“Thanks.”
“I also told him to double the next order. If I’m drinking it too, we’ll need more.”
She hid a smile. “You don’t want to get some Miller, or Bud?”
“I’m a convert. Give me the Naked Pig.” He paused and squinted at her. “That’s a sentence I never thought I’d be saying.”
They both chuckled, then he said, “Fill me in on the drama.”
She did, glad that everything had been calmed down so easily and without anyone getting hurt. He had a laugh about Miss Doris’s language; it was her turn to laugh when he described Tricks’s escapade with the treadmill. She almost choked on a swallow of water because she could just see him trying to avoid killing himself while Tricks was blissfully unaware of anything other than chasing her ball.
As she swabbed a fry in a dollop of ketchup, she said, “How long did you make it on the treadmill?”
“Are you kidding? I’m still alive, aren’t I? I stopped right then. There will be no treadmill while Tricks is anywhere around.” He winked at her and popped a fry into his mouth. “We went outside and walked the hill a couple of times instead.”
This must be her day to be winked at, Bo thought. First Mayor Buddy, now Morgan. Hearing her name, Tricks laid her head on Bo’s knee and gave her a sad look, letting her know how awful it was that she wasn’t getting to share their food. Bo said, “Forget about it, young lady,” whereupon she promptly abandoned Bo and laid her head on Morgan’s knee, subjecting him to the woebegone eyes.
“She’s sharper than a switchblade,” he commented before saying, “No,” in the same firm tone Bo had used. He’d started doing that, she thought; the same words, the same intonation.
Bo started to reply, but a strange noise from outside caught her attention. It sounded like . . . She didn’t know what it sounded like. A party? A ball game? She frowned, cocked her head to listen, but still couldn’t nail down the sound. Then, through the window, she saw what looked like a . . . herd? flock? . . . of fireflies coming toward the station. Large fireflies. She said, “What on earth is that?”
Morgan had turned at the sound too. He looked out the window and very matter-of-factly said, “A mob.”
A . . . mob? In Hamrickville?
Frowning, she got to her feet. He stood too and put his hand on her arm. All humor had fled his expression and he looked tough and capable. “If you think this is in the least dangerous, you stay here and I’ll handle it.”
He could, too. He was just one man, but he wasn’t a man even a mob should take lightly. She said, “I don’t think this mob will amount to much. I wonder what they want, what has them upset? Only one way to see, I guess.”
She cast a regretful look at the half-eaten hamburger and remaining fries; they’d be cold and not nearly as appetizing by the time she got back to them. He said, “Okay, but I’m right here at the door if you need me.”
She was tired and would rather be finishing up her hamburger, but facing this “mob” was her job. Opening the door, she stepped out on the sidewalk and squinted at the approaching crowd. The overhead street- lights cast weird shadows on their faces, and the light was so ghastly some of them looked like zombies, but there were only a few people she didn’t recognize.
“Crowd” was perhaps stretching it a bit. She estimated there were maybe thirty people there, crossing the street toward her—and jaywalking at that, not that anyone in Hamrickville paid any attention to silly rules regarding where they crossed the street. The lights were mostly cell phones, a modern-day nod to flaming torches, though a couple of smokers carried cigarette lighters. A lot of the mob members ran shops here in town, which meant they were friends with Miss Doris. She saw Harold Patterson, the barber; Miss Virginia Rose, who seemed determined to be in the thick of whatever scene was going on; Faye Wiggins, the florist. Even the librarian was here.
Each and every one of them wore a big white tee shirt pulled on over their regular clothing. Miss Doris’s sweet face had been printed on each shirt, with black jail bars stamped over her, and printed under her face in big letters was FREE DORIS.
Bo clamped her hand over her mouth and pinched hard so she wouldn’t laugh at them. This was so sweet. Really. Her heart gave a little bump, then swelled with emotion.
When she could control herself, she pulled out her cell phone and snapped a photo. The flash, and the realization of what she’d done, stopped them in their tracks. She hadn’t done it for evidence, but because she wanted to remember this moment forever. Then she leaned against the streetlight post and crossed her ankles.
“What’s up?” she asked casually.
Harold Patterson began sputtering. “What’s up? I’ll tell you what’s up! You’re holding Miss Doris in jail while you let that Gooding girl free to strut down the street like she owned it. That’s not right, it’s just not right. We’ve come to get Miss Doris out of jail.”
“We’ll sign any bail papers you got,” added Miss Virginia Rose. “Whatever it costs to get her out of jail.”
Oh, man, they didn’t know how a real mob was supposed to work, with violence instead of an offer to put up bail for Miss Doris. This was truly so sweet that Bo thought she could get a little teary-eyed if she didn’t control herself. She said, “First of all, I can’t decide bail for anyone, only a judge can do that.”
“Where’s Judge Harper?” someone from the back of the crowd shouted, and they began looking around as if they expected him to be marching with them, or maybe they were plotting a course to his house.