Serial Saturday: Road Trip, Part 1

Israel took another bite of his strawberry shortcake, idly watching the band on the park bandstand. They weren’t bad, for a bunch of aging men with potbellies playing Eagles covers. He was kind of disappointed with the strawberry shortcake, though. He expected better at a strawberry festival. A little girl went by, dragged by her mother as she stared up at Israel and the tattoo of the blue candle on his cheek. At least, he assumed that was what she was staring at–maybe he’d gotten even more charismatic since last time he’d been out in the world. He showed her his teeth in a grin and she darted forward, dragging her mother now.

“Poor girl probably just thought you’d been to the face painting booth,” Bryce said, appearing next to him. “And there’s you leering like someone who just escaped from the nuthatch.” He bit into a chocolate-covered strawberry and dropped the stem on the grass, flicking off his fingers.

“Bryce, good to see you,” Israel said.

“And you, surprising to see you so well,” Bryce replied, looking up at the bandstand where the band had just wrapped up Desperado, and seemed to be in some sort of discussion about what to play next. He was a stocky man with muscles that strained against his t-shirt and writhed under the dark skin of his arms as he fiddled with his food.

“Oh, your last flunky wasn’t much, really,” Israel replied.

“We found a lot of blood,” Bryce said, peering down at his plastic container and at last selecting another strawberry. “Angela was concerned that we might have gone too far, mortally wounded you this time.”

“Angela was always a soft-hearted dove,” Israel said. “Sorry to leave the cleanup for you, but it seemed the least you can do, all things considered.”

The band began a rendition of Peaceful Easy Feeling.

Bryce took a bite of his strawberry. “The Gashers will cut the bones out of you one by one,” he said in a conversational tone, just loud enough for Israel to hear over the music. “Or perhaps we shall set the Sat’triaa on you.”

Israel liked to stop in public places like this now and again on the trip and let Bryce find him and make threats. It would have been nice, if one day Bryce failed to show up after an hour or two or three, but even if he had Israel wouldn’t have really trusted that to mean his trail had gone cold.

“I would be interested to see the Sat’triaa,” he said. “But really, do you think they have the control you want for this sort of work?”

“I can control them,” Bryce said.

Israel laughed as he reached up to resettle the cowboy hat on his head. “No you couldn’t, Bryce,” he said, “and the thing that has you under control can’t either, not working through a shell like you.”

Bryce’s jaw clenched. “You want to be careful, Israel,” he said.

Israel sighed. “Or what? If I hurt your feelings you’ll squirt lemon juice on me after the Walking Slicers are done with me?”

Bryce appeared to mull that over. “Where are you running?” he asked at last, sounding curious now that his temper was suddenly back under control. “You’ve got no one left to run to.”

“Bryce, in this life some people lead and others follow,” Israel said. “You just keep following me and you’ll find out where I’m going.”

He turned and walked off through the crowd, tossing the remains of his shortcake in a trash can as he went by.

“You’re in Indiana now, for Chrissake,” Bryce called after him. “Lose the hat.”

Israel decided to let him have the last word.

Copyright © 2011 SM Williams

~ by smwilliams on April 9, 2011.