Blues for Zoey by Robert Paul Weston

Author:Robert Paul Weston
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: ya, young adult, young adult fiction, young adult novel, ya novel, ya fiction, teen, teen fiction, blues for zoe
Publisher: Flux is an imprint of Llewellyn Worldwide Ltd.
Published: 2014-12-14T16:00:00+00:00

41

Something Crazier (and Smaller)

Than a Gun

Mr. Rodolfo was already there. He stood behind the counter leaning on his arms, a blank expression on his face. Weird.

“I thought I was scheduled this morning.”

Mr. Rodolfo didn’t respond. The drawer of the cash register was open. He was staring into it, apparently zombiefied. Was it my imagination, or was the float in the register fuller than usual?

“Looks like we had a good night.”

He slammed the register shut. The counter trembled. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Doesn’t mean anything,” I told him. “I was just saying—cuz the register looks full.”

“There’s more to life than money. Don’t they teach you that in school?”

It was an odd comment, coming from him. It went against his whole good-for-business philosophy of life. I was about to point this out when I had another surprise. The rear door swung open and the Brothers came lumbering in. What were they doing here? It was too early. They didn’t come until the afternoon.

Gonzo (I think) had a bucket and JJ (I also think) had a pair of mops, one in each hand. The mop-strings trailed dingy water down the back stairs. Silent as ever, they went over to Ol’ Betty, prying open the broken washer’s mouth and dumping in the contents of the bucket. A cascade of pinky-gray water sploshed into the drum. Why were they mopping up the back alley? I’d never seen them doing that before.

I turned to Mr. Rodolfo. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” he said. “You can take the morning off.”

“Seriously?”

“I mixed up the schedules. Work tonight instead. I’ll pay you double, for the full day, since it was my fault.”

Back out on the street, I watched the Brothers through the front window. JJ meticulously rinsed off the bucket and mops, while Gonzo came up to the counter, firing little bullets of Portuguese at Mr. Rodolfo.

I walked around the block until I was standing under the steps that led up to our kitchen. The pavement by the rear entrance to the laundromat was slick with water. The color was the same pinky-gray I had just seen dumped into Ol’ Betty.

I crouched down and wiped the pavement with a fingertip. All I got was a smoky sludge of water and dirt. Then I saw something. A little white cube, just inside the shadow of the bottom step.

It was a die. A single die, with yin and yang symbols for the pips. When I picked it up, I nearly fainted. Not because of what it was, but because of what was on it. Little flecks of something. Red.

The moment I saw them, I couldn’t breathe. The only thing that saved me from passing out was closing my hand, hiding the die, clenching my fist to keep my blood flowing.

Blood.

I took some deep breaths. I stood up. I shoved my fist in my pocket. I started walking. I just wanted to get as far away from the Sit ’n’ Spin as I possibly could.

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