Chapter One
“You know I love your sportswear designs, right?”
“I’m glad you do.” Amy Kintyre sat opposite a buyer, none
other than Kira Radner, at a coffee shop in Lake Arrowhead, California. This
sudden opportunity to re-launch her sportswear designs gave rise to the
jitters, and Amy clutched her hands under the table.
Kira pressed her face forward, Amy’s sketches drawn on
figures in action poses. With the portfolio spread between them, she flipped it
sideways to examine the fabric swatches stapled along the sidebar. Their earthy
tones blended with the marred wooden table.
Amy stilled the chatty urge.
“You know your presentation is in two weeks.” Kira was
giving her the green light with Recreational Sportswear, Incorporated.
“I appreciate this, Kira.” To get her business back on
track, she needed blocks of time to sew mockups. Amy inhaled the spicy aroma of
the raw cedar wood. The under-construction décor of wide, timber planks on the
walls made her think of her new self. Crazy how thirty felt like seventeen when
embracing life and freeing her artistic side.
“Then I beg you,” Kira said, “please, please, please
have your product samples ready. Deadline is the first Monday of November.”
“Got it.” Fear over the tight time frame tasted sour
in her throat, but this break called like no other.
Kira leaned forward. “Impressive functionality with
the shorts. Who would have thought this pocket holds a Swiss Army Knife!” The
buyer’s fingertips traced the pick-stitch hem, made with thread matching the
fabric, appearing invisible. “Nice detail.”
Amy’s only mock-up kept their face-to-face meeting
running like the hum of the fluorescent lights above.
“Oooo,” Kira said and raised both her eyebrows. “Classic
nostalgia with a twist. A pocket knife for hikers!”
“Useful, I think.” The bright light flickered over
associates who’d worked together in the past, but Amy didn’t share the difficulty
of making the deadline. Her breathing shortened, and panic carved a hole in her
chest.
Kira rested her chin on her open palm. “If RSI accepts
your spring line, I’ve got a manufacturer in Los Angeles. So, I’ll handle
production, okay?”
“It’s a deal.” Amy trusted she would do right by her. If
Kira benefited by handling the step, she had another reason to bring Amy’s
brand to completion.
“Great, Amy. Gotta bounce. Glad our evening meeting
worked.” Kira, a Los Angelino up for the weekend, viewed Thursday as the new Friday.
“Your timing fit my schedule.” Amy’s taxi driving
shift had ended ten minutes before meet time. Driving a cab gave her
flexibility, ideal for taking care of her near-comatose ex-boyfriend. Her
dedication ended with his death, but stagnation set in. After Kira’s phone
call, Amy’s backbone solidified.
“Coming?” Kira gathered Amy’s portfolio and slid it into
her valise.
The bell on the café door jingled, and Amy looked up.
A suited man wearing a fedora low on his face stormed in.
About to stand up, Kira braced a hand on the table,
but Amy grabbed her sleeve and yanked. “Don’t look up.” She placed a finger
over her lips.
Kira whispered, “I take it the dude’s not fueling a
cookie binge.”
To Amy’s left, the man’s briefcase lowered to the
floor next to the counter. She recognized the distinctive signature clasp of the
Irish Claddagh.
“Excuse me,” he said to the owner. “I lost the sheath
for my knife. Know what I mean?”
The manager pushed a stack of bills forward.
“He’s an Irish mobster.” Kira spoke in a hushed tone. “This can’t be. Pacific waterfront, yes. Never
here.”
Amy cringed. A few years before, her boyfriend had
been shot in a Los Angeles drive-by. Was their high-end community no longer spared?
The mobster was counting the money.
The muscle in Kira’s jaw flinched. “This is as good a
time as any.” In another second the buyer flew out the door without blowing her
usual kiss.
The man in the fedora folded his arms over his chest
as though he was king of the world.
Everything hinged on Amy’s ability to be nearly
invisible. Looking down, squeezing her eyes shut, she froze. The bell rang. Air escaped her lungs.
Out the window,
the mobster steamed around the corner in the neon haze.
Amy collected her keys and belongings, took a deep
breath, and headed to the counter.
The owner tallied up the bill and then grumbled about Mafia
protection. “I don’t make waves. If I did, I’d drown.” His face contorted in
agony.
Amy stared at his wary expression. Her mood shifted
from empathy to anger. His passiveness churned in her stomach. “Sir, it’s a terrible
threat. That’s the truth.”
“Miss, do you know what truth is?”
“I’m listening.”
“It’s what a guy believes. If I want to
be friends, I ask what he believes. He tells me, and I say, ‘Ain't it the
truth?’”
“You can’t protest the mobster’s truth?”
“I foresaw a beating. A whacking would follow.” He
shook his head.
“Oppressive.” Out the door to the empty street, she
searched over her shoulder. Her knowledge of the area was absolute, but at this
late hour she gritted her teeth at the thought of walking two blocks to her
taxi. She froze with indecisiveness. Muted laughter and conversation came from
the building next door. Instead of going home, she headed into Burlie’s Jazz
Club for a glass of wine.
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