There's an especially bizarre small cafe in New York's Lower East Side, where the abandoned little brokendown houses once occupied by immigrants meets the newly renovated store buildings and more cheerful graffiti-slathered alleys. The cafe is called The Stirrer, and it's the last recorded place where an alleged Ella Moy linked to Chicago worked, according to our family lawyer. I had already gone to a law firm and a night club looking for an Ella Moy but the law firm said she quit almost two years ago and the night club's Ella Moy, a bartender, was patient with me but had no idea what I was talking about.
Inside, dim Christmas lights lined the ceiling, and the geometric walls were painted either red, purple, or yellow. Purposely mismatched but equally leveled chairs and tables sat next to each other in what appeared to be a strategic mess, and all the baristas wore sleek brown uniforms and hats shaped like teacups.
I had gone there twice although chickened out both times on asking for Ella Moy because the people there seemed so hostile. The coffee and pastries were surprisingly good for a rundown cafe in a rundown neighborhood, but this time, I promised that I would request not for a vanilla latte but a person.
The stone-faced cashier with unbrushed brown hair greeted me sourly at the counter. I said, "Um hi.. I'm looking for someone named Ella Moy. I think she might, um, work here?"
She made a face at me. "What do you need her for?" she asked suspiciously.
"Uh," I said, expecting a vague, passing answer. "I just need to ask her something?"
The cashier stared at me for a few silent seconds before she, without turning her head, yelled: "Vana!"
"Okay!" A blonde woman in her mid-twenties immediately ran out from behind the Employee Only door, panicky. "What's the matter?"
"This girl wants to see Moy," the cashier said, pointing at me, and they both gave me the once over, twice.
"What's it about?" Vana asked, gesturing us to move away from the counter. The man behind me took a step forward to order, clearing his throat.
"Well," I said, thinking that I might as well tell the truth. "Apparently my father was supposed to meet her a year ago, but he passed away. So they sent me here to see her."
"Ah huh," Vana crossed her arms and ran her tongue across her teeth. "Who's that?"
"My dad?" I repeated, and she just smirked at me. "Um, his name is William Parkley?"
"Oh...ohh! Billy?!" Vana exclaimed in a high tone, dropping her arms. "Noo! He's dead?"
"Do you know him?"
"Billy Parkley, I know him," Vana told me, suddenly nodding intently and putting a hand to her mouth. "A good man. Wow, I'm sorry for that. What happened, eh?"
"It was a motorcycle accident," I said, turning towards the purple wall next to us. "How did you know him?"
"What a pity." Vana just frowned at me. "Okay, I tell Ella. She'll meet you come next Sunday."
"Well, okay," I said slowly. I didn't know what else to say as Vana was already teetering off in her 6-inch brown alligator skin stilettos. The sour cashier turned to look at her.
"Billy Parkley's daughter," Vana told her, and the cashier raised her head towards me, surprised. "And guess what? He's passed."
"For real?" was the shocked reply. Vana nodded gravely, smiling wistfully at me, before disappearing back through the door she ran out from.
I took one last look at the mismatched colors of the cafe, and then I left.
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