The twins were short-- again.

Steve had left for the day, so it was up to me to read them the riot act.

"No way," said Kevin. "You gotta believe me, Hugo. I was so careful. I counted back people's change like you showed me. There's no way."

"I know how this looks," said Brian, "but it's not what it seems. It just looks like something. But it's not us."

"Not sure I follow you there, son. Want to try it, again?"

The two exchanged a look.

"What Brian means," said Kevin, "is that he knows it looks like we're really stupid, but we're not."

"And we're not stealing from you, either," added Brian. "We like you. We'd never hurt you.

I nodded, appreciatively. "Thank you, but money doesn't just disappear, Brian. Do you think I'm making your drawer short?"

Brian shook his head, violently. "No, Mr. Ciccarelli. I think Steve is."

*****

I sat in the partial darkness of a closed Mocha Daze and listened to the Kitaro CD Barbra liked so much, playing in the background.

It was the tenth time I'd heard it that day but I didn't mind. I liked the rhythm and the gentle zombie trance it was putting me into.

Steve taking money and making the kids look bad.

Jesus, when was this shit going to stop?

Why can't I just have a halfway decent life where I don't have to question everybody I come in contact with?

I looked at the rack of t-shirts in the corner. The ugly pink and green shirts that Barbra designed. Giant coffee cup on the front, steam waves coming out and forming a happy face. The face replacing the "o" in Mocha. Blech.

People bought them, of course, and bought enough of them that the unsold ones were already paid for.

No accounting for taste. Even mine.

*****

Finally, I went around from table to table and blew out the candles, their tiny black wisps of smoke hanging above the table like spiderwebs.

The shop wasn't mine anymore.

It was theirs.

If Steve was stealing, he was just stealing from himself.

I'd look out for the boys and protect them but realized suddenly, and clearly, that I didn't give a damn about the new, improved Mocha Daze.

I considered sailing the last of the lit candles into the t-shirts and let Mother Nature and subsequent fire clean out the place.

"Arsonist," I said, aloud. "What a splendid title."

I pondered the crime.

I pondered the jail sentence.

I pinched out the last flame and went home.