Voice. Part 6

For me to walk among the violence

"Out there in the real world

Where the swinging hammer sings

Where 'You get what you pay for'

Doesn't mean a d.a.m.n thing

"If I leave the world will kill me

But if I stay, I'll go to rust"

The lyrics gave him a sudden chill. You get what you pay for doesn't mean a d.a.m.n thing. Christ. That was not the sort of thing he wanted to be thinking right now. Not one bit.

He wasn't sure if his voice was any better, but he thought so. Trying to dismiss the second verse, which had turned suddenly eerie on him after years of singing it, he sang the rest of the song through to the end.

"Before I file off the sharp edges

Before I hit the a.s.sembly line

Before I listen to another word

From a voice that isn't mine

"Down along the ditches

On a road headed out of town

I'm walking with my head held high

Face to the wind, and collar down

"If I leave now the world might kill me

But I won't stay here and go to rust

Go to rust

Go to rust"

Now he was sure. His voice was different. It was stronger, and there was something else in there, underneath, something powerful that coiled and stretched and waited for release. His singing voice wouldn't win any awards yet, but he thought that might be a whole different story if he could figure how to let that something loose.

John sang until late in the night.

Chapter 6.

Case woke up already late for work. She'd had awful dreams all night, and it had taken until five or six in the morning for her to drift into a slumber that was actually restful. Either she'd forgotten to set the alarm, or she'd turned it off in her sleep and then forgotten about that, but in any case she was twenty minutes late for work when she picked her head up off the pillow and squinted at the clock.

She swore, got up, and checked the closet. It was empty. Of course. She had planned to do laundry this morning before work. She grabbed some clothes off the floor at random. It was only after she'd gotten her T-s.h.i.+rt on that she thought a shower might be a good idea. She froze in the act of putting on her jeans, thinking. Show up even later, or skip the shower?

"f.u.c.k it," she said. She pulled her jeans on, finger-combed her hair, and took off.

I'll be glad if we ever make any money off the band, she thought as she drove to the restaurant. She'd heard of a couple of local acts that pulled in over a thousand dollars a night-that was a lot of hours she wouldn't have to wait tables. That made her think about the show, and she sighed. They were a long way off from a thousand dollars a night.

Gonna have to change a few things, I think.

She was still thinking about what to do with the band when she arrived at the restaurant. She rushed inside and headed to the back to get her stupid ap.r.o.n and name tag.

"About time," her manager said as she walked past him. He had a tray in his hand and sweat on his face. "Good thing for you we're shorthanded today, or I'd send you right back home."

She nodded without slowing down and went back to suit up.

The lunch rush was in full swing. They gave her a couple of tables that had been waiting too long, pretty much guaranteeing she'd get lousy tips. It's my own d.a.m.n fault, she reminded herself, but that didn't do much to put a smile on her face either.

The one good thing about the lunch rush was that she was too busy to be bored. Her manager hadn't been kidding-they were shorthanded today, since two other waitstaff hadn't shown up besides her. Busy was good, though. The final tally for lunch was two f.u.c.ked-up orders, one spilled lemonade, and forty-six bucks in tips. Could have been worse.

By two, things had calmed down. Usually by the end of a busy s.h.i.+ft she felt surly and hostile at the world, but this time she felt all right. She chalked that up to relief that she hadn't gotten fired, and that she'd made a little money despite showing up late.

At the end of the afternoon, she hung up her ap.r.o.n. A couple of the other servers were talking nearby. Case didn't pay them a lot of attention. She overheard something about a mugging, or at least a frightening encounter in a dark alley. One of the girls was complaining about the dangers of moving to the city, and Case allowed herself a little grin. Welcome to the jungle, she thought, and she turned to go.

"I was really scared," one of the women said. Case had worked a lot of s.h.i.+fts with her before, but couldn't remember her name. Work was a place you went, made your money, and got the h.e.l.l out, not a social convention. She never seemed to have anything to say to these people anyway. Case brushed past her, and she didn't seem to notice. "I don't know, I'm thinking about taking karate or something."

Case stopped in midstride. "Oh no," she said. "Krav Maga."

The two women stared at her in surprise. The one who had been mugged-or threatened, or something; Case hadn't been paying attention-gave her a funny smile. "Huh? Was that English?"

Case was almost as surprised as they were. "Actually, no," she said. "It's Hebrew, I think."

"Hebrew for . . .?"

Case blinked. "I don't know." She felt awkward. This conversation hadn't been on the schedule, and mostly she just wanted to go home. "It's a martial art, a really nasty one developed in Israel. If you're serious about learning self-defense, start there."

"How come?"

"Karate's not all that practical. It'll keep you in shape, but it's not really about self-defense most of the time. It's become a tournament sport, and you're not going to square off in an alley and fight for points. Besides that, there's a lot of punching and kicking-it relies on strength quite a bit. You're what, five-two, one-ten?"

The woman looked confused for a moment, but she caught up. "Something like that," she said.

"Yeah. Even a little skinny man will have a big advantage on you in both reach and overall strength, particularly upper-body strength. If you go toe-to-toe with him in a straight fight, you will lose."

She felt like she'd just given a speech, but the woman looked curious rather than annoyed. "I knew it couldn't just be as easy as it looks in the movies."

"Not even close. A typical woman is not likely to win a fair fight with a man. So you learn Krav Maga."

"So it's Hebrew for 'knee him in the groin and run,' then?"

Case laughed. "Actually, that's part of the training. Krav Maga isn't a strength-based martial art. It's about knowing where and how to attack to do the most damage. It teaches you how to hurt somebody badly enough that they leave you the h.e.l.l alone, and quickly enough that you don't get hurt too much in the process."

The other woman nodded, looking impressed. "I'm Erin," she said. "This is Danielle."

"Case."

"Where'd you learn all this?"

Case shrugged. "My old man. He wanted to make d.a.m.n sure I could take care of myself, so he taught me a lot of stuff himself. I liked it, so I did a little martial arts for a while." She had done more than a little-she had trained for years, until she'd broken a finger in a tournament fight. That had brought both martial arts and guitar playing to a terrifying halt, and she'd spent weeks praying her finger would heal straight. After that episode, she'd done most of her training solo, just to keep in shape.

Case paused and looked from one of the women to the other. "I can show you a few things, if you want."

Erin smiled with genuine enthusiasm, and Danielle, though skeptical, nodded. "Let's go."

"What, now?"