“Where’s Danny?” I asked when I went to the bar to get a beer for Catfish Hennessy. He was Jason’s boss, and I half expected to see Jason come in to join him, but Hoyt and a couple of the other roadwork guys sat at Catfish’s table.
“He had to work at his other job today,” Kennedy said, trying to sound offhand. “I appreciate Sam making sure I’ve got protection while I’m working, Sookie, but I really don’t think there’s going to be any trouble.”
The bar door slammed. “I’m here to protest!” yelled a woman who looked like anyone’s grandmother. She had a sign, and she hoisted it up. NO COHABITATION WITH ANIMALS, it read, and you could see that she’d written “cohabitation” while she looked at a dictionary; each letter was written with such care.
“Call the police first,” I told Kennedy. “And then Sam. Tell him to get back here no matter what he’s talking about.” Kennedy nodded and turned to the wall phone.
Our protester was wearing a blue and white blouse and red pants she’d probably gotten at Bealls or Stage. She had short permed hair dyed a reasonable brown and wore wire-rimmed glasses and a modest wedding ring on her arthritic fingers. Despite this completely average exterior, I could feel her thoughts burning with the fire of a zealot.
“Ma’am, you need to take yourself outside. This building is privately owned,” I said, having no idea if this was a good line to take or not. We’d never had anyone protesting before.
“But it’s a public business. Anyone can come inside,” she said, as if she were the authority.
Not any more than I was. “No, not if Sam doesn’t want them in here, and as his representative, I’m telling you to leave.”
“You’re not Sam Merlotte, or his wife. You’re that girl who dates a vampire,” she said venomously.
“I am Sam’s right-hand person at this bar,” I lied, “and I’m telling you to get out, or I’ll put you out.”
“You lay one finger on me, and I’ll call the law on you,” she said, jerking her head.
Rage flared up in me. I really, really don’t like threats.
“Kennedy,” I said, and in a second she was standing by me. “I’d say between us we’re strong enough to pick up this lady and take her out of the bar. What do you say?”
“I’m all for it.” Kennedy stared down at the woman as if she were only waiting for the starting gun to go off. “And you’re that girl who shot her boyfriend,” the woman said, beginning to look properly frightened.
“I am. I was really mad at him, and at the moment I’m pretty pissed off at you,” Kennedy said. “You get your butt out of here and take your little sign with you, and you do it right now.”
The older woman’s courage broke, and she scuttled out, remembering at the last moment to keep her head up and her back straight since she was one of God’s soldiers. I got that direct from her head.
Catfish clapped for Kennedy, and a few others joined in, but mostly the bar patrons sat in stunned silence. Then we heard the chanting from the parking lot, and we all surged to the windows.
“Jesus Christ, Shepherd of Judea,” I breathed. There were at least thirty protesters in the parking lot. Most of them were middle-aged, but I spotted a few teenagers who should have been in school, and I recognized a couple of guys who I knew to be in their early twenties. I sort of recognized most of the crowd. They attended a “charismatic” church in Clarice, a church that was growing by leaps and bounds (if construction was any indicator). The last time I’d driven by when I was going to have physical therapy with JB, a new activities building had been going up.
I wished they were being active there, where they belonged, rather than here. Just as I was about to do something idiotic (like going out in the parking lot), two Bon Temps police cars pulled up, lights flashing. Kevin and Kenya got out. Kevin was skinny and white, and Kenya was round and black. They were both good police officers, and they loved each other dearly. but unofficially.
Kevin approached the chanting group with apparent confidence. I couldn’t hear what he said, but they all turned to face him and began talking all at once. He held up his hands to pat the air in a “back off and get quiet” gesture, and Kenya circled around to come up behind the group.
“Maybe we should go out there?” Kennedy said.
Kennedy, I noted, was not in the habit of sitting back and letting things take their course. Nothing wrong with being proactive, but this was not the time to escalate the confrontation in the parking lot, and that was what our presence would do. “No, I think we need to stay right here,” I said. “There’s no point in throwing fuel on the fire.” I looked around. None of the patrons were eating or drinking. They were all looking out the windows. I thought of requesting that they sit down at their tables, but there was no point in asking them to do something they clearly weren’t going to do, with so much drama going on outside.
Antoine came out of the kitchen and stood by me. He looked at the scene for a long moment. “I didn’t have nothing to do with it,” he said.
“I never thought you did,” I said, surprised. Antoine relaxed, even inside his head. “This is some crazy church action,” I said. “They’re picketing Merlotte’s because Sam is two-natured. But the woman who came in here, she was pretty aware of me and she knew Kennedy’s history, too. I hope this is a one-shot. I’d hate to have to deal with protesters all the time.”
“Sam’ll go broke if this keeps up,” Kennedy said in a low voice. “Maybe I should just quit. It’s not going to help Sam that I work here.”
“Kennedy, don’t set yourself up to be a martyr,” I said. “They don’t like me, either. Everyone who doesn’t think I’m crazy thinks there’s something supernatural about me. We’d all have to quit, from Sam on down.”
She looked at me sharply to make sure I was sincere. She gave me a quick nod. Then she looked out the window again and said, “Uh-oh.” Danny Prideaux had pulled up in his 1991 Chrysler LeBaron, a machine he found only slightly less fascinating than he found Kennedy Keyes.
Danny had parked right at the edge of the crowd, and he hopped out and began to hurry toward the bar. I just knew he was coming to check on Kennedy. Either they’d had a police band radio on at the home builders’ supply place or Danny had heard the news from a customer. The jungle drums beat fast and furious in Bon Temps. Danny was wearing a gray tank top and jeans and boots, and his broad olive shoulders were gleaming with sweat.
As he strode toward the door, I said, “I think my mouth is watering.” Kennedy put her hand over her mouth to stifle a yip of laughter.
“Yeah, he looks pretty good,” she said, trying to sound offhand. We both laughed.
But then disaster struck. One of the protesters, angry at being shooed away from Merlotte’s, brought his sign down on the hood of the LeBaron. At the sound Danny turned around. He froze for a second, and then he was heading at top speed toward the sinner who’d marred the paint job on his car.
“Oh, no,” Kennedy said and hurtled out of the bar as if she’d been fired from a slingshot. “Danny!” she yelled. “Danny! You stop!”
Danny hesitated, turning his head just a fraction to see who was calling him. With a leap that would have done a kangaroo proud, Kennedy was beside him and wrapping her arms around him. He made an impatient movement, as if to shake her off, and then it seemed to dawn on him that Kennedy, whom he’d spent hours admiring, was embracing him. He stood stiffly, his arms at his side, apparently afraid to move.
I couldn’t tell what Kennedy was saying to him, but Danny looked down at her face, completely focused on her. One of the demonstrators had forgotten herself enough to get an “Awww” expression on her face, but she snapped out of her lapse into humanity and brandished her sign again.