Suede to Rest Read Online Free PDF Page A

finished half of my first.
    â€œWhat do you mean by that?”
    â€œHe was willing to take on old man McMichael. It’s a tough job but somebody’s got to do it. A word of warning, though. Be careful.”
    â€œOf what?”
    â€œOf things that go bump in the night,” she said mysteriously.
    I knew she wanted me to ask what she meant, but I wasn’t going to take the bait. Inheriting the store felt personal to me, and talking about it like this, over beer and Irish Car Bombs, devalued the importance of it.
    To make a good showing with my new tough friend, I drank more of my beer. I wasn’t accustomed to drinking quickly and I already felt it in my system, the alcohol making my arms sluggish and my head woozy. I hadn’t eaten much since arriving in San Ladrón. Drinking my dinner didn’t seem like a very good idea.
    The bartender carried two red plastic baskets past us, each filled with a burger and fries. He set them down by the men playing darts. The greasy scent called out to me like a bouquet of roses. I took another sip before realizing I’d already decided not to do so.
    â€œLook, I can already tell you’re a lightweight and I know you’re not driving back to Los Angeles tonight considering your car’s out of commission. You got a place to stay?”
    I hadn’t really thought of that. When I drove up from Los Angeles, I figured it would take a couple of hours tops to check out the store and sign Ken’s paperwork. I’d brought my messenger bag, filled with my wallet, dark red lipstick, emergency sewing kit, notebook, and pen. There might have been a couple of stale ginger candies in the bottom. Not exactly enough for a spontaneous getaway. I pushed my hands into the pockets of my black blazer and my fingers closed around the keys Ken handed off earlier. “I think I have a place.”
    Charlie pulled a business card out of the breast pocket of her chambray shirt. “Got a pen?”
    I handed her the rhinestone-encrusted pen I carried around with me, hand-bejeweled one day at To The Nines when I was testing a cheap batch of glue my boss told us to use on the dresses we produced. She stared at it a few seconds before taking it and rolling it between her palms. Three rhinestones fell off. She brushed them from her lap onto the floor, then scribbled something on the back of the card.
    â€œCall me if you can’t work it out on your own. I have a sofa you can crash on.”
    I took the card and thanked her but already knew I wouldn’t take her up on the offer. I wanted to be alone to process everything.
    She tossed a ten-dollar bill on the counter and left. I ordered a burger and fries to go and paid the balance of our tab. The sun had dropped by the time I walked out of the small bar. The historic downtown area, mostly antiques stores, hair salons, and the occasional office space, was eerily lit by streetlamps that cast a faint orange glow over the fake western storefronts. I approached my car and checked to be sure the doors were locked and then looked across the street. The metal gate to Land of a Thousand Fabrics was dark and foreboding in the evening light.
    I walked to the crosswalk, to the end of the block, into the alley, and to the back door. The second of the three keys on my key ring unlocked the lock. I carried my burger and fries to the small metal control panel mounted by the back door and flipped a bunch of switches until the interior was bright with artificial light. Odd, I thought, that the electric worked. I knew Uncle Marius had kept up the mortgage and tax payments but couldn’t imagine why he’d paid the electric bill all these years, too.
    Now I could see the store, really see it, and focus on what I had inherited. I felt a connection to the bins of fabric, to the walls lined with rolls of brightly colored taffetas and silks, the tables loaded down with rolls of synthetic fur, suede, leather, and damask.
    It