I said. “This is a long story.”
I tossed my drink and waited until we got back outside to continue.
“So there was a boutique that was hiring, and I applied. The whole interview was really weird, mostly because the guy didn’t look like the kind of guy to own a women’s clothing store? He barely asked me any questions and I got hired pretty much on the spot and it paid really well. Like, really, really well. The owner was never there. He only showed up to have meetings with his friends in the back room. He’d never get any inventory in and when they did, it was just random stuff off cheap websites. We’d make like fifteen dollars a day, but he didn’t seem to care? So I was like, ‘Why don’t you give me a budget and let me stock the shop?’ So I did and then it started to actually do well, and I hired a staff and then I started an email list and social media pages and I did window displays and it got sort of popular? And then last week the owner got arrested for tax evasion.”
“Oh…” he said slowly.
“Yeah. The FBI showed up a few hours ago and made my assistant manager close. My paycheck didn’t clear today. I think they froze my boss’s accounts.”
We turned down Nicholas’s street.
“How long did you work there?” he asked.
“Four years.”
“Ouch. What are you going to do?”
“I have no idea,” I said. “Do you think they’ll make me testify against them?”
“They might.”
“Ugh.” I groaned.
“Are you worried about it?”
“No, they’ll never get me to talk. I just hate driving downtown.”
He chuckled.
