Down and Out in Flamingo Beach by Marcia King-Gamble Page A

Deborah and LaTisha, both looking somewhat put out. They sat on the porch step, gazing out onto the street.
    â€œWe’ve been waiting for hours,” LaTisha pouted.
    A slight exaggeration. Joya had only been gone for maybe an hour.
    â€œYou’re late for work,” Joya said, not cutting them any slack. “If you’d been here on time I wouldn’t have had to lock up.”
    â€œIt’s payday. We need our money,” both said in unison.
    Deborah stood, stretching. “You owe us for two weeks plus this week.”
    Joya had been prepared for something like this. She had the feeling these two had been getting away with murder for quite sometime.
    â€œYou haven’t worked this week,” she quickly pointed out.
    â€œI did,” LaTisha hastened to say.
    â€œHalf a day and barely,” Joya countered. “Let’s go inside.”
    The business could remain closed for another fifteen minutes while she did what she needed to do. She was going to make an executive decision and not consult Granny J.
    Joya was betting both women were minimum-wage employees. She did some rapid calculations. What was left of the proceeds of this morning’s sale would barely cover two weeks’ salary for both ladies, and if she were to give them another two days’ pay as a token, it would pretty much clean the business account out.
    But the afternoon was young and she was counting on selling the remainder of the sale items plus a few new ones. She unlocked the front door and allowed both women to precede her in. Then she locked the door behind her.
    â€œLet’s go into the back room,” Joya said.
    The two saleswomen, anticipating money, followed eagerly.
    Joya quickly wrote out two checks and handed one to each individually.
    Without even a thank-you, Deborah folded hers and placed it in her purse. LaTisha stuffed hers in the pocket of the low-rise Capri’s she’d come supposedly to work in.
    â€œWe have to go to the bank. We’ll be back shortly,” LaTisha said.
    Joya didn’t say a word until they were out on the porch.
    â€œNo need to return,” she said, following them out. “You’re both fired.”
    â€œWhat!” This came from LaTisha. “You can’t fire me.”
    â€œYour services are terminated. You’re done.”
    Deborah, the darker of the two, tugged on a braid, her wine-colored eyes smoldering.
    â€œYou ain’t my boss. The only person who can fire me is your grandmother.”
    â€œOkay then, pretend that I’m her. You’re terminated. Fired. If you’re not off the premises in exactly five minutes, I’m calling the police.”

Chapter 5
    â€œB itch! You haven’t heard the last of this!” LaTisha shouted, waving her fist in the air.
    â€œWho you think you playing with?” Deborah called equally as loudly.
    The shouting and threats had been going on for the last twenty minutes, ever since Joya had let the saleswomen go. The adjoining business owners were unusually quiet and hadn’t made their presence known. They probably did not want to get involved.
    But having that kind of scene out front was not helping business. She needed customers. Joya’s Quilts needed the money.
    Having had enough, Joya picked up the phone, determined to follow through with her threat of calling the police, but things had quieted down outside. Why? Curiosity brought her to the window. Derek Morse was speaking with the two ex-employees. She wondered what he was telling them. She debated going out there, then decided it would serve no useful purpose.
    Whatever Derek said worked, because shortly thereafter Deborah and LaTisha left. Joya opened the door and stepped out onto the porch, bringing with her the remaining items for sale, plus several other pieces of merchandise.
    Derek, most likely on a break, sat on a bench on the sidewalk shaded by a huge palm tree. He held a bottle of water in one hand and