In Over Her Head by Elsie Russell - Parnasse.com

find her first, don't you?" She stopped dead in the middle of the floor
and stared down at the concrete.
"Eh, relax. We have coffee and then we can brainstorm this."
He grinned and clasped his arms behind his head. "Ah! You know, you
need to get out more, get some R and D. You bury yourself alive down
here with your big machines. Ula tell me all about it. This is not a life!
Emotions are not abstract science. You don't even have a boyfriend,
yes?"
She chose to ignore that last remark.
"That would be R and R. R and D is exactly what I do down
here. Research and dee-velopment. Rest and ree-laxation. I thought the
Euro's were up on the whole acronym thing."
He nodded tersely at her correction and tossed his cell on the
printout strewn coffee table that she'd made from plastic milk crates
and duct tape.
She watched the phone slide across her jumble of scores, ice
cold drops of rage trickling down her spine. She kept herself from
decking him one across his plastic jaw.
Who the hell did this jittery piece of Eurotrash off the street
think he was? And, hey, maybe she had a boyfriend, until he got it into
his thick skull to go be a Yukon roughneck, just because the elk was
better up there. But whose business was that, anyway? And what was
the deal with the music? And Ula knew! He must know too. Were they
thinking of using her like everybody else did who knew and didn't steer
clear? This guy was pretty quick to offer her a job, acting like he was
scared she'd slap him with a lawsuit, and come to think of it that wasn't
such a bad idea.
The break-in next door had her totally freaked. A key was
needed just to use the elevator, another one for the stairs to the
basement. This was Manhattan, after all. At least she knew nobody
wanted her dead. They wanted her alive.
At the kitchen corner she fished out a dusty Mr. Moka from the
cupboard, its plastic handle long melted into a surreal glob. She washed
the coffee maker, filled the bottom with water, and dropped in the
basket. After rummaging again through the cabinet, she found an old
vacuum pack of Bustelo, the local Latino brand. She tore open the top
with her teeth, poured in the grind, patted it down with her palm,
twisted on the top, and sat Mr Moka on the burner. Thirty seconds
later, Mr Moka erupted like Vesuvius inside his faceted aluminum body
and the aroma of fresh espresso filled the room. The Italian guy was
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