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said, beaming a big cheesy smile up at LaRoche before turning back, ‘I’m going to make it a star.’
    Sarah’s eyes narrowed. ‘You still watching those old movies? You’re starting to talk like one.’
    I linked arms with her and started walking her toward the door. ‘The moon, Sarah. We can have the stars and the moon.’
    ‘Now Voyager, 1942,’ she snapped, pulling away. Not a toucher, our Sarah – apparently not even to impress her biggest client. ‘And Bette Davis’s line is, “Don’t let’s ask for the moon. We have the stars.” If you’re going to quote movies, Maggy, at least get ‘em right.’
    Now there was the Sarah I knew and loved, though sometimes I wasn’t sure why. I liked to think I was neither insecure nor a masochist, just perceptive enough to see the genuinely good person buried under all of Sarah’s bluster. Some days it might take a backhoe to reach it, but then I was no picnic, either.
    Safely out the door, I reverted to character, too. ‘We’re doomed, Sarah.’ I moaned. ‘Doomed, do you hear me?’
    ‘Stop the theatrics, Maggy!’ Sarah snarled. ‘Do you hear me?’
    She was right. I couldn’t afford to panic now. Not about HotWired and their free drinks coupons, or about the possible annihilation of life as I knew it.
    I had a plan. A strategy, as LaRoche would put it. First step was:
    1. Call Mark.
    That was pretty much my plan, so far. My friend Mark headed up one of the local TV stations and, as soon as we got back to Uncommon Grounds, I would put a call into him and ask his advice.
    As we climbed into the Firebird, I filled Sarah in on HotWired’s impending barrage of free-drink coupons and my idea for the televised competition.
    ‘It’s Tuesday, and the competition starts Friday,’ she pointed out as she turned the ignition key. ‘Isn’t three days pushing it to get the Chairman and the gang from Iron Chef America to Brookhills? Long as you’re dreaming, maybe Martin Scorsese could drop by and direct.’
    Leave it to Sarah to put her finger on the crux of the matter. And then bury it up to the knuckle.
    ‘Very funny.’ The g-force of the Firebird’s acceleration pinned me to the seat. I wondered if my cheeks were flapping in the wind like a bloodhound’s with its head stuck out the window of a pickup truck. ‘I’m not stupid. I know that whatever we can put together this year will be barebones – more of a test run than anything else – but it would give us a tape to show people toward next year.’
    ‘Show who people?’
    While the syntax needed work, I knew what Sarah meant. Problem was I didn’t have the answer to her question. Did you pitch a network with an idea like this? Or a production company? Or maybe public TV? I didn’t know. Hence my call to Mark.
    ‘I’m not sure,’ I admitted, ‘but I know people who know, which is more than half the battle. I’m thinking we may even be able to syndicate. Go national.’
    Apparently I’d finally managed to capture Sarah’s imagination. ‘You need a catchy name.’ She glanced over at me. ‘Whatcha going to call it, Iron Barista?’
    ‘Only if I wanted a lawsuit,’ I said.
    ‘There’s no such thing as bad publicity.’
    ‘Yeah, so say people who have the money to ride out the bad publicity,’ I said. ‘No, it would have to be something unrelated to anything that’s on the air. I’m figuring it would essentially be the semis and the finals of the competition as it’s staged now, with the six finalists preparing three different drinks.’
    ‘KiloCup, MegaCup and GigaCup?’ Sarah made the quick left on to Civic and another hard left into our parking lot, tires squealing.
    Kilo, Mega, Giga. HotWired’s ‘byte-sized’ drinks. I righted myself and rolled my eyes. ‘Again, very funny. Nicotine deprivation becomes you.’
    A withering glance from Sarah.
    I got out of the car. ‘The three drinks I’m talking about are an espresso, a cappuccino and a signature drink – one that’s