I was beginning to regret the conversation. "Ruby Bee was worried that her customers might defect, but so were the Satterings, who operate a small farm with a produce stand, and the Mexican who bought the Dairee Dee-Lishus a few months back. Jim Bob issued himself a permit to sell beer, which may have upset the guy at the pool hall, who does a brisk bootleg beer business despite my continual admonishments. The hippies who own the Emporium may have been concerned that the SuperSaver would carry a lot of hardware odds and ends. It could have been anybody in town, Harve. They were all there."
"Any of those folks you mentioned by name end up in an ambulance?"
"It was an absolute madhouse. Les and I were trying to scribble down names and addresses, and the medics were dragging off the victims before we could do it. Ruby Bee was okay. I think I noticed Mandozes watching the scene with a supercilious look. I didn't see the Satterings, but Les may have logged either or both of them. I'll check with him."
"Good idea." Harve tugged at his lower lip and watched a fly inching toward the ashtray. "Tell ya what…the health department boys'll need to inspect the entire store. Even if the deli section gets okayed, it stays closed until we hear from the state lab. But if I don't order you to let the store open within a day or two, I might as well take a one-way hike to the fishing hole and commence my retirement. The county judge is a mean sumbitch with a memory a damn sight longer than a possum's tail."
I wasn't thrilled, but there wasn't much I could do about it. I went to hunt up Les and get his list. None of the names I'd mentioned appeared, but that didn't prove much of anything, because we didn't know if there was anything to prove. After an idle chat with Les about his wife's reaction to his vomit-splattered uniform, I drove back to Maggody for Sunday-afternoon baseball practice.
Kevin had been permitted into Dahlia's bedroom by her granny, who usually was awful strict but was wearied of playing nursemaid by now. His beloved was under a tan blanket; he couldn't help but think of an undulating sand dune in the Sahary Desert as he tiptoed across the room.
"Dahlia?" he whispered.
The dune quivered. "Whatta you want, Kevin Fitzgerald Buchanon?"
"I came by to see if you was feeling better. You looked mighty pale yesterday."
"So would you if'n you'd retched your gut out all afternoon."
He sat on the edge of the bed and patted what he guessed was her shoulder or head or something. "I felt real bad for you, my darling. It must have been about the worst thing what ever happened to you. I brought you a little present."
The blanket edged down until two dark eyes were regarding him in a most unnerving way. "What?"
"A package of vanilla sandwich cookies. I know how much you like 'em, and I was just hoping they might speed you along on your road to recovery." Kevin held his breath until a hand snaked out from under the blanket and snatched the package from his lap. "I guess I'd better let you get some rest now. When do you reckon you'll be better?"
"About the time the preacher finishes the sermon and they lower my casket into the hole. Then everybody throws ashes to ashes and dust to dust down on me and goes away to watch television or have supper, while I just lay there waiting for the worms."
Kevin's stomach began to flop like a crappie in the bottom of a johnboat. "But, sweetness, your granny said you was already feeling better and would be able to get up today. This stomach flu was a terrible thing, what with all those folks retching and upchucking all over the place, but I ain't heard that anybody in town is going to up and die from it."
Cellophane crackled. "That ain't what I'm talking about," came the muffled voice from under the blanket. "I am referring to this humiliating session we got to go to with Brother Verber, that fat ol' pious pig. It's your fault, Kevin Fitzgerald Buchanon, and you know it. On account of how you jumped all over me on the porch swing and tore a hole in my best blue blouse, I got to listen to the preacher go on and on about lust and sin and the fast track to eternal damnation. And so do you."
By now his stomach was flopping so hard, he started to wonder if he had a touch of the same stomach flu that had gripped hold of everybody the day before. "I do?" he croaked.
"Brother Verber and Mrs. Jim Bob came up to me while I was in the kitchen waiting for the pan of tamales to heat up in the oven, and the two of them started lecturing about how I was a lustful slut and you was some kind of sex maniac. All I could do was stare. Before I could even think what to say, she was telling me how the whole town knows you and I was fornicating on the porch swing, and he was all the while sermonizing about going to hell in a hand basket. Then she got all priggy and said we got to have some damn fool premarried counseling session or we're going to be the stars of next week's sermon."
"Oh my gawd…"
The blanket flew back and Dahlia grunted and struggled around until she was sitting up. Her eyes were almost invisible under her lowered brow, and her mouth was screwed up something fierce. Her words came out like bullets that pierced his heart. "This is all your fault. What do you aim to do about it?"
"Maybe I can talk some sense in them," he said, scooting back so far that he almost toppled off the edge of the bed. "They ain't got no call to tell us we have to go to this counseling session. I'll tell them that to their faces."
"What are you going to tell your ma and pa next Sunday morning when Brother Verber starts naming names from the pulpit of the Voice of the Almighty Lord Assembly Hall? What am I supposed to tell my granny? She's scrawny as a free-range chicken, but she packs a mean wallop when she gets het up."
Kevin breathed in and out for a while, his Adam's apple rippling and his palms getting so sweaty that he had to wipe them on the sheet. He couldn't think of a single thing to say, which was probably just as well.
"Now to which base do we throw the ball?" I asked patiently. I was on the pitcher's mound (a clump of weeds), with those players who hadn't found something more interesting to do. "There's a runner on first and the ball is hit to Martin. He stops it and then…?"
Hammet waved his arm. "Home plate. We don't want those dumbshit sumbitches to get a score. Long as we got the ball at home, ain't no way they can sneak in."
I pretended to consider his reply. "That's true, Hammet; the opposing side cannot score if our catcher has the ball at home plate. But we also need to make outs. Everybody think. Where can we most easily make an out?"
"Home plate," Saralee said promptly.
"Why?"
"'Cause none of them can catch the ball except me. Ain't no point in throwing it at them if'n they're gonna miss it. You could walk over and hand it to Enoch, but he'd drop it like it was a hot potato. Earl Boy'd throw it back at your face."
She took off her glasses and cleaned them on her shirt, then settled them back in place and studied Hammet, who promptly turned petunia pink and began to shuffle his feet in the weeds. "I don't know about him," she added pensively. "He's kind of mysterious, ain't he?"
"About as mysterious as a skunk squashed on the highway," said Georgie, snickering. "You can smell it a good mile away, and you just about puke when you get too close."
Saralee and I were hanging on to Hammet for dear life-Georgie's, anyway-when Buzz Milvin picked his way through the cow patties. "Howdy, Arly," he said. "Everything going well?"