The Long Wait for Tomorrow by Joaquin Dorfman Read Free Book Online Page B

to be escorted to his father’s closet. There he went about selecting a white dress shirt, black tie, and pants and a coat to match. They were nearly out the door when Patrick had to remind Kelly to get his cell phone. The two of them had bolted up the steps, Patrick leading his best friend through his own house, over to where his phone had been charging.
    Kelly took one look at it, strode to the bathroom, and tossed it in the hamper.
    “I got everyone I need, right here,” he had said, winking. “Almost.”
    By the time they had finally made it out to the car, there was no doubt in Patrick’s mind.
    They were going to be late.
    That was before Kelly jumped behind the wheel of his black Jaguar XK convertible, eyes glinting.
    With wailing tires, Kelly backed out of the driveway and into the street. Hardly bothering to turn, he popped his back tires up onto the opposite curb, knocking over the neighbor’s dark green rubber garbage can.
    “Oops,” Kelly said, as though mentioning the time to a passing stranger. With nothing more to contribute, he shifted into first and peeled out, flatlining his way toward the first intersection, where the stop sign was met without even an honorable mention. Speakers blaring, hip-hop station doing what it could to corrupt their young minds, Kelly took a sweeping right turn. He overshot his lane by a wide margin, suddenly nose to nose with a city bus speeding toward them.
    Patrick’s hands shot out, fingers sinking into the dashboard.
    Strange what a luxury vehicle could accomplish, going eighty on thirty-five-mile-an-hour streets; with a casual nod, Kelly jerked the wheel, just enough to send them fishtailing back over to the right side of life, missing the bus by inches.
    Ignoring Patrick’s white-knuckled silence, Kelly revved the engine and offhandedly asked if they were headed in the right direction.
    Patrick shook his head, pointed his thumb back behind them. “That way, Kelly.”
    “Oops,” Kelly repeated, without an ounce of remorse or recognition.
    He slammed on the brakes, sent the car skidding sideways. Came to a perpendicular halt in the road, Kelly’s car takingits share out of both lanes, double yellow stripe bisecting his car nicely.
    “Hey, Patrick.” Kelly searched his surroundings with unhurried interest. “There a way to drop the top on this baby or what?”
    A couple of cars screeched to a halt on either side of the Jaguar.
    Patrick reached up above their heads, unhooked the handles.
    He mashed down on a button between the two seats as the top began to yawn. Gears whirring, doing their best to please the rest of the world, already backed up in both directions. Morning commuters honked, pounded their fists against steering wheels, already rehearsing the story for coworkers, spouses, and drinking buddies.
    All thanks to Kelly’s sudden urge to have the top down.
    “I make money for the money, ’cause money’s got my back?”
Kelly repeated radio-station lyrics, scoffing. “Can’t believe I used to listen to this shit.” He began fiddling with the knobs as the black top finally folded back into the car. “What’s good around here, Patrick? What do
you
listen to?”
    Choosing expedience, Patrick once again used his finger as the path of least resistance. Pressed 90.7, tuned right smack into some funk-minded jazz fusion.
    The Charlie Hunter Trio
, Patrick’s angels marveled, calm as always. “Cueball Bobbin.’”
    “Yeah!”
Kelly grinned, fingers agreeing with high-hat cymbals. “If I had sunglasses, I’d put them on, this is
nice.”
    He twisted the wheel hard left and gave her all she had, back the way they came.
    Hardly a second glance to the mess he’d made, blasting his way past trees, houses, all a blur.
    Patrick winced as they tore past a parked patrol car, automatically sinking into his seat.
    But in place of a siren, all that could be heard was a distant cry of a certain mustached officer: “YEAH, KELLY, ST ATE CHAAAAMPIOOON !”
    Kelly