CHAPTER 11
WORKING AT JAVA turned out to be a lot better than The Daily Grind. There wasn’t a coffee-bean outfit in sight, and the suited-and-booted clientele must not’ve been keen on coins rattling in their pockets, because they dumped them all straight into the tip jar.
Imogen and I got into a good rhythm, with me working the register while she made the coffee from six till twelve.
“Another day, done,” she said on Tuesday when we got home and collapsed on the sofa.
“Do you have to work tonight?”
“Day off. You wanna go out?”
“I’ve got court tomorrow, maybe.”
I still didn’t know. One of Oliver’s minions had telephoned to tell me my presence was required at Rhodes, Holden and Maxwell from eight, but he wasn’t sure whether I’d need to take the stand. The uncertainty was worse than a d
