by J. S. Bailey
“That’s a good attitude to have, I think. Why worry about the things we can’t change when we should focus on the things we can?”
Laura plucked a stray pepperoni from her plate and popped it into her mouth. “Wise Old Rochelle.”
“I know. I’m twenty-four now. That’s practically ancient.”
They both laughed, and Laura said, “That reminds me! In May I’m going to Guatemala with a group from my church so we can help repair a school. Mom was really hesitant about it, but Dad says he’s proud of me for wanting to go. I don’t feel proud, though. It just seemed like the right thing to do.” She paused. “Not to change the subject, but why did they let you come through to see me? Did they get rid of that dumb law they passed?”
Rochelle made a point of not looking at her as she sipped on her giant cup of Coke. “Well, it took some negotiating, you see.”
There came a loud tapping on the window beside them, and Laura gasped. “I didn’t know you were bringing Andrew, too! And is that Adalbert Wang with him?”
Rochelle nearly lost control of her bladder when she saw Andrew, Adalbert, and a shivering Max dressed in what looked like castoffs from Laura’s grandfather all staring in at them. “Shoot. We’ve got to move before they arrest me.”
Laura’s eyes grew round. “Arrest you? But I thought—”
The men moved away from the window and toward the entrance. Rochelle glanced wildly around for another way out, but as far as she could see, the only other exit would be through the kitchen, and the restaurant staff would not take kindly to her departing by that route.
Andrew came through the door first, wearing an expression of uncertainty that paled in comparison to the abject fear painted on the faces of his two companions.
Rochelle stood and faced them. “So you caught up to me. I guess you’ll be taking me away now?”
“All things in their time,” said Adalbert as he tried to regain his composure. “A certain Mr. Berger lent us his clothes and said where we would find you. He even gave us some…dollars? So we could fit in better.”
“I don’t understand. Why not just wait until I came back?”
Adalbert squared his shoulders. “You wanted this pizza so badly that you broke the law. After some deliberation, we decided we should try some for ourselves if it was that good.”
Max was staring up at the menu board behind the counter, where the cashier was goggling at the new arrivals like they were visitors from another planet. “Meat lover’s,” he said. “That one sounds good.”
Rochelle sank back into her seat and began kneading her eyelids.
Laura dragged her gaze away from the men. “You broke the law? What’s going on?”
“Don’t even ask, Laura.” Rochelle picked up her sixth slice and took a bite of it, figuring she should make the most of her time here before Adalbert and company carted her off to spend the night with Lady Capella, Rotanev, and very likely Eliza Matarna. “Don’t even ask.”
A SHORT STORY PREQUEL TO SERVANT:
THE CHRONICLES OF SERVITUDE BOOK 1
BOBBY ROLAND KNEW things he shouldn’t, but not by choice.
Right now, for instance, he knew that if he didn’t go to Mitchell Sand’s house tonight as planned and be more vigilant than a skinny-armed and featherless hawk, someone would very likely end up dead.
A frail voice jolted him away from the future’s penchant for disaster. “Are you all right, dear?”
A bright-eyed black woman old enough to have birthed Moses stood on the other side of the counter clutching a book of Chopin’s etudes in her arthritic hands. She laid it down on the countertop and set about digging through a leather wallet for change.
“I think that’s the million-dollar question.” Bobby forced a smile like he’d done for every school picture he could remember. Sometimes he wished his face wouldn’t broadcast what weighed on his mind to everyone who looked at him. People tended to ask fewer questions of those wearing a cheerful mask.
The woman’s dark eyes sparkled. “I certainly hope this isn’t the million-dollar book! What do I owe you, anyway?”
He scanned the bar code and read her the price that appeared on the register’s screen. As he took her exact change he said, “Do you play much?” Which seemed a stupid question for someone with her joint condition. The book was probably a gift.
She flexed her knobby fingers and gave a mischievous grin as if people her age weren’t normally permitted a musical instrument to pound around on. She surprised him by saying, “Every day except Sunday.”
“Why not Sunday?”
“Even the Lord rested on Sunday. You look like you could use a little rest, yourself.”
Is it that obvious? “I’ll try to get some when I can, then.” He put on his best customer service face. “Have a nice evening.”
“You as well, dear. And do try to take it easy.” She took her book of etudes, flashed her dentures at him in a smile, and glided toward the music store’s exit humming Tristesse to herself.
Sheesh. He had yet to celebrate his twentieth birthday and looked so bad already that perfect strangers were worried about his wellbeing. He knew the reason, of course: he had slept very little for the past week, in part because his life here in Utah had stagnated like a puddle of water and once more he’d been trying to figure out where he went wrong. He was horrible at making friends—Mitchell Sand was more of an acquaintance than an amigo—and the music career he’d hoped would begin to flourish here in the West had fizzled out just as it had in his hometown in Ohio. Nobody wanted to listen to a solo guitarist who had no local connections. He’d been a fool to think they would.
He slid his old flip phone out of his pocket to check the time. Eight forty-five. In fifteen minutes he’d get to close up shop and hang out with Mitchell and his buddies, hopefully thwarting whatever ill fate one of his fellow humans had in store for them.
“Hey Bob,” Mitchell said from the other side of the store. “Wanna close early?” He was the only person who referred to Bobby by that name, and it chafed his nerves as effectively as sand paper, but Bobby put up with it anyway because if he didn’t hang out with Mitchell, he would have exactly zero people to talk to after work, and that would just be depressing.
Mitchell emerged from behind a display of guitar strings, his yellow and black work polo already untucked. He’d probably been ready to leave since he clocked in. Bobby often wondered why Mitchell even had a job at all since his parents paid for everything.
Bobby glanced at the parking lot. Honeybee Music Depot occupied a strip with five other businesses on S 700 E in Salt Lake City. He could see about half a dozen cars from his station behind the counter, having no way of knowing if their drivers would drop in after emerging from one of the other shops.
Immediately his veins filled with the too-familiar urgency that warned him of the danger to come. “Sure,” he said. “I’ll start vacuuming.”
BY the time he and Mitchell finished up and locked the shop doors, the minute hand on the wall clock hovered a minute shy of nine. The western sky was resplendent with sunset colors and dark in the east, where the stars were already beginning to twinkle like fireflies.
Bobby’s pulse hammered a rapid tempo. Whatever was going to happen tonight would happen soon.
“What’s the matter with you, anyway?” Mitchell asked as he sauntered to his car with Bobby in tow. “Is it that time of the month?” He barked a short laugh, and Bobby tried to laugh too, but it died in his throat. How could he even fake laughter when someone would soon be dead?
“No,” Bobby said. “Just tired.” He pulled out his key and unlocked his silver Nissan, trying not to throw an envious glance at Mitchell’s shiny new Camaro. Mitchell had been bragging about the car nonstop for the past two weeks. Bobby wondered how long it would be before he wrecked it.
“Not too tired to hang out, I hope,” Mitchell said. “Tyler’s bringing a keg.”
Good grief. It was Sunday night (Father’s Day 2014, to be sp
ecific, but Bobby didn’t want to think about that) and the boys would be partying like it was a wild Saturday in a college dorm. Technically Mitchell and all of his friends were over the age of eighteen except for a scrawny guy named Pablo, but they acted so constantly immature that Bobby couldn’t consider any of them men.
“It’s not full of Sprite, is it?” Bobby asked hopefully.
“That’s right. You don’t drink.”
“Hey, man, I’m only nineteen.”
Mitchell rolled his eyes. “Lord, it’s not like your momma’s going to come after you with a whip if you have a drink or two. See you in a few.”
They parted ways, Bobby heading toward his apartment first to change out of his ridiculous yellow and black shirt. For the past eleven months he’d lived in the 600-square-foot space on S 800 E. (He had yet to become used to the city’s wacky street names.) The rent wasn’t too bad, but the view sucked because the small complex was boxed in on three sides by a bunch of little houses that were begging for some repairs and fresh paint. He’d been considering moving on to another city soon but just hadn’t worked up the energy to do so. And what would be the point? He would fail at being a musician in any city, not just this one.
In his bedroom he exchanged his polo and khakis for an old Muse shirt and a pair of shorts, then paused in the living room to take inventory of what all this premonition was trying to tell him. He got the sense that a weapon of some variety might be involved but didn’t know if it would be a gun, a knife, or something else. That was the problem with his ability. Sometimes he was forewarned of danger days in advance, sometimes it was only minutes or seconds, and usually he only had the vaguest idea of what would happen.
It was a lousy ability to have been cursed with. If not for the lives he’d saved as a result of his sporadic premonitions, he would have begged God to take it away from him and bestow it upon some other hapless dude who might know what he was doing.
But for some reason God had decided Bobby was the man for the job, which probably meant that God was nothing more than a great cosmic bully. After all, God had taken away Bobby’s father at too young an age. It only made sense that he’d take away his peace of mind, too.
Please give me a little clarity, he prayed.
Then he set out with his guitar case slung over his shoulder, wondering if the night’s events would even allow him to play anything.
Mitchell’s face swam in his mind’s eye on the short ride to his house. Mitchell lived on tree-lined Kensington Avenue over in Wasatch Hollow. His parents had bought a place in an upscale neighborhood and let Mitchell keep on living in their old place for free. Compared to Bobby’s apartment, the modest but well-kept house looked like the Taj Mahal.
Mitchell’s blue Camaro rested beside Tyler Tremaine’s beat-up black Honda Accord. Bobby parked behind the latter and paused before climbing out. Clarity. I need clarity. Don’t keep me in the dark like this because I can’t save anyone if you do.
Again, Mitchell’s face wavered in the forefront of his mind. He swallowed a knot of fear. If Mitchell was to be the victim, Bobby would have to find a way to warn him without coming across as a head case. And maybe he was a head case. It would have explained a few things.
Doing his best to mask the dread building up inside of him, he picked his guitar case off the passenger seat and went to the front door. Faint strains of music issued from beyond as he knocked.
“Come in!” called Mitchell’s voice from the depths of the house.
The music’s volume tripled when Bobby let himself inside. Pablo Farragut, who was Mitchell’s second cousin once removed or something like that, sat on a once-white couch jamming away on his red Fender Stratocaster, which was plugged into a tiny amplifier sitting by his feet. The kid thought he was so good, but Bobby cringed inside every time he heard Pablo play because he got half his chords wrong and threw a fit anytime Bobby, Mitchell, or one of the others tried to correct him.
Pablo set his guitar aside. “Bobby! You want to play dueling Stratocasters?”
“Why?” Bobby asked as he set his case against an end table. “You already know I’ll win.”
“You wanna bet?” Pablo stood, reaching his full height of five feet, five inches. “I played ‘Stairway to Heaven’ perfect the other night. Right, Tyler?”
Tyler and Mitchell were in the kitchen fiddling around with the keg sitting on the counter. Tyler didn’t even bother looking Pablo’s way when he replied, “In your dreams. If Zeppelin heard that they’d commit suicide.”
Pablo’s cheeks deepened to a shade of red, and Bobby tensed. Pablo wasn’t the most stable guy around. It was possible that he would be the source of this evening’s violence. If only Bobby could know for certain!
Mitchell broke away from Tyler’s side and stood in front of Pablo. “Listen, kid. We’ve told you a million times your playing sucks and whenever one of us tries to show you the right way to do it you start acting like a baby. So either grow up or shut up and give us a little peace.”
“My old man taught me everything I know!” Pablo’s hands balled into fists. “He was a rock god!”
“Your ‘old man’ played in a local cover band that never even recorded their own album. Remind me, what’s a rock god again?”
Pablo was spared from answering by the arrival of Mitchell’s buddies Aaron Larson, Ears Pringle, and Ears’s underage girlfriend, Natasha, who had dressed for the occasion in a skin-tight tank top and itty bitty cutoff shorts. Everyone called Pringle “Ears” because he’d gauged his earlobes so big that Bobby could practically fit his arm through one of them. Tonight Ears had fitted them with clear disks the size of hockey pucks. Natasha probably thought they were sexy, but they just made Bobby want to vomit whenever he looked at them.
“What’s this?” Ears asked as he entered the scene. “Is the baby throwing a tantrum?”
Aaron set his instrument case on the floor. He was the only member of the group who played the bass. “Looks like it. Maybe he needs fed.”
“Or his diaper needs changed.”
Sixteen-year-old Natasha snickered before slinking into the kitchen to help herself to some beer.
Suddenly the image of Mitchell lying facedown in a pool of blood filled Bobby’s head, and his stomach gave a lurch. Looked like he was finally getting the clarity he’d asked for. Somehow he’d need to get Mitchell away from the others and warn him to watch out.
Tyler went about filling plastic party cups for everyone but Bobby, who had tasted beer a total of once in his life and promptly threw it back up. “Yo, Bobby,” Tyler said. “I brought Sprite just for you, and I promise it isn’t even spiked.”
“That’s good; I hate having spikes in my drinks. Where is it?”
Tyler laughed. “In the fridge. Come on, guys! Let’s get some real music going!”
Bobby cracked open a can of Sprite, and Ears and Aaron got out their guitars and began warming up before breaking into their own rendition of Jethro Tull’s ‘Aqualung.’ Pablo stayed near the couch, continuing to fume.
Tyler sang as he waltzed to the coffee table with a cup held high in each hand.
Panic surged through Bobby’s veins, and not because of the dirty lyrics. “Hey, Mitchell,” he blurted. “Can I ask you something?”
Mitchell, who had been moving toward the drum set parked in the corner of the living room, paused and raised his eyebrows. “What?”
“It’s…” Bobby’s mind raced to come up with an excuse to get them to leave the room together without arousing anyone’s suspicions. “Well, it’s a secret.” Wow, Bobby. Great job. That’ll really get him to go with you.
“Ooh!” Natasha said, her eyes glimmering. She’d put on so much eyeliner she looked like a raccoon. “Mitchell, I’ll bet he’s got a crush on you!”
Mitchell placed a hand over his heart. “Bob, I’m flattered! Come on, let’s go into the back so you can properly declare your love to me.”
They went down the hallway to the accompaniment of hoots and
catcalls. Mitchell led Bobby into a spare bedroom that had belonged to Mitchell when his parents still lived there. Right now all it contained was a dresser and a bunch of Rubbermaid containers packed full of Mitchell’s things.
“So what’s up?” Mitchell asked as Bobby closed the door behind them. “Is this about the band? You’re still welcome to become an official member if you want. You’re certainly good enough for it.” Mitchell, Tyler, Ears, and Aaron were all members of a band called the Indigo Apes who mostly played Friday nights at a bar downtown. Bobby had played with them a couple of times but felt as though he stuck out like a Geo Metro in a parking lot full of sports cars when he did. He was strictly a soloist and found it too stifling to play with others, which was probably a bad thing. Maybe his career would take off if he joined the group, or maybe it wouldn’t. If only he could foresee that!
“It’s not that.” Bobby lowered his voice and threw a glance at the door, praying that nobody had snuck after them and now had their ear pressed against the other side. “Mitchell, something bad is going to happen tonight.”
Confusion creased Mitchell’s brow. “How so? Is Pablo going to beat someone to death with his guitar? The little punk. Too bad I’m related to him.”
“I’m not joking. I’m picking up some bad vibes. I—I think you should tell everyone you don’t feel good and make them leave.”
Mitchell laughed. “Since when are you a psychic? Can you read palms, too?” But his face grew somewhat paler.
“I’m serious about this.”
“So you’ve said.”
“If you don’t watch your back, you’re going to end up dead.” There. He said it. Now to see whether or not Mitchell believed it.
Mitchell crossed his arms, frowning and suddenly looking lost. From what Bobby gathered of him in the past eleven months, Mitchell had always received anything he wanted. A nice house. A nice car. And now that he was faced with uncertainty, a much younger Mitchell Sand rose to the surface in the man he’d become. He licked his lips, all bravado gone. “Did Pablo say something to you?”