Finn Donahue’s break at Burlie’s Jazz Club was about to end.
Familiar lyrics from the sultry tune floated through his mind long after the
saxophonist stopped playing. Hold on like leaves and fall to what is left. Like
the song, Autumn Leaves, he spiraled downward, failed to identify the chicken
shit stealing his company’s cash. For three damn years, ten percent of the
monthly deposits were sucked into a mysterious thief’s cash cow.
The crowd wandered out. Time for him to return to gloom and doom.
He pressed a hand over his throbbing forehead with enough force to leave
marks. Had the thief hired a colleague? The colleague was not a
car-stealing, knee-smashing, fire-setting knucklehead. His mouth went dry
at the fuck’s covert method and zest for cheating him. He’d question his snake
of a partner, Les Kelly, if he weren’t already dead.
Across the room, a female patron gathered her belongings. As her
ankle boots tapped toward him, a pair of shapely legs came into view.
His head snapped up. Amy Kintyre, the late Les’s girlfriend,
in the running for his bookkeeping job, spotted him.
“Finn.” She swerved his way. “What a coincidence!” This chick
lacked a pick-me-up line.
“Hello, Amy.” He didn’t offer to buy her a drink of offer her a
seat.
She tilted her head to one side, studying the expression on his
face. “Are we still on for nine?” She spoke with an annoying squeak.
“We are.” He watched her lips form a tight smile as she fumbled
with her little purse. Turning away, she headed for the pink-windowed door to
the ladies’ room.
His stomach did a quick, discomforting twist at the thought of
working with Les’s former girlfriend. As time went on, karma between the
partners slipped. Les held back. Enigmatic people had motive to protect
inconsistencies. He assumed Amy hid a few. He sighed and gazed blankly around
the club.
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