Crushed Velvet Read Free Page A

of supplies.
Jambon
sandwiches with brie and Dijon mustard on croissants, with a side of
pommes frites
. Is that okay?”
    â€œThat’s not fancy?” I asked with a smile to my voice. “I think it’ll do. What time is Phil expected back?”
    â€œHopefully soon. He left yesterday so he could avoid traffic and be at the suppliers first thing this morning.”
    We loaded jugs of iced tea into a separate crate and packed them into the backseat of my Bug. I returned to the store and parked out front so we could unload. Two men lowered the scaffolding, and sign removal ceased while a line formed by Genevieve. I stood behind, assessing the work that was left. In the background, a white van turned the corner. It pulled up to the curb behind the flatbed. The logo on the side of the truck, a white rectangle that covered the area to the left of the passenger side door, said
Special Delivery
. Underneath it said
Have We Got A Package For You! Call Us 24 Hours A Day
.
    The driver of the van cut the engine and got out. “Is there a Polyester Monroe around here?” he asked.
    â€œI’m Polyester,” I said.
    â€œRick Penwald. Have I got a package for you. A bunch of fabrics?”
    Genevieve approached the van. “My husband was supposed to pick up her fabrics. Where’s Phil?” She looked at the logo on the side of the vehicle. “Where’s his van?”
    â€œThis is his van. He called this morning, made arrangements for me to come get it and make the delivery for him. He said he had some business in Los Angeles and wasn’t coming back right away.”
    â€œBut that doesn’t make any sense,” Genevieve said. “Phil’s a deliveryman. Why would he hire you to make his delivery?”
    â€œNot sure.” Rick pulled his black mesh hat off his head and wiped his forehead with his palm. “He probably wanted to surprise you with something.”
    He held out a clipboard with sheets of paper attached and handed me a pen. “Sign by the
X
s.”
    I glanced at the form and then back at Rick. “I already paid for the fabric and I paid Phil for the delivery up front.”
    â€œIf I make a delivery, I have to have proof I made the delivery. This is proof of delivery. The form’s in triplicate. You sign the top one and take the pink copy in the middle. Press hard.”
    The top copy was white, the middle pink, and the bottom yellow. Along the upper left side, a white sticker with the logo, website, and phone number for Special Delivery had been affixed to each copy. Across the center of the page, written in ball-point pen in surprisingly neat printing that tipped slightly backward, it said “12 rolls velvet. Prepaid. Signature for delivery confirmation only.” I zeroed out the totals field and signed my name at the bottom. I tore the pink page from between the white and yellow and set the clipboard inside the open window on the passenger-side seat.
    I folded the paper up small enough to fit into my pocket and followed Rick around to the back of the van. He flipped through a ring of keys and tried three in the padlock beforehe found one that worked. He took the lock off and hooked it on one of the belt loops of his jeans, and then flung the back doors open.
    Sunlight hit twelve large rolls of multicolored velvet, propped along the left hand side of the van. On the right were crates of vegetables, spices, and dry goods.
    â€œWhere you want it?” he asked.
    â€œInside the store,” I said. I unlocked the hinged metal gate in the front of the fabric store and propped the entrance open with a small black vintage sewing machine I used as a doorstop. Behind us, the colorful flannel army of construction workers sat alongside the building watching. Nobody volunteered to help. Rick grabbed a roll of velvet by the end and yanked on it, then positioned it over his shoulder and carried it inside the store. Behind him, Genevieve screamed. I