Angry Jonny

By Joaquin Emiliano

Imagine the worst individuals to have ever crossed you – the traitors, liars, cheats.

Bullies, predators and sociopaths.

Imagine if there were someone out there taking down every last one of them. Punishing them through savage acts of sadistic torture. Bringing your darkest fantasies to life while your hands remain clean.

Imagine that you were the only one capable of stopping him.

Then try to imagine why you ever would.

It’s the summer of 2009, and Angry Jonny, an anonymous and calculating vigilante, has made the southern city of Verona his playground. His targets are drugged, then tied down – tongues severed, eyes cut out – left to live the rest of their lives blind and disfigured.

The only thread linking them is Jessica Kincaid – a tough, wildly intelligent high school senior with a troubled past and track record of making more enemies than friends.

Angry Jonny’s victims have all previously used their stature and power to humiliate and ruin Jessica, making her and everyone she knows a suspect or potential target. If she hopes to stay alive and out of jail, Jessica must stay one step ahead of the authorities in her pursuit of Angry Jonny.

But a guardian angel, no matter how ruthless, can be a handy companion.

The closer she gets to Angry Jonny, the more contaminated she becomes by his manifesto of brutal retribution. As Verona spirals into chaos, Jessica must choose her path: unmask the devil that holds her hand, or lose herself, irrevocably, to the seductive spell of Angry Jonny’s single minded fury.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Joaquin Emiliano
• Release date: May 21, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301481798

Joaquin Emiliano

Joaquin currently resides in New Orleans, LA.

Book preview

PART ONE

June 6 – June 7

Chapter 1: Commencement.

It’s not too late to turn back.

Jessica didn’t argue.

From their elevated vantage point, she was forced to squint through the slant of a midmorning sun, already turning from orange to a carsick shade of white. Down below, five-hundred-some foldout chairs were spread out in a phalanx, fresh paint jobs joining the glare of stadium bleachers, determined to double the damage, turn up the heat. Make June think it was filling in for mid-August.

The stands were steadily filling to capacity. South end of the field, the seniors were already lined up. Draped in crimson robes, graduation caps like flattened toadstools. Tassels to the right, yellow tendrils hanging limp.

Brookside High’s graduating class of 2009.

Jessica glanced to her right, saw her aunt concentrating on the mass gathering below. Left hand stuck to her brow in a sun visor salute. Her eyes glowed electric blue beneath blond, willowy curls. At thirty-five, Dinah’s smooth skin and distinctly full lips did little to give away her age. They might have brought her down to a tough twenty-nine, but for the dark cradles beneath her eyes. Experience had a way of keeping people alive, alert, and awake well past any reasonable hour of the night.

Dinah was right.

It was not too late to turn back.

But in her seventeen-some years on the face of the earth, Jessica knew full well that most people wouldn’t even consider turning back until well after it was too late. And she knew that, lamentably, she was no exception.

Yeah, Jessica sighed. She tugged at her white tank top, doing all she could to circulate some air, cool the moist contours of her torso. Ran her hand through the mop-top of brown curls that came to rest just above her shoulders. It’s never too late.

Dinah immediately understood. So I guess we should find ourselves a seat.

I guess we should.

Jessica felt Dinah’s hand on her shoulder. I got your back.

Ain’t as dramatic as all that, Jessica assured her. She reached out and took hold of Dinah’s hand. Brown skin interlocking with her aunt’s ghostly fingers. Can’t be as dramatic as all that.

Dinah drew Jessica close. Put an arm around her and smiled. Let’s start some trouble, then.

The pair took cautious side-steps down the grassy hill. Though hardly a Class VII mountain, it felt inevitable that one of them would take a false step. Fifty-fifty chance, anyway, and the honor was Jessica’s to have; black suede kicks losing traction as she fell backwards, into her aunt’s unprepared arms. A trust fall that sent them rolling in a swirl of denim jeans, chocolate and vanilla curls, depositing them at the back end of the bleachers.

Jessica landed flat on her back.

Dina on top, face mashed between her niece’s tits.

They were instantly met with a chorus of brash, pubescent cackles.

Jessica blinked, vision clearing. Spied a clique of teenagers, breakaways enjoying a quick smoke before the ceremony. Already pointing, voices sarcastic and gleeful, pleased grins leaking RJ Reynolds and nasty innuendo.

Jessica!

Jessica Kincaid!

Check these two!

"That is hot!"

Jessica had long grown numb to the school yard. She stood up, brushed the dirt from her arms.

Dinah followed suit, though hardly as willing to let the matter slide. Got a problem, assholes?

It was fuel for the fire, suburban slackers tickled pink.

No problem here, one of the sophomores assured them with a leer.

Not a problem at all, echoed another boy. He grabbed at his baggy jeans, right about where all his thoughts originated. We always figured Jessica was into girls.

Yeah, don’t stop now, ladies!

Give us a show!

Dinah was fully upright now, five-eight frame a full half-foot over Jessica’s indifferent stance. Dried grass clippings stuck to her face. Flash fires burning bright behind her eyes, cheeks gone sunset red. Like any of you little bitches would even know what to do with a woman if you had one.

Jessica winced. Dinner is served, boys.

"And I’m sure you would."

"Please tell us!"

Tell us just what to do!

"Where to lick, honey!"

Fever pitch. Boys all gyrating with hormonal rapture. Open palms rhythmically slapping at phantom asses.

Jessica grabbed Dinah by the arm and led her away. Brick walls, Blondie.

Fuck you! Dinah cried out over her shoulder. "Buy some belts, you crusty, white, gangsta-wannabe punks! She flashed them a stiff middle finger, then turned to keep pace with Jessica. What do you want me to do?"

I want you to get used to it.

What, like you?

Anybody but me, Jessica said, rounding the bleachers, searching for a spot. She motioned with her chin, up towards the top row. Let’s get us some nosebleeds.

By the time they found their seats, a hush had come over the crowd. Down on the field, the graduates were already filing in. First row, second row. All in alphabetized, predetermined order.

Dinah leaned close, whispered over crowd’s proud rumble: Can you see him?

Jessica shook her head, as the graduates settled. Sweat had turned the tank top to Velcro against her skin. She glanced to the left and caught a sunburned, middle-aged man staring at her. Parts of her, anyway. She folded her arms over her breasts and took a deep breath. Humid air filled her lungs, atmospheric makings of a weekend on the surface of the sun. The hot sting of aluminum against her thighs suggested second thoughts, that maybe she should have just slept in. Let Saturday be Saturday.

Principal Hewitt took the stage, ready to get on with the show, and Jessica had another look around. Well aware she could leave at any time. Unwilling to accept that anything was that simple. In for a penny, in for a pound.

Never too late to turn back, but sometimes there was just nowhere to go.

***

In some practical corner of her mind, Jessica thought she should be taking notes. Storing the details, moments, the rituals of this particular milestone. One more year, all things being what they were, and she would be down there with the class of 2010. Smothered in her own rented robes. Shoulder to shoulder with inconsequential classmates. Buried in an avalanche of valedictorian platitudes.

We learn, and continue to learn, every day. Every way that we can.

Why?

Because life is a journey. And this moment is not an end, but merely a beginning.

Wouldn’t be too long, Jessica thought, before life was done with this particular chapter. Time being, she was too hot. Time being, she let the overwrought proceedings creep along, searching for distraction. Mentally naming as many states as possible in under one minute. Then once more in alphabetical order, including capitals. Counting the basketball jerseys in her section, sorting them by conference, and halfway through that laborious task, she awoke from her waking coma.

Vice-principal Clarence Davenport had taken the stage, already halfway through his speech.

At six-foot two, he had to hunch over the podium, grasping at either side with thick, paperweight hands. His fuchsia tie bled against a white, pressed shirt, filled to capacity by broad, sinewy shoulders. Pale, full lips that hovered close to the microphone, popping over-pronounced words, digging into the red meat of his remarks.

We find ourselves, sadly, at the end of this school year, an incomplete community. Our strength and our promise severely wounded by the tragic loss of one of our own. One of our very best…

An undertow of appreciative murmurs swept softly through the crowd.

Jessica felt Dinah’s knee push against hers.

Davenport swept an impassioned hand through his dark, perfectly trimmed hair. All of us at Brookside High School mourn the loss of Glen Roberts. He was more to us than just a biology teacher, and will be remembered as a brilliant, compassionate, and involved presence. A man who dedicated his life to the betterment of this school. There are those who might choose to lessen our memory of this great man with the regrettable and devastating circumstances surrounding his departure both from the halls of Brookside High, and from this world…

He swept his sights across the crowd, eyes of a subterranean rat hovering over damp scraps of food. An effective, subliminal suggestion that sent everyone searching for what was and always would be humanity’s primary reaction to any tragedy: someone to blame.

But I refuse to exchange Glen’s tenure of devoted service for the dark cloud that hung over him during his final months with us. He was a leader, a tireless worker, a teacher… but above all else he was my friend. And I ask that we all, please, observe a moment of silence in memory of Glen Roberts.

With the exception of Jessica and Dinah, everyone in that coliseum lowered their heads, chins to chest.

And it didn’t escape Jessica to hear their silent reverence compromised by devious whispers some several seats below hers. Secret aspersions that sent a couple of necks craning. Eyes glaring, glowing behind the shade of worn baseball caps. Their prayers for Glen Roberts handcuffed to an unmitigated hatred of Jessica Kincaid.

Dinah’s hand tightened around her niece’s leg. Nails digging in.

Jessica glanced up, saw her aunt trembling with rage.

Had no choice but to let it go.

Retreat to the games in her head, now categorizing animals by alphabet. Then genus. Then by likelihood of being devoured by anyone trapped on a desert isle. And just as she was concluding that not one of them would be safe from the hungry thoughts of a desperate human being, the air was filled with a swarm of graduations caps. Joyous cries accompanying the end of another school year as those spinning, square tiles fell back to earth, leaving everyone in a state of confusion over which ones belonged to whom.

***

Well overseas, in faraway lands nobody bothered to think about, there were fields overflowing with dormant landmines. Jessica had read about them; war zones no longer host to occupying forces, rebel attacks, insurgent uprisings. The remnants of sewn-up conflicts still lurking under tall grass, dirty landscapes, and murky pools of water. Tricky explosives just waiting to fulfill their destiny. Waiting for the right person to come along, ready to destroy any and all for making the simple mistake of wrong place, wrong time.

The post-graduation crowd was far less dangerous, but no easier to navigate.

Jessica and Dinah waded through the determined joy of excited grins and indulgent backslapping. Every step of the way, familiar faces stared Jessica down with disapproving frowns, lemon juice lips. Judge, jury and executioner all wrapped into one, as word got around about Jessica Kincaid.

And somewhere in this crowd of ugly faces, Jessica caught sight of Malik.

Alone for the moment. No parents in sight.

She cut a quick path, Dinah trailing behind with truncated strides. Jaw set.

His reaction was very much on par with popular opinion.

But for very different reasons.

Jessica… There it was. Brown eyes, large and smoldering, matching his skin tone except for isolated patches of acne that had stubbornly rejected all modern miracle creams and home remedies. The only honesty left in his face. He adjusted his cap, awkwardly situated atop a decent afro. What brings you out of hiding?

Just wanted to see you graduate.

Uh-huh... He pushed his dark-rimmed glasses up the bridge of his nose. Stared down with his own particular brand of venom. I think what you mean was you wanted to show how bad-ass you were coming here. Swimming with the sharks.

I really just wanted to see you –

Yeah, coming from anybody other than my ex-girlfriend… Malik shrugged. He gave a quick nod to Dinah, got no reciprocation. Malik shrugged again. Well, you saw me walk the line, so…

I don’t see why you gotta be like this… Jessica sighed. Most ex-girlfriends, given the circumstances, wouldn’t bother coming to see your ass for anything other than an execution.

Great. Let’s bring all this up, please.

How about let’s not act like some child who just got his fire truck confiscated.

Yeah, yeah –

"You’re angry at me?"

"I stuck by you, Jessica, Malik whispered, practically spitting through clenched teeth. When everyone else was calling you a liar, talking shit that you were just some bitch looking for attention, I stuck by you. Like a goddamn fool, I stood up for you, –"

See, you call it loyalty. Jessica struggled to hold the volume down, knowing the rumor mill to keep diligent summer hours. Considering how you spent all that capital, I’m just going to go ahead and call it leverage.

It was one time –

The boy can count, how about that?

"I was going to tell you, Malik insisted. I was going to tell you, and you had to go and dig around –"

"Now you’re angry I found out?"

Malik’s eyes grew distant. Faded, like the last days of a family portrait. Soft, unreadable features quietly weighing his thoughts.

"What?" Jessica snapped, crossing her arms.

I know you think the whole world is out to keep the truth from you, pull the wool over your eyes, Malik ventured, still floating somewhere beyond their present conversation. Made as though to touch her, then thought better of it. And I understand why you think so. I really do –

"Your blessing is so welcomed."

Welcomed or not… People need their secrets, Jessica.

Only because people need to have it all.

Malik sighed. I’ve apologized. I’ve apologized over and over. What more do you want from me?

Jessica wished she hadn’t already crossed her arms. She searched for a gesture, a look, anything to cover the undeniable fact that she simply had no answer to his question.

Still trying to pull a rabbit from the hat, when they were joined by Malik’s parents.

His mother limped to his left, cane clutched in her left hand.

His mother gave Jessica a pert nod as she limped to Malik’s side. Cane clutched tightly in her left hand. A necessary tool that somehow always came across as a mere accessory to the thin, aristocratic angles of her body.

Originally from Queens, Patricia Council had received her law degree from Columbia. Soon after, she was working point on several police brutality cases for the ACLU. History had a habit of siding with the city, and after too many years of watching the other side walk, she packed up shop and moved down to Verona. She became a registered nurse, opening a chain of free clinics for Verona’s uninsured. In 2007, even as the economy was only just starting to fall into recession, the state pulled all its funding. Every last clinic was shut down by 2008.

Malik’s father gave his own halfhearted wave. Meticulously trimmed beard doing little to hide his indignation. Eyes always serious behind oval, wire-rimmed glasses. Phillip Council, born and raised in Verona. Graduated from Verona Central with honors and an MA in political science, then went on to earn his Master’s in Education at Pantheon University. Rejected Capitol Hill to serve on the Verona Board of Education, before penning a national bestseller on No Child Left Behind, then settling in as a Pantheon professor. With tenure.

Jessica was a working class waitress and Kentucky runaway. With a white aunt.

Didn’t expect to see you here, Patricia managed.

It’s Malik’s big day.

Proud day for any father. Phillip put a proud arm around his only son and heir. Guess it’ll be your turn soon enough, Jessica.

Jessica nodded.

They let the conversation drop dead on the spot. Patricia toying with a string of pearls. Phillip loosening his purple, Sachs Fifth tie. Their son trapped in the middle, eyeing Jessica with a hurried, apologetic expression.

Well, now that’s taken care of, Jessica said. Congratulations, Mr. and Mrs. Council.

More passive smiles from the grownups.

Thanks, Jessica, Malik ventured.

Yeah… She took a few steps back, feeling the cold coming off Patricia’s stare. Good luck, Malik.

Jessica did a one-eighty, back into ninety-degree heat. She closed her eyes, trying not to imagine the revulsion that would surface now that her back was turned. Quicksand steps that lead Jessica back to her aunt.

You all right? Dinah asked.

Right as rain, Jessica told her. Let’s get out of here.

They wormed their way out of the frenzy, between a set of bleachers, and began to traverse back towards the hill. Flanked on the right by the hollow insides of empty risers. Crisscross infrastructure of aluminum pound signs. Approaching their original crash site, when Davenport’s voice came out calling from behind them.

Jessica, wait up!

Dinah kept walking. There was no doubt she had the right idea, but Jessica recognized a showdown when she heard it. Turned, planted her feet. Ordered them to grow some goddamn roots, as Vice-Principal Davenport loped towards her; a thick skeleton, fervently glancing in all directions. Bringing his trot to a close with a gracious smile.

Hey, Jessica…

Jessica found herself unconsciously searching the ground for a weapon. Hey.

Just wanted to talk to you before you headed off for the summer.

From a few yards away, Dinah called out, "Come on, Jessica, let’s go."

Jessica held her ground. What can I do for you?

Well… Davenport sent a hand across his forehead, beads of sweat streaking. Summer’s here. A full three months coming up. Just thought you might like to… spend that time thinking. About things.

Guess I’ll head right home and get started on that summer reading list.

Davenport forced a chuckle. I think you know what I’m talking about.

"What are you talking about?"

I’m talking about Glen Roberts.

The guy you were talking about earlier, right?

It’s over, all right? You won. He lost. In fact, your little sexual harassment suit cost him his job, reputation, family, and his life, so… yes, lost it all.

Complaint. Not a suit.

It’s more the outcome that bothers me.

See you in September. Jessica turned to walk away.

It’s your first day tomorrow, isn’t it?

Jessica stopped in her tracks.

From far over the hill, car speakers began to blast out heavy, distorted bass.

Jessica motioned for Dina to stay put. Turned and retraced her steps, toe to toe with Davenport.

I know how hard you worked for this, he began. All fingerprints of his previous smile wiped clean, a treacherous glare muddying his eyes. And as long as we’re being honest, there is no student in all of Verona more worthy of spending their summer interning for the Verona Observer. You know that. I know that.

But?

But I could know a lot less… I am the one who signed for every entry from this school. Catch my drift?

Jessica smacked her lips, mouth turning dry. "I don’t think anyone says catch my drift anymore."

Nevertheless, I think you do. It was a day destined for whispered words, and Davenport was no exception. You’ve done your worst. And now that the damage is done, I want Glen Roberts exonerated. I want you to come forward and tell the world that you made it all up. A tearful little confession that sets the record straight.

Otherwise you get my internship at the Observer yanked?

His smile resurfaced, complete with a smug, confident nod. Turns out you do catch my drift after all.

Jessica had learned the hard way that extended moments between words had a way of implying weakness. Within one second, and without thinking, she simply shrugged. Yank away, Mr. Davenport. Print is dead anyway.

Glen Roberts is dead, Jessica! he yelled, as she turned to walk away. No longer interested in keeping a low profile. "Glen Roberts is dead, and you killed him!"

Jessica kept walking.

Joined her aunt and without a word.

Fuck that guy, Dinah muttered, making her way up the grassy slope.

Ain’t a problem. Jessica reached out to grab hold of the vertical incline before her. Dried grass snapping roughly between her fingers. I just need summer to end. Right now.

They reached the top of the hill, now more sweat than skin. Right back where they started. Taking a last look over the same football field, now a very different place than two hours ago.

"It’s called summer vacation," Dina reminded her.

What are you doing tonight?

Working.

What a plumb-fucking coincidence. Jessica sighed. So am I.

Check and mate. Facts were facts.

Somewhere in this sordid world, floods and droughts were reshaping the land. People were losing their jobs. Soldiers were dying in cumulative handfuls. Individuals were getting rich, while entire groups of nobodies were left behind, stuck right where they were. Dreams remained in their planning stage, even as graduates across the country made their way home, with hopes of a brighter future, another chapter of life over and done with.

In Jessica’s world, it all came down to the few steps from the hill to the parking lot. Nothing but the searing laughter of the sun to help them along as they drew shut the red, rusted doors of a ‘66 Mustang long overdue for the scrap yard.

Heading home for a few hours’ rest before suiting up for another night of all work, no play.

And somewhere overseas, Jessica knew, dormant landmines laid waiting for a misplaced footstep to come along. Ready to punish anybody whose only crime was showing up first.

Chapter 2: Mr. Table Thirteen.

There was no humanity to be found backstage of a five-star restaurant.

Beneath the smiles, the grace. Beneath the rehearsed fawning of waiters, waitresses – referred to as servers to better ease the customer’s conscious – beneath the eager expedition of every whim gracing the mind of any customer – referred to as guests to better insure a welcoming environment – beneath the polished repetition of nightly specials, beneath the stoic efficiency of busboys, food runners, beneath the lupine grins of obsessive managers… Lurking just beneath it all lay a factory that ran on the sad reality that a job well done was little more than the sum total of one’s tips.

And one’s tips were little more than making every customer the center of the universe. Each one ready to snap, lose their mind over any slight that might downgrade their experience from perfect to almost perfect.

On the night of June sixth, 2009, nobody was more aware of this discrepancy than Jessica Kincaid.

Second shift kicked off as always, the entire wait staff seated at the far end of Spiro’s. Thirty-foot ceilings stretched out over the thousand-square-foot floor, shaped like a massive kidney. Unoccupied tables set with silverware, water glasses, bread plates and folded napkins all awaited fulfillment beneath soft tract lighting and the blue specter of a fully stocked bar, where Dinah methodically wiped down the stainless steel.

Save for the ethnic drone of ambient world music, the restaurant was silent.

Five-thirty pm. In a few hours, the sun would dip behind Main Street’s parallel railroad tracks, putting an end to another day in Verona. For the moment, there were overtures to be dealt with.

Guy – pronounced Gee, with a short, guttural g – was wrapping up his nightly lecture. Jet-black hair slicked back. Voice smooth as his gunmetal silk shirt and matching tie. That does it for the casual up-sell. Before we break, somebody give me the specials… He glanced over the company of uniformly dressed soldiers. Black, button down shirts. Black pants. A pastiche of ties, polkas dot and printed mermaids. Jessica?

Without one glance at her notepad, Jessica launched into monotone: For the starter, we have a grilled calamari salad, served over baby field greens and jicama. Our catch is a pan-seared, pepper-crusted ahi tuna, white wine and lemon-basil, served with sesame saffron rice and stir-fried local greens. Goes real nice with the Wild Rock sauvignon blanc, but if the opportunity arises, I’d up-sell to the Cloudy Bay. It’s from New Zealand.

OK… Guy gave a slow nod, prelude to all constructive criticism. We going to repeat that same magic tonight, only maybe with some actual enthusiasm?

"We most certainly are," Jessica bubbled.

Guy smiled, trying to suggest her subversion was an inside joke. All right, everyone, get to work.

It wasn’t a particularly busy night. Spiro’s catered to the carriage trade; Pantheon’s more prominent professors, administrators, and undergrads from the upper tax brackets. Always a bit of a dip as summer approached. Most of the student body who could see their way clear to a twenty-eight dollar entrée had already flown the coop; primarily to New Jersey, New York, and Connecticut. Tenured professors, itching to get moving on that next book or speaking tour, were already jumpstarting their vacations.

Leaving the servers with a patchwork floor. Couples and four-tops spread thin and throughout. Hostess doing her best to ration enough action for all to make the rent, put a dent in those student loans and car payments.

All quiet on the western front.

Even the unexpected arrival of Malik and his parents did little to throw Jessica off course. She had already spotted a few elites from Brookside’s class of 2009. And while their passive glares didn’t make her job any easier, fortune had spared her the humiliation of taking their tables. A silver lining extending to her ex, seated a good two sections away. Close enough to see, too far to touch. Stress levels breaking even. Orders taken, punched into touch screens by the bar and kitchen. Starters, position numbers, course lines. Special requests, modifications; medium rare, no peppers, substitutions, extra sides of marinara.

Steady as she goes.

But Jessica had been around long enough to know that their shifts were not shaped by the quantity of tables. Quality of the customer, however, could send dominos diving. Bring the whole evening to its knees.

In this case, that table turned out to be number thirteen.

Good evening, gentlemen, Jessica began, hands placed reverently behind her back. Welcome to Spiro’s. My name is Jessica –

She was cut off by an under-bite stationed between a pair of jutting, angular cheekbones: Jim Beam on the rocks, Jessica.

When spoken by this comb-over in a three-piece, Jessica found the sound of her name somehow more condescending than any babe or sweetheart he could have thrown her way. His eyes gleamed with a predatory lack of empathy. Aged skin pale and pulled taught over the wiry slouch of a patient vulture.

Absolutely, sir. Jessica turned to his younger counterpart. Same make and model, an unimpressively handsome and well-maintained thirty-something. And for you, sir, anything to –

No, Jessica, the vulture interrupted. I don’t want an Absolute. No vodka. Jim Beam, OK?

And so went the first domino.

I’m sorry sir, you must have misheard me. From the moment those words came stumbling from her mouth, Jessica knew she’d fucked herself, but good. "I said absolutely, not –"

I know what I heard. You going to tell me what to eat next?

Uh-oh. We do have several excellent specials tonight.

In a minute, Jessica. Right now, Jim Beam on the rocks. OK?

She overcorrected with a quick nod, turning tail towards the bar.

Hey, Jessica! His domineering bark sent shockwaves through the entre restaurant.

She returned to the table, proximity doing little to affect his volume.

You want to maybe take my friend’s order, too, Jessica?

Each time he used her name in place of punctuation, Jessica could feel another set of nerves short-circuit.

I’ll have an Absolute martini, the younger man said with snide amusement.

The vulture rolled his eyes, Don’t encourage her, Chris.

They shared a good laugh. Glanced up, looking to spread the mirth.

Jessica cracked a smile along with her knuckles, hands still hidden safely behind her back. Jim Beam, rocks. Absolute martini.

Halfway across the floor, when she was flagged down by another table.

Miss, we’re ready to order now.

I’m not your server was not acceptable vocabulary by any manager’s standards. There was also no way to punch in someone else’s order without that server’s PIN. Jessica made do, jotted their starters and entrees, then slipped the note into her apron.

Jessica slid into the hutch by the bar. Brought up the drink menu on the touch screen. A maze of multicolored squares led to further luminous grids as she slowly narrowed her search. Two more servers waited in the wings for their turn. She punched in her order for table thirteen.

Dinah was just done serving a whiskey to a dour millennial with tousled, blond hair. She trotted over to the printer, tore the ticket.

Hey, Jess.

Sup, Blondie.

One Beam, rocks, one Absolute martini for table thirteen.

Yeah.

Dinah did a Zen two-step, eyes distant as she chilled a martini glass, shook up the vodka and vermouth. Drained it. Added a few olives, and paired it a sizable Beam in a rocks glass.

Here you go, Jess.

Word.

Jessica placed the drinks on a tray, made her way back to table thirteen and served them up.

Like it was ever that simple.

Uhhh… The vulture’s mock hesitation spilled out like a drum roll for his next complaint. "My friend wanted his martini with a twist."

My apologies, sir. Olives are the default around here. And again, before she could remind herself that egos were at stake: You didn’t specify.

You didn’t ask, Jessica. Weren’t doing your job, there.

Jessica opened her mouth. For one hot minute, the words floated dangerously close to her tongue:

Sir, do I got down to your place of business and tell you the proper way to suck dick?

For the rest of her limited time on earth, Jessica would often wonder whether that one remark might have saved all of Verona from the violent chaos of those hot summer months.

Instead, she swallowed hard, regurgitating an olive branch: I can fix this right as rain, sir.

We’re also ready to order, Jessica.

I’ll have the tuna tartar, said the younger man, Chris. Adding with a smirk: No olives.

Jessica flashed an impressed grin, batted her eyes.

And I’ll have the calamari plate, the vulture announced, pleased by his decisiveness.

She then took their entrees down next, asked if they would be having any wine.

Yeah, the vulture picked up the list, sent a talon down the reds. What can you tell me about the Stags’ Leap Merlot?

It’s full. Pretty full. Lot of body, long finish. Intense plum, cherry flavors –

Doesn’t sound like a Merlot to me, Jessica.

Sometimes it’s a problem of vintage, Jessica explained, catching sight of a table staring her down, anxious to get their own meal going. It’s a 2007. There have been definite effects on grapes, starting with that year, global warming and climate change being what –

Hey, Jessica. I’m not looking for a lecture on Mother Earth.

Of course… The two most overused words in the waitress lexicon. I can recommend another Merlot –

It’s all right, we’ll take the Stag. I trust you, Jessica.

Thank you.

Jessica hustled to the bar. Found the hutch crowded with a sudden rush of wait staff. She crossed the room, set herself up at the hutch near the kitchen. Punched in the wine order, table number. Followed through with the starters, adding position numbers, then hit the course button, fingers dancing. Punched in the entrees and hit SEND.

She stopped to check on a four-top. Fielded a request for more bread, as the restaurant’s babble began to swell around her. She delegated the bread order to a runner. Picked up the Stags’ and darted back to table thirteen. Presented the vulture with his choice. Waited for him to nod, then reached into her apron, fingers wrapping around her wine key. She unsheathed the one and a half inch blade, ran the serrated edge along the top of the seal. Released the corkscrew and dug in. Two quick pulls, and she liberated the cork with a solid pop, laid it down on the table.

Jessica made as though to pour.

Uh-uh, Jessica… The vulture shook his head, motioning to his guest. My friend will do the tasting.

Jessica dropped an ounce of claret into his glass. Stood by as Chris sniffed the cork; an unnecessary step, the surest sign of a novice. He gave the glass a wimpy swirl, then took it all down. Didn’t swish, savor, or exhale while swallowing. Just smacked his lips, and proclaimed what nine out of ten posers would: Yeah. That’s good.

Jessica nodded, served the vulture, then topped off Chris. She set the bottle down with assurances that their starters would be out momentarily.

Halfway towards a fresh table, Jessica was intercepted by Carrie. Wisps of chestnut hair stuck to her lips, demanding to know why Jessica had taken an order without telling her. Jessica pulled the slip from her apron with a rushed apology, then darted into the kitchen to tell the chefs that Carrie needed those starters on the fly.

No love lost between the kitchen and wait staff; all Jessica received was a disgusted roll of their eyes as food runners and floundering servers scrambled for space in hundred degree heat.

Somewhere in that exchange, the starters for table thirteen snuck out.

She flew to a freshly set table, fielded drink orders. Caught a two-top calling for the check. She was on track to place the order and print the bill for fifteen, when Jessica heard the familiar sound of nails on a chalkboard.

Hey, you!

There was the vulture, summoning her. Worse yet, there was Guy. On standby.

The vulture didn’t waste any time. Hey, Jessica. What’s this plate of fried calamari doing here?

So now there was the damning stare of two customers, combined with the desperately amiable, conciliatory gaze of her manager. A Bermuda Triangle of chastising glares.

Because that evening, the starter special had been a grilled calamari salad – what the vulture had taken the liberty of describing as the calamari plate, the very name of their menu’s fried calamari starter.

My apologies, sir, Jessica began. I heard you order the calamari plate.

"What is your obsession with what people do or do not hear? Doesn’t matter what you heard. Interpreted. Assumed. What matters is what I asked for!"

As with most altercations, Guy’s first order of business was to move on. Of course, sir. We can bring you the calamari salad right away.

Not much of a point in that now, is there? The vulture swooped in and dangled a breaded tendril for all to see. If I asked for the calamari plate, Jessica –

There’s a calamari special, and a calamari plate, Jessica insisted, pores jumping at the chance to send a little sweat down her back. I didn’t –

"What you didn’t do is ask!"

"You didn’t give me the chance to tell you the specials."

Guy put a hand on her arm. Jessica –

"You’ve got the specials in writing right there at the hostess stand! If nobody in the restaurant was staring at them, it was only because they were doing all they could not to. Faces suddenly engrossed in their grilled salmon and shrimp ravioli. You think I need you to recite the specials, like I’m some mentally retarded child? I know the specials, and don’t you think if I wanted the fried calamari, I sure as hell would have asked for it?"

A man could convince himself of anything, especially when his voice echoed so loud, it bounded from the rafters like God’s proper will.

Jessica felt herself grow small, helpless. Little servant girl in a man’s world.

It didn’t matter what was right.

All that mattered was who was footing the bill.

I’ll be more than happy to remove the starters from your check, sir… Guy assured them, chin bobbing. And please consider dessert our compliments for the evening.

Thank you, the vulture replied, as though his whole life had been leading up to such reparations.

"Is there anything else we can do for you?"

And Jessica let her anger simmer low, screams of solid frustration circulating through her bloodstream. Heart pumping pure hatred for a man who wasn’t about to give up his leverage just yet.

Well… The vulture picked up his wine glass. Held it close to his face even as the half empty bottle rested comfortably by his elbow. "This wine is not exactly what I expected."

Jessica, the wine list, please.

Jessica took a deep, unintentionally sobering breath and made her way to the hostess stand. Picked up the wine list, bound in brown vinyl, and walked it over to table thirteen like a friendly, undersized dog.

In the end, they chose a Cabernet no different from their initial selection.

And took the liberty of reminding her that Chris never got the twist for his Absolute martini.

Jessica shuffled back to the bar. From every direction, tables continued demanding their drinks, starters, main courses, desserts, and checks. The smirks of her schoolmates wormed their way into her, delighted with the floorshow.

Only Malik seemed to be doing all he could to communicate solidarity. Seething in his seat, he sent hateful lightning bolts spinning towards table thirteen.

Nothing doing, though.

Too little, too late. So very, very Malik.

Jessica typed in her order, and Dinah presented the bottle. Earned herself a few sympathetic smiles from a few barflies, but at that point, the dominos were down.

Jessica was in the weeds.

Stuck in the tall grass.

She pressed her fingers against either temple, dug in. Still another three hours left in her shift. And after that another shift. And after that, who knew?

Summer had barely hit the ground, and already, Jessica felt like running.

***

Jessica was done for the evening. Receipts totaled along with her gratuities. Line for line, tip-out log tallied; pen digging into paper as her right hand stabbed at oversized calculator buttons. Fifteen percent for the food runners, ten for the busboys. Two percent for the hostess and three for the bar.

She snagged Carlos outside the kitchen. Slipped him his twenty-three dollars. The bus crew was already two-thirds done, stacking chairs and wiping down the Tennessee marble tops. Jessica flagged Ramon, who strode over with a sad smile that rarely ventured past his thick mustache. She dished him his fifteen, adding a tired gracias.

The hostess had already gone home for the evening.

Jessica ducked behind the podium. Counted out three bills and slid them into the white envelope.

One hundred and fifty three dollars in tips now down to one hundred twelve.

She stood up a little too fast, resulting in a hollow thump as her head slammed against the edge.

With a soft groan, Jessica reached into her apron. Counted out eight dollars. She wove her way between empty tables, feet throbbing against tightly laced, black dress shoes. Took a seat at the bar. Hardly able to summon the strength, she dragged the weighted barstool close to the shiny, blue-grey Carrara counter top. To her left, a twenty-some blonde in a cheap suit drew his whiskey closer to his spindly body, as though sensing Jessica could use the room. She hardly noticed; stared longingly at the bottles lined up like toy soldiers atop a blue-lit inset, their contents luminous and inviting.

A few seats down, Dinah was serving up a Heineken to one of the stragglers.

Jessica gave a wave.

Dinah strode over with a weary smile. Hey, girl.

Jessica brandished eight dollars between her middle and index. Got your money, Blondie.

Dinah took the cash, fanned it out like a peacock tail. You got a two dollar bill in here, honey.

I know.

That’s good luck.

Says who?

"Supposed to be good luck, anyway. Dinah scooped some ice into a pint glass and filled it with tonic. Like a four-leaf clover."

Because they’re both green?

Because they’re both rare.

So’s getting struck by lightning. Jessica reached for a straw, plunged it into her drink. She took a sip, savoring the bubbly snap of quinine. That’s what passes for good luck these days, you get me a kite and a key.

Eight bucks is eight bucks.

That’s eight more than I got from table thirteen. We calling that good luck, too?

Didn’t leave you anything?

On a hundred and fifty dollar tab.

Dick.

Guy motioned from the register, ready to tally some bar tickets.

Dinah left Jessica with an encouraging smile, encoded with a sad understanding of problem customers.

"I mean, guests," Jessica muttered resentfully.

Miss?

Jessica glanced down the bar. Caught sight of a classy suit, burgundy shirt, black silk tie. Black man, somewhere in the wilderness of middle age. Facial scars from an acne-riddled youth dotted his cheeks and lengthy jaw line. Large hands encircling his Heineken like a prayer book, close-cut hair crop-dusted with notions of someday going completely gray.

Jessica gave him the eye. Old man even dreams of buying me a drink, he’d better wake up and apologize.

May I just say… Heineken man ventured, accent hinting at a northern point of origin. That man you were stuck with earlier, gentleman in the Armani suit?

What of it?

That was no gentleman… Heineken man picked up his beer and brought his lips in for a landing. Swallowed. That man was anything but, and I would like to extend my ill wishes. There’s no excuse for anyone treating anybody the way he treated you tonight.

To her left, the blond whiskey drinker followed up with a barely perceptible true that.

Jessica shrugged. Thanks.

For what it’s worth.

Not a hell of a lot, sir.

Jessica heard Guy bark out her name. She lazily rolled her head towards her boss. Saw him standing by the register with a paternal scowl; arms crossed, fists stuffed with greenbacks and credit slips. Directly to his right, Dinah bit down on her lower lip, teeth white against scarlet lipstick.

My apologies, sir, Guy said, putting aside all paperwork and gliding over to Heineken man in one smooth sentence.

No need for that, Heineken man insisted. You can’t control everything.

I hope Jessica hasn’t offended you in any way.

Jessica’s stomach folded into fourths, fingers strangling her glass.

Who’s talking about her? Heineken man asked. "I was talking about table thirteen, that