Free The Long Wait for Tomorrow by Joaquin Dorfman Page A

Wilson!”
Cody roared out the open window. “FIGHT, FIGHT, OUTTA SIGHT! KILL, PANTHERS, KILL!”
    The ensuing chorus of raucous cries was followed by cheers and applause from a number of passing students.
    “Great.” Kelly rolled his eyes. “These guys.”
    “Is it me, or has Cody been acting a little psychotic lately?” Jenna murmured, covering her mouth with her fist. “I mean, more so than usual?”
    “Yo, Kelly!”
Cody yelled, punching the steering wheel a few more times.
“You coming to lunch, motherfucker, or what?”
    Unabashed, Kelly threw his head back and laughed.
    Patrick saw Cody’s face smolder, wounded ego visible along his twitching jawline.
    “Unbelievable …” Kelly shook his head, leaped into his car, and started her up. “Let’s get the hell out of here before my brain collapses.”
    Jenna was more than happy to comply. She sat on the passenger door, and slid backward into the car. Legs up in the air, skirt hitched, revealing snug green underwear. With her head in Kelly’s lap, she laughed and motioned for Patrick to join them.
    The rest of the players in Cody’s truck had grown silent, still struggling with Kelly’s cold shoulder. In the front seat, Cody shouted Kelly’s name, team spirit replaced with a demanding snarl.
    For all the bullets Patrick had taken for Kelly that morning, he knew this wasn’t a fight he wanted.
    “Going once!” Kelly announced, revving the engine.
    Patrick tossed his case into the car and dove in as Kelly pulled out and raced for the driveway.
    “So where
are
we headed?” Jenna asked, sitting up.
    “Patrick!” Kelly called out over his shoulder. “Can you get us to Long Street?”
    Patrick nodded, scrambling for the safety belt.
    Even with the school fading behind, he thought he heard Cody shouting after them one last time before Kelly really put the pedal down, and then they were gone.

he funeral home’s proprietor stood outside his place of business, watched as the three of them came to a stop across the street. They hopped out of the convertible with little reverence for the dead, and strode up to the pool hall.
    Early-afternoon sun shone dully off large polymer windows that stretched across the front of the pool hall like a letter boxed film. Two of the windows were stenciled with large white letters against a green background, spelling out their destination:
    ON THE RAIL
    Kelly pushed hard against the wooden door, an easy swing inward. He walked through without the slightest hesitation. Patrick and Jenna let the door slam in their faces, unsure of whether to follow. There, in the center of the door, a small, hand-crafted plaque spelled out the house rules:
    N O UNDERAGE DRINKING .
    N O MISBEHAVIN ’.
    N O DRINKS ON THE TABLES .
    N O FASCIST REGIMES .
    N O DISRESPECTING THE HELP .
    Patrick and Jenna exchanged a look before the door swung open again.
    “Are you two coming in?” Kelly asked. “Or am I going to have to take my game to the streets?”
    Patrick decided it was best not to find out what that meant, and went ahead.
    “Afternoon,” the bartender greeted them with a friendly smile. He was somewhere in his midtwenties. Tall, thickset. Massive, even, though hardly out of shape. Brown skin light enough to allow for all sorts of racial presuppositions. Wide smile set for a welcome, eyes roguish enough to recognize the same sentiment in others. He scratched the back of his head with a pen, muscles bulging beneath a green jersey with nothing more than the word HERE printed on the front. “Welcome to On The Rail: rock-and-roll capital of the universe.”
    Patrick took a look around, searching for anything to back this up.
    Sunlight filtered through the windows, stretching out over ten regulation-sized pool tables. Five on the left, laid out in horizontal dashes. Five on the right, four of them perpendicular to the rest. Brass chains hung down from the ceiling, dangling fluorescent lights over each table. Checkered tiles on the floor,