By noon they were at the church. By two-thirty it was the art gallery. By four they found themselves strolling under shade trees through old town and main streets like Stradun shopping for fashion. Imitation Levi’s made by comrade workers in the east flooded the market at outrageous prices. Bad Chinese imitations were everywhere you looked. The rivets ate through the denim or the cuffs always frayed because the Chinese workers that hemmed the cuffs were at the end of the line and asleep at their machines. The bosses were maniacs and herded them like cattle, worked them overtime with no overtime pay. The thread boy was sleeping too, and besides, the thread was second-rate cotton and never held. Not to worry and get your noodles in a twist. By affixing a small red label on the right back pocket, cheap was magically transformed to expensive.
Eddie had a pencil and was taking notes.
“No Levis? They have no Levis?”
“Not here. Maybe across town. Too up-scale for me at one hundred and fifty American dollars a pair! That’s a big chunk of a working girl's pay."
“Really, that’s outrageous!”
“Outrageous!” chimed Eddie, and smiled, he was obviously in a good mood.
“Yes, I wish someone could do about something about it. Here they’re classified as luxury goods, and rare as a white rhinoceros.”
He took his pencil, held it like a cigar, tapping the end with his little finger and moving his eyebrows up and down like Groucho, he looked at them both.
“Well, my good women, I’m hungry. Let's make a deal. How about lunch?”
Down by the seafront at a little cafe an arrangement was discussed over pasta.
“We can get Levis for a deal. If you could find us a market we’d be indebted to you.”
“Really, how much indebted?”
“We’re thinking about thirty-three percent of the total,” said Pam.
“And that figures too…”
“If you can sell them for at least one hundred and forty you get thirty-three and a third percent of the total which would be…” he took out his pencil. “Around forty-four bucks.”
“And if I can sell them for more?”
“You keep the change,” said Pam, and ordered Blitva.
“We’ve discussed it, and want to help you out,” said Eddie, and decided he wanted Calamari.
“Of course you’d be helping us out too. We know no one here, and we need a connection to canvas and open the market,” continued Pam, “Someone to show us the ropes.”
“Of course you understand,” said Eddie while taking a bite, “it would have to be very hush hush.”
Molly played with her food and said nothing. It was a lot to spring on the woman, out of nothing, out of nowhere, an almost impossible scheme and dangerous one at that. Could she keep a cool head? Did she have the moxie required? What would it take to convince her? Up to now Molly had been garrulous. At present she’d turned to a stone wall, just as inert, even though thoughts must have been flying through her head a mile a minute. Pam abandoned her fork and reached in the huge woven handbag she carried and pulled out a parcel wrapped in brown paper.
“Here, take this into the ladies room and see what you think.”
Like a creature in the Bella Lugosi movie White Zombie, like the living dead wandering about in a daze, Molly stood up, took the package from Pam’s hand as ordered and walked to the women’s room.
She was gone ten minutes. The earth moved slow, their hearts beat fast, and the Calamari proved too tough for Eddie to chew. Molly reappeared at the door displaying a confident air that only the fashionable in-crowd understands. You could gargle her flavor from across the room.
She strolled slowly over in her very very new jeans, like a leopard or lynx on the prowl. Then she shook hands with them both, and while looking down at their half-empty plates, purred,
“I know the bakery across the street very well,” she said, licking her chops in anticipation. “You’ll like what they have. Desert is on me.”
They all got up and while Eddie paid the check the women walked towards the door. Molly looked back saying, “When do we start?”
Eddie said nothing until he caught up. Each woman took one of his arms. Eddie had the impression he was a very rare book, protected by two strong but fashionable bookends, constructed by his know-how and ingenuity from indigo denim.
“We already have,” he responded, and readied himself for a scrumptious dessert.
The late afternoon sun threw long shadows across the cobblestone street, and along with the nearby church bells ringing out the hour, gave the afternoon a timeless quality that could not be denied. Eddie, always sensitive to the environment, was heard to mutter distinctly, “Business cannot be rushed nor friendships made in haste.”
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