“Right, right, right.”

“Are you just agreeing with me?”

“Why on earth would I do that?”

“Um, I don’t know? To mess with me?”

“Why would I want to mess with you?”

I’d never seen this woman dressed in capris with red heels, a crème colored blouse, pearls around her neck, and a full-length thinly woven cardigan. Her brown hair was tucked under a wide-brimmed sun hat, the sunglasses tipped on the bridge of her nose. She tilted them down just enough to make out her brown eyes.

“Because you know who I am.” She pushed the sunglasses up her nose, creating the effect she needed, namely covering her eyes and making her look more important than she was. Her Gucci bag slung over her shoulder was an accent piece, not holding much of anything. It made her look rich, that was all. “And if you can’t treat me with the respect I deserve, I’m leaving.” Her foot tapping on the tile floor was irritating, but not enough.

“Well, Miss. I’m sorry, but these people,” I gestured to those nine people behind her waiting for their drinks, “have been patient enough. And you will be, too.” I ignored her. Her sunglasses? Probably Gucci. They matched her bag. Probably bought them as a set, I thought to myself.

A voice behind me said, “Harris, I’ll take care of her.” My supervisor wasn’t one to back down from those with wealth. “Miss, what is your name?”

She harrumphed, “You can’t be serious? Doesn’t anyone know who I am?” I heard someone toward the back of the line respond to her question, “A fucking bitch?” Several people in the coffee shop snickered, some flat-out laughing at the woman. “I don’t deserve this abuse!”

“Yes. You are correct. No one deserves that.” My supervisor looked to the back of the line, “Not even you.” I think she heard who made the bitch statement, eyeing him. “Now. What is your name?”

“Veronica Jordan.”

“Jordan. Oh yes. I know who you are.”

“Finally. Someone who recognizes wealth, status, and power.”

“Jordan. You are the ones who stole the James fortune.”

“We didn’t steal it.”

“That is not what the James family is asserting. I understand the Jordan and James families came to a mutual understanding.”

“How did you know that,” Veronica spat. Thoroughly annoyed, Veronica threw her sunglasses in the bag. “Only our attorneys knew that!”

“And every good society member with membership to Harrow.” The Harrow Club was an affluent meeting place for the wealthy. Not even the most wealthy had immediate access to the club. No. This was a club for the well-connected and old money. New money, a term coined by the club, was anyone who made their wealth in the days of ENRON after the market crash in 2007. Many of those with old money lost their fortunes to Madoff, a blow to those who managed to keep their investments and not lose everything. Those who were hurt in the sandal refused to acknowledge it. Ten years ago, the club changed the bylaws, allowing a select few with new money membership to the club. That’s how the Jordan family came to be admitted.

But only a select few knew the details. One of them now worked at a coffee shop on the outskirts of Beverly Hills.

“I would guess that a woman of your status did not recall how your family was admitted to Harrow, or would you like me to disclose your business here in a coffee shop?”

I knew Suzie was good at talking back to the entitled wealth that came into the shop. The coffee was worth the wait. Even the affluent knew that.

“So, Ms. Jordan. Please have a seat over here,” Suzie pointed at a small, unoccupied table. “What would you like to drink?” Suzie knew before she ordered it, and the drink was ready before Veronica could repeat the order. One more thing the shop was known for was knowing what drink their customers wanted. Iced, half-caff chai vanilla latte, stevia, and a small dollop of whipped cream with a sprinkle of nutmeg. It looked more like milk than a coffee drink. And as sweetened as Veronica liked it? I could only guess it tasted closer to a Diet Coke than a coffee. One of the servers handed it to Veronica. Suzie waited for her to sit. “Ms. Jordan, you seem to be under a mistaken impression. You seem to think you have any status or pull in my café.”

“You own,” Veronica pointed around the café, “this?” Veronica looked disgusted at the thought of it. Own a coffee shop. How passé could you get? “Why would you own this?”

“I learn more here than I can in college. Most of my staff come from USC. I pay them exceptionally well, considering their commute costs a small fortune in gasoline. And,” Suzie pointed around the café, the line now manageable by the staff, “if everyone cooperates and does not feel their own sense of entitlement? It goes very well. For our customers and staff.”

“You don’t expect me to pay for this,” Veronica said, finishing her drink.

“Yes. I am expecting payment for a drink you finished ingesting.” Veronica stood up, ready to walk out. “Ms. Jordan, I suggest you remunerate me for the drink you consumed before I get nasty. I am confident your family will not want the embarrassment of your arrest, will they?”

Veronica huffed. “Well. This is just. I can’t even.”

“Yes, Ms. Jordan.”

Veronica pushed a gold piece of plastic into Suzie’s hands. “Oh, I am terribly sorry, Ms. Jordan. All we take is cash for unpaid drinks.”

Huffing more, Veronica dug through her purse, finding one single one-hundred dollar bill. “This is all I have.”

“Please, Ms. Jordan. Sit down. I will be back with your change.” Suzie walked into the back with the bill, humming Frank Sinatra’s ‘My Way.’