The Bass Wore Scales (24 page)

“
Hey,” yelled Junior. “Y’all shut up, dammit! We’re trying to pray here!”

“
Shoot Baptists, not gorillas!”

“
Hey, that’s about enough!” Junior hollered back. “
I’m
a Baptist! Hell, we’re
all
Baptists! And I’m telling you for the last time! We’re
trying
to pray!”

By this time, I was on the top step next to Junior. “Let’s just all be quiet for a minute, and we’ll work this out,” I yelled. It was no use. No one could hear me over fifty animal rights activists chanting at the top of their lungs. I saw one unfortunate protester, obviously carried away in the heat of the moment, swing his sign at the head of one of the NASCAR fans. The protester was a tall man and thin—a vegan, perhaps. I noticed his pallor wasn’t nearly as ruddy as that of his target—a 280 pound carnivore wearing a baseball cap that said “Beer—It’s Not Just For Breakfast Anymore,” and a sleeveless t-shirt showing off his Special Forces tattoo. I saw the sign bounce harmlessly off his cap, watched him turn around, grab the protester by his shirt and lift him off the ground with a roar. I saw his fist draw back, but lost sight of them as both sides weighed in.

I ran down the steps, grabbed hold of Gaylen’s arm and pointed her toward the doors of the church. She took the hint. Nancy was at my side in a matter of moments.

“
What do we do now?” she said, looking out over the melee that had begun in a matter of seconds.

I surveyed a scene that would later be described by the TV newscaster as “a one-sided donnybrook with Junior Jameson’s fans in the driver’s seat.” The animal rights people may have been used to protesting in California, where people chat for a while, wave a sign, throw a bucket of paint on a fur coat, and then go out for some Brie and a nice Merlot, but that wasn’t happening here. They had angered the wrong folks. From my vantage point, I saw at least ten of the PETA protesters lying on the ground. The PETA women weren’t faring much better than the men, because, although a male NASCAR fan isn’t likely to hit a woman that he’s not married to, a female NASCAR fan has no such problem, and the ladies were taking advantage of easy pickin’s. The PETA women probably didn’t even realize that brass-knuckles came in designer colors. Junior Jameson, never one to walk away from a good brawl, was in the middle of it, snatching up protesters by the scruff of the neck, punching them once, and tossing them aside like rag dolls, all the while yelling at the top of his lungs, “Y’all shut the hell up! We’re trying to pray!”

I let out a big breath. “Give me your gun,” I said to Nancy.

“
You gonna shoot one?” asked Nancy, unholstering her .357 Magnum and handing to me.

“
Hope not.” I raise the gun over my head, cocked the hammer back and fired one shot into the air. It was like a cannon had gone off. Everyone stopped dead in mid-punch.

“
Now,” I hollered, “don’t make me shoot you, ‘cause I will! I’m crazy. Ask anyone.” I fired one more shot into the air for good measure.

“
You PETA folks gather up your wounded and head on over to the police station. You’re all under arrest.”

The protesters started make some noise, so I fired another shot into the air.

“
I wish you’d tell me when you’re going to do that,” said Nancy, under her breath. “You’re killing my ear-drums.”

“
I’ve got three shots left,” I muttered.

“
Whad’s da chahge?” hollered the PETA attorney, using a handkerchief to stem the blood coming out of his broken nose.

“
Disturbing the peace, assault, and PISSING ME OFF!” I shouted back.

“
Pissig you off id dot agaid da law,” the lawyer sputtered. “Oh, by dose!”

“
Mr. Mayor?” I said, now noticing Pete standing on the steps beside me.

“
Oh, yes it is,” said Pete. “The town Council passed that law about three years ago. You can look it up!”

“
Id wod hold up id court,” said the lawyer. “We’ll sue.”

“
And you might win,” said Nancy. “But for now, you’re all under arrest. Now march over to the police station. You know the drill!”

“
What about them?” whined the pimply-faced boy, one of his arms hanging loosely at his side. “I think my arm is broken.”

“
You started it,” I said. “Now get on over there.” I pointed across Sterling Park toward the police station. They turned dejectedly and started walking.

The NASCAR fans were in a fine mood, Junior included. There were high-fives all around and a general consensus that with the Blessing of the Racecar coupled with a good ol’ fashioned brawl—all caught on video-tape, it had been a fine afternoon.

“
Go get Gaylen and let’s get this blessing finished,” I said to Pete. He nodded and disappeared inside the front doors of the church.

* * *

Pete and Meg were already at a table when I walked into the Slab Café later that afternoon. Collette was putting two pieces of Black Forest Cake in front of them.

“
Did you really arrest them all?” asked Meg. “That’s a whole lot of work isn’t it—charging and fingerprinting fifty people? Not to mention the fact that you’d have to find somewhere to put them until they’re arraigned. And think of the paperwork.”

“
I did,” I said, sitting down and borrowing Meg’s fork. “That’s why I let them all go.” Meg pushed her slice of cake in front of me in resignation.

“
I figured,” said Pete. “What did Dr. Pelicane have to say about the whole thing?”

“
She wasn’t there. I think she vamoosed after the trouble started. Great cake, by the way.”

“
Did all the protesters go home?” asked Meg.

“
I don’t think so. I heard some talk about heading out to the animal shelter to have a candlelight vigil tonight and then another protest tomorrow morning. Hey, Meg, you should try some of this cake.”

“
Did you call Gwen?” asked Pete. “You should probably give her a heads up.”

“
Already done,” I said. “She’s waiting for them.”

“
Here you are Hon,” said Collette as she put another piece of cake in front of Meg. “Can I ask you something, Hayden?”

“
Sure.”

“
You know that Dave and me were supposed to get married in a couple weeks.”

“
Yep. We’re all looking forward to the ceremony.”

“
That’s just it,” said Collette, with a muffled sob. “We can’t get married. Brother Kilroy is dead!”

“
I’m sure another minister will do the service,” said Meg. “Has New Fellowship Baptist arranged for an interim?”

“
A what?” sniffled Collette.

“
An interim minister,” said Meg. “A sub.”

“
I don’t think so. At least, I haven’t heard of anyone. I thought maybe Hayden could do it.”

“
I’m not actually ordained,” I said. “Sorry.”

“
Why don’t you call Bootsie Watkins and ask her,” suggested Pete. “She’d know if New Fellowship was getting a minister.”

“
I will. I’ll ask Noylene, too,” said Collette. “She and Wormy are supposed to get married. Maybe she’s found someone to do the ceremony.”

“
Maybe,” said Pete. “And maybe you could bring us some coffee.”

“
Coming up.”

“
Let me get this straight,” said Meg, once Collette had made for the coffee pot. “Noylene and Wormy are cousins, but it’s legal for them to get married?”

“
Of course,” said Pete. “North Carolina is an equal opportunity state.”

“
First cousins? Isn’t that creepy?” Meg said.

“
Nah,” Pete answered. “There’s lots of precedent. Edgar Allen Poe married his cousin. Charles Darwin, Albert Einstein…”

“
Queen Victoria,” I added, happy to add to the list. “J.S. Bach. Even Mary and Joseph.

“
What? Mary and Joseph were not cousins!”

“
Oh, yes they were,” I said. “Check your New Testament genealogy. But seriously, it was very common for cousins to get married until well into the twentieth century.”

“
I still think it’s creepy.”

“
Well, maybe they won’t be having any children,” Pete said. “Noylene’s got to be what? Forty-five? Fifty?”

“
I wouldn’t hazard a guess,” I said, “but if I did, it wouldn’t be that high. Maybe early forties. Her son’s got to be twenty-five at least.”

“
D’Artagnan’s twenty-four,” said Meg. “And Noylene is thirty-eight. She had him when she was fourteen. She could easily have some more kids.”

“
How old is Wormy?” I asked.

“
I don’t know,” answered Meg, “but I’ll bet he hasn’t seen forty-five yet.”

I sighed. “They sure start life early up here in the hills.”

* * *

“
You might want to leave the room,” Marilyn said again, for the benefit of those readers who had forgotten where we were in the story. She pulled a crab-leg cracker and an oyster-shucker out of her purse.

“
That is, if you’re squeamish,” she added.

I was squeamish enough. I went out for a hot cup of

joe, and when I got back an hour later, Marilyn was sitting primly at her desk, typing titillatingly on her tidy typewriter. I glanced into my office. The two goons were nowhere to be seen.

“
It’s a good thing for you I’m empowered,” said Marilyn. “Or you’d be swimming with the fishes.”

“
Speaking of fishes, where are the boys?”

“
I showed them out.”

“
Did Ray have anything to say?”

“
Oh, yes. He was very talkative.”

“
Spill it, Sweetheart.”

“
It’s a guy named Moby Mel. He’s behind the whole deal. He’s been buying up all the fish markets all over the city.”

“
What for?”

“
He’s got his hooks into the bishop. If Moby Mel can get the clergy to okay his new ‘Fish on Friday’ agenda, Moby Mel’s fortune is made.”

Yeah, it all made sense now. A “Fish on Friday” edict would give Moby Mel a share of all the food served in the city, and that was a whole lot of sushi.

“
Another brilliant installment,” said Georgia as she looked over my latest offering at choir practice. “I can’t say you’re getting better, but I don’t think you’re getting any worse.”

“
I notice that I’m not in the story yet,” huffed Marjorie.

“
I haven’t had time to work in the Hard-Drinking Bus Station Restroom Attendant With The Heart Of Gold just yet,” I said. “I’ve been terribly busy.”