Chapter Four: Lunch in PJ’s

CHAPTER FOUR

Lunch in PJ’s

Brad stepped out onto the porch and was closing the door behind him, when he saw Bias crossing the street from Crenshaw Square.

“Caught you in the nick of time,” the young man said with a wide grin, a backpack slung over one shoulder.

Brad started down the steps to the sidewalk. “Yeah, I was just headed out to the store. What are you doing in the neighborhood?”

“Well, I don’t have any classes this morning, so I thought instead of waiting on you to call, I’d just show up and finagle that tour, and then take you out to lunch.”

“Oh,” Brad said, caught again in that limbo where he wasn’t sure how much he should read into Bias’s intentions. “Um, I do really need to get some stuff from the store, though.”

“Where you going?”

“I was thinking the CVS over off Wright Square.”

“Ah, the haunted CVS.”

Brad sputtered a laugh. “This city is amazing, even the drug stores have ghost stories attached to them.”

Bias shrugged. “It’s built on the site of the city’s original jailhouse. Wright Square was the hanging yard. They say the reason the CVS closes so early is because the employees refuse to work after dark. But don’t worry, supposedly the worst of the activity is confined to the basement.”

“That’s good to know, I’d hate to be accosted by a vengeful spirit while picking up Maalox.”

Bias laughed and winked at him. “Anyway, the place I was going to take you to eat is right on the way. We could stop in for an early lunch then head on to the store. You can give me the tour when we get back.”

Brad glanced over his shoulder at the house then back at the young man before him. “I guess that would be okay.”

“Of course it will,” Bias said, taking his arm and tugging him toward the square.

“Wait, I was going to take my car.”

“You don’t want to do that.”

“Why not?”

“Trust me, if you’re going somewhere outside downtown, then driving’s fine, but within the downtown area, it’s just more trouble than it’s worth. What with maneuvering around all the squares and one-way streets, getting stuck behind horse-drawn carriages, fighting against the tide of tourists and trying to find a parking space, it’s easier and quicker to walk.”

Brad considered for a moment and concluded that Bias had a point, so he allowed the man to lead him across the square and up Abercorn, in the direction of the river.

“So what do you need at the store?” Bias asked.

“Just some cat food and kitty litter.”

“I didn’t know you had a cat,” Bias said, as if he and Brad were old friends who knew all of each other’s secrets.

“I don’t. I mean, I didn’t. Apparently my house comes attached with a stray that doesn’t seem in any hurry to leave, so I figure it’s the southern-gentlemanly thing to do to make it feel at home.”

Bias looked over at him and winked again. “A man that is kind to animals is a good catch.”

Brad felt himself blushing but hoped it wasn’t too noticeable. Up ahead, he saw a sign for a diner called Clary’s. “Is that where we’re going?” he asked.

Bias grimaced. “No way.”

“I thought Clary’s was where all the locals ate.”

“No, it’s where all the locals used to eat before the tourists heard and started invading it. Now it’s just another tourist trap like 90 percent of downtown.”

Smiling at the young man, Brad said, “You have the disdain for tourists of a lifelong native.”

Now it was Bias who blushed, something Brad wouldn’t have thought the man capable of. “I guess when you spend enough time living here, it sort of seeps in. Don’t get me wrong, tourists dollars keep this city thriving. And I would be out of a job without them, I recognize that. It’s just that they can be a bit overwhelming. December and January are really the only true ‘off season’ times here. On the upside, the tourist draw really does encourage the city to keep restoring its historical buildings, and that’s worth all the congestion.”

“Speaking of which, I’ve noticed a lot of SCAD buildings dotted all over the area.”

“Yeah?”

“I’m just curious, where’s the actual campus?”

“SCAD doesn’t have a centralized campus. As you said, it’s just sort of dotted all over the area.”

“That’s . . . unusual.”

“Us artsy types often are unusual. Actually, students can major in historical preservation, so what the school does is buy up old abandoned buildings then the students themselves help fix the places up, and once they’re done, the buildings become part of SCAD.”

“Hmm, that’s pretty ingenious.”

“Well, us artsy types are unusual and ingenious. Boy or girl?”

“What?” Brad said.

“Sorry. Some people have actually gotten whiplash from the suddenness of my subject changes. The cat . . . boy or girl.”

“Oh, well, I think I spotted a Y chromosome this morning.”

“A Tom, cool. That way if you decide to keep him, you won’t have to worry about an unexpected litter.”

Brad laughed and nodded, looking ahead to the stone arch and black iron fence of Colonial Park Cemetery on the far side of the street. A half dozen people were gathered at the cemetery’s entrance, all eyes turned to a young woman with pigtails who was addressing the small crowd. Another tour, those things seemed to run all day.

Brad’s attention was so focused across the street that he didn’t realize Bias had stopped until he ran into the young man’s back.

“Don’t get fresh,” Tobias said with a laugh. “At least not on the first date.”

“Sorry, I got a little distracted.”

“Well, we’re here.”

Brad realized they were standing in front of a restaurant that he’d never really noticed before. The sign hanging out front said “PJ’s Corner” with some kind of Asian looking symbol above it. The symbol was also embossed on the glass door above a sign with the establishment’s hours of operation. Pointing at the sign, Brad said, “Doesn’t open until 11:30, and it’s only 10:45.”

Bias rapped on the glass with his knuckles. “Not a problem when you’re with me.”

A minute later, the door opened and a tall black man with long thin dreads poked his head out. His expression was annoyed . . . until he saw Bias and a smile blossomed on his face.

“Tobias, my man!” he said. “How the hell you been?”

“Can’t complain, Zeke. Think we could sneak in early and grab a bite?”

“For anyone else, not a chance. For you, absolutely. Just take a seat and I’ll be with you guys in a minute.”

“Best Thai food in Savannah,” Bias said, holding open the door.

The first thing Brad noticed as he stepped into the shadowy interior was a motorized scooter parked inside the restaurant. Just ahead, Zeke walked behind a counter and into the kitchen. The dining area was full of small square tables with metal chairs. Obviously they had their pick of seating, but instead of choosing one of the tables by the large plate-glass windows with the incongruous chandeliers hanging overhead, Bias grabbed one of the laminated menus off the countertop and headed over to the back table by the restrooms. Brad followed and had a seat across from him.

“Here you go,” Bias said, handing over the menu. “I always get the same thing. I’m loyal that way.”

Brad perused the menu and settled on the Pad See Ew with chicken, and Bias ordered something called Japanese Eggplant Ginger, and Zeke left them two glasses of water with lemon wedges.

“It was nice of him to let us in before they even opened.”

“Yeah, Zeke’s cool. We used to have a bit of a thing.”

“Really?” Brad said, raising his eyebrows.

“Ancient history, I assure you, but we remained friends.”

Brad nodded but could think of nothing further to say. He hated his awkwardness and shyness, felt these were things he should have long outgrown with pimples and braces, yet they lingered well into adulthood with a tenacious grip. He fiddled with the silverware on the table, then took a sip of water.

“So how was it?” Bias asked.

Brad frowned, placing the glass back on the table. “The water?”

“No silly, your first night in the house.”

“Oh, it was fine. Good. I mean, uneventful.”

“Uneventful,” Bias said, spitting the world out like it was a rancid piece of meat. “The first person to spend the night inside 324 Abercorn in decades, and you say it was uneventful.”

“Sorry to let you down, but nothing to report. No cold spots, no mysterious noises, no shadowy figures. Just Phantom.”

“Phantom?”

“That’s what I’m calling the cat.”

“Well, I wouldn’t get too comfortable in the house just yet. Maybe the entities need some time to get geared up after being dormant for so long.”

Tilting his head, Brad scrutinized his young lunch companion, again trying to figure the man out. “You completely believe in all that stuff, don’t you?”

“Absolutely. In fact, I have a ghost in my apartment.”

“Is that so?”

“Yup, a slave girl named Melinda.”

“A slave girl?”

“Yeah, back in the pre-Civil War days, the apartment building I live in used to be the slave quarters of the mansion in front of it. Melinda doesn’t cause much trouble, though, just move stuff around sometimes, open and closes doors, that sort of thing.”

“And you know her name and everything?”

Bias nodded, guzzling down half his water. “Last summer, I had a paranormal investigation team come in and spend the night. They caught her saying her name on an EVP. You should think about having them come out and do an investigation of your place.”

“Thanks, but I think I’m good.”

Bias seemed about to press the issue when Zeke returned to the table with their plates. He refilled their water glasses, asked if they needed anything else, and was about to walk away when Bias said, “Hey Zeke, you might not know it, but my friend here is famous.”

Zeke turned back, eyes suddenly alight with interest. In fact, Brad thought it was the first time the man had really looked directly at him. “Really? You do look familiar now that you mention it. What might I know you from? Were you on Project Runway last season?”

“Um, no. Actually I’m a writer.”

“Oh,” Zeke said, his disappointment obvious. “I don’t read.”

With that, the man turned and walked back to the kitchen. Brad stared after him, then could do nothing else but laugh. “Well, he was certainly proud of his illiteracy.”

Bias also laughed but looked somewhat embarrassed. “Well, Zeke’s a nice enough guy but maybe not the sharpest needle in the haystack. One of many reasons we only briefly dated.”

The two dug into their meals, and Brad had to admit to himself that Bias was right, the food was absolutely delicious. Spicy and flavorful. Bias was scarfing down his food as if he were going into hibernation soon.

“Speaking of you being a famous writer,” Bias said when he finally came up for air, “after you left Book Lady yesterday, I picked up another one of your books.”

“Really? Which one?”

“The collection, Dark Corners. I read the first four stories before bed last night, and I have to say I really enjoyed them.”

“I appreciate that. I really do love working in the short form, but I had such a hard time convincing my publisher to release a collection. They insisted the public doesn’t care about short stories, and honestly Dark Corners didn’t sell anywhere near as well as the novels.”

“But I bet it still made the bestsellers list.”

“It did,” Brad said, shifting in his seat as if sitting on a rock. He was always uncomfortable talking about his work, and specifically the money he made from it; it felt too much like bragging.

“You working on anything now?” Bias asked.

“Yeah, I’m about two thirds of the way through a new book called Disappearing Act.”

“What’s it about? Or is that top secret information?”

“No, it’s actually a historical piece about the Lost Colony of Roanoke and what might have actually happened to them.”

Bias’s shoulders slumped a little. “Oh, interesting.”

“You don’t like it?”

“It’s not that, seriously that’s a cool idea, it’s just . . . well, I was sure you would be writing something about your house.”

“Why?” Brad asked, popping a broccoli in his mouth.

“You’re a horror writer. With the reputation of 324 Abercorn, you’re sitting on a goldmine.”

“It’s just a house.”

“That’s what they said about the place in Amityville.”

“I think that story has been pretty conclusively debunked.”

Bias gave him an appraising look that made him feel like a nude model being observed by a full classroom of art students. “I’m going to make a believer out of you before it’s all said and done, but in the meantime, I’m really excited the house has been restored. Feel free to tell me it’s none of my business, but how did you manage to snag the place? I’d always heard the family who owned it previously would never sell because they didn’t want anyone else to have to endure the horror of living there.”

“Well, I have no idea why they wouldn’t sell, but all the original members of the family that bought the place in the 70s have died and the house had passed to some distant relative in California. He knew little about the house and was happy to unload it. He said before I came along he’d been entertaining a ridiculously lowball offer from some museum in the area.”

“Museum? Which one?”

“He didn’t say.”

“My guess would be the Maverick Heritage Center. With them being right next door and all, they probably want to expand or something.”

“I actually met someone from the Maverick Center yesterday,” Brad said. “A lady named Neisha Parker.”

“Oh, I know Neisha. Well, not personally but I know of her. Her family dates back to the colonial days of Savannah.”

“She mentioned that over coffee.”

Bias scooped up the last of his dish then let his fork rattle back to the plate. His eyes twinkled with mischief. “Wait, are you telling me you gave someone else a tour of the house before me?”

“It wasn’t a full tour,” Brad assured with a teasing smile. “You’ll be the first for that.”

“That’s more like it. Although if I were you, I’d be careful not to rub Neisha the wrong way. I hear her family are Gullah. She might cast a root on you.”

“Root? You talking hoodoo, curses, that sort of thing?”

“Guess you don’t believe in any of that, either.”

“You’d be correct. I must seem pretty boring.”

“I wouldn’t say that at all,” Bias said with another of his trademark winks.

Brad turned back to his meal, feeling more self-conscious now that Bias was done. He jumped and dropped his fork when the young man suddenly exclaimed, “Let’s play a game.”

Coughing into his napkin, Brad said, “What kind of game?”

Bias pointed up to the framed world map hanging on the wall over their heads. “When I come here, I always sit at this table just so I can play ‘Where Will I Travel To’.”

“And how exactly do you play?”

Bias closed his eyes and reached up until the tip of his index finger was touching the smudged glass over the map. Then he opened his eyes and half rose from his chair, looking at what lay beneath his finger.

“Lapland!”

“There’s no such place,” Brad said with a laugh.

“It’s right here in black and white. Apparently it’s a part of Finland. And one day I’ll have to go there, those are the rules of the game.”

Pulling a small notepad and pen from his backpack, he scribbled something down.

“So how many places do you have to visit from this game of yours?”

“Dozens. I’m going to be a busy man when I become independently wealthy. Now it’s your turn.”

Brad glanced up at the map then back at Bias.

“It’s your turn,” Bias said again. “And you have the dough to actually make it happen, so close your eyes and point.”

Feeling silly but also enjoying himself, Brad did as he instructed. “With my luck, I’ll probably end up smack dab in the middle of some ocean,” he said then opened his eyes to consult the map.

“What did you get?” Bias asked eagerly.

“St. Andrews Island, just above Papua New Guinea.”

“Nice. Sounds exotic. If you need a traveling companion when you go, that one’s not on my list.”