The Bodyguard ("Possibilities" story #67)

POSSIBILITIES
by Michael Kroetch

The bodyguard is inside the restaurant. He’s under a table in the back, down on his knees beside a box of salami. Its smell curls up into his nose and tickles him. He can hear footsteps. The people who work there are rushing around. The owner is yelling something over and over. It’s probably Italian, but the bodyguard isn’t sure. It could be Russian as well. The smell of the salami is making him shake inside again.

Several sets of footsteps come close. He can hear the footsteps whispering about him. They want to find him. Fast. They want him out! Then someone drops a plate and the owner’s voice erupts out of nowhere with long, twisting sentences which sound angry and beautiful at the same time—but which make no more sense to the bodyguard than anything else that’s happened since he got back here into the cream sauce kitchen and the stumpy cook with the broken nose and missing eyelash threw a cleaver at him. He has tried to explain his need to these people, why he must be here, but they seem completely unwilling to cooperate—which is fine and understandable, given that they are who they are and are not part of his elite group. He knows his duty is not to judge, but to serve and be a protector. He also knows from his training how they will probably never be able to appreciate his importance.

This is what he is thinking when he straightens a little, stiffens his back under the table and a screw jabs into his neck. After his yelp all around him the whispering, footsteps, and boiling words in Italian stop. Then it’s silent for a while. Quiet as a bone in the wind. It’s a terrible silence. The bodyguard can feel them out there looking at each other and then looking down at the table under which he kneels, praying to his wire. Something must happen. He knows this. And he is ready for all possibilities. The wire will lead him.