Free Sinful by Victor McGlothin

promise me you won’t tell anyone else what you just told me? That’s two kinds of crazy.” Chandelle asked Dior to take a seat on a bench outside of the furrier’s. She didn’t need another dose of ghetto rationale to show itself while she was conducting business. It was a good thing because the saleswoman initially refused to accept the expensive fur that she deemed as a slightly used, nonreturnable item until Chandelle articulately argued that the coat not only possessed a peculiarly foul odor, but that her husband didn’t like the looks of it whatsoever. After she threatened to complain to the platinum card company, the snotty saleslady reluctantly complied. With a signed charge-back receipt in hand, Chandelle strutted out of the store with a sigh of relief and a zero balance on her brand-new credit card. “Come on, Dior,” she said, grinning gleefully. “We have an hour to see what’s what.”
    â€œThat’s what I’m talking about,” Dior agreed. “Let’s hit that boutique you like so much. I think they carry the Marc Jacobs bags everybody’s packing, the real ones.” Through the specialty shop window, Chandelle remembered admiring that designer’s line of purses as well.
    â€œYeah, I’ve seen those, the soft leather with the gold buckle. Uh-huh, real cute but not my style. Well, more like not in my budget since I’ve decided to do better.” She entered the shop, ogling the sales racks. “Dolce and Gabbana dresses, ohhh…that’s hot,” marveled Chandelle, until she flipped the price tag over. “Humph, unfortunately the cost is not.” She craned her neck in search of the clerk who typically assisted her. The thin redhead sauntered closer, and then smiled brightly when she recognized one of her favorite customers.
    â€œChandelle, I didn’t see you come in. And I probably wouldn’t have recognized you over here at the sales rack.”
    â€œHey, Sally, I thought I’d luck up and find a steal. My man’s watching my money, if you know what I mean.”
    â€œHuh, that’s why I can’t afford to shop here unless it hits the clearance rack first.”
    Chandelle laughed. “So you feel my pain? Does this red tag mean twenty percent off the sales price?”
    Sally glanced at the sales tag she’d altered earlier in the day and nodded. “Yep, gotta make room for the latest stuff coming in on Tuesday. Hold on a minute, I’ll get the catalog so you can check out all the cool winter skirts.” When Sally found what she’d gone after, she waved for Chandelle to meet her at the counter. “Here it is. Find what you like and I’ll put back a few pieces of it in your size.”
    â€œMiss 60?” Chandelle moaned excitedly, while perusing the pages thoroughly. “These are really nice.”
    Â 
    Back in the fitting area, an ugly incident had taken shape. “Mrs. Jennings, how’d you know where to find me?” Dior yelped.
    The blond woman, wearing a ritzy jogging suit and a crazed stare, held her right index finger to Dior’s mouth to silence her.
    Rosalind Jennings, a former employer and severely unstable 42-year-old socialite, used her other hand to caress Dior’s face.
    â€œUh-uh, I ain’t with that no more,” Dior said. “You got to get out of here.”
    â€œShush now, Dior. Now that we can talk face to face, it’ll all be okay,” she answered in a hushed tone. “Be quiet and no one will get hurt.” There was something extremely unnerving going on behind the white woman’s pale blue glassy eyes. If she meant to frighten the pants off Dior with her deranged-white-lady-in-the-fitting-room routine, it worked. “Oh, sweetie, why haven’t you returned my calls? You should have. I left tons of messages. And the letters I sent, it wasn’t very nice of you to ignore them. I’ve spent too