Joan Hess - Madness In Maggody

"No, they ain't…what?" Jim Bob said, shielding his eyes to see better. He must have seen something, because his jaw dropped so far that the sun glinted on a filling. Before he could say anything further, a particularly enthusiastic cheerleader careened into Raz, who fell against Alex Sattering, who flailed his arms before he staggered into a third man, who whammed into Geraldo Mandozes, who snarled in Spanish and shoved him into a blond woman with sunglasses, who smashed into the van and went down like a load of bricks-all to the amusement of the cameraman, who was busily capturing it for the evening news.

Jim Bob sucked in a deep breath. "What ain't they?" he repeated loudly over the riot beginning to foment in front of him.

Ruby Bee (of course; did you even doubt?) pushed through the crowd, her jaw leading the way. Following on her heels were the nine members of the Ruby Bee's Flamingos, each wearing a white baseball cap and a blindingly pink T-shirt with the team name on the front and a number on the back. They all looked terrified, and I didn't blame them.

The sight shut everybody up. Ruby Bee went to the microphone and elbowed Jim Bob aside. I want you all to meet the Ruby Bee's Flamingos. Ain't they something?" When the applause died, she gave Jim Bob a cool look and said, "And it's going on record now that this SuperSaver team ain't the town champions until they win the title, and we aim to challenge 'em to a game to determine who goes to the tournament."

Jim Bob was way too stunned to say anything. Mrs. Jim Bob darted to Brother Verber's side to hiss in his ear. Petrel was observing the scene with a bemused look. The rabble-rousers on all sides of me, however, thought the challenge was at least as exciting as the night Hiram Buchanon's barn burned down, and they expressed their boisterous enthusiasm by shouting and pushing each other for a better look.

"Why, that's the Mexican's young'un!"

"There's two gals on the team!"

"Do you see who that one is? That's Robin Buchanon's bastard. I was real sure he'd gone to an orphanage."

"What in tarnation happened to Elsie's fat little grandson? He looks like he done been attacked with a shovel!"

"Imagine picking your nose in front of everybody! That's disgusting!"

There was a lot of the above in the air, and the unrelenting heat was now getting competition from at least a hundred bodies, some of them obviously unwashed. I was getting queasy myself and trying to decide what to do when Kevin scratched his head, took a deep breath, snipped the ribbon, and yelled, "Y'all can come inside now!" It was the first intelligent thing he'd done-ever.

Jim Bob came to his senses and growled at the band to play something. The cheerleaders began to shriek out entreaties to make that goal and rickety rack, stop 'em in their track and go, go, go. Once everybody realized there would be no overt violence, they went, went, went.

I hung back until I had some breathing room, then went over to Ruby Bee and said, "Cute. Real cute."

She opted to misinterpret my remark. "Yes, they're the cutest things I've ever laid eyes on. You don't think the shirts are too bright, do you? I had to take what I could get at the sporting-goods store in Farberville and practically get down on my knees and beg to get them to put on the letters right then and there."

"Whaddya think?" Hammet called to me. "Ain't we sumpun?"

"Oh, yes indeed." I turned back and with admirable restraint said, "Do you feel this confrontation is in the best interests of community goodwill?"

Estelle clattered up in a pink shirt, a skirt, and high heels and looked down her nose at me. "I don't see why Ruby Bee has to account to you, missy. You may be the chief of police, but that doesn't mean you're entitled to get too big for your britches."

"Goodness gracious," Ruby Bee said as she fanned her face with her hand, "it must be approaching a hundred degrees out here and I'm feeling dizzy. Let's go see whatall Jim Bob thinks he can give away at this fool picnic pavilion of his." She slipped her arm through Estelle's, gave me a vaguely triumphant look, and beckoned to the flock of Flamingos. "Come along, boys and girls. Maybe there's free soda pop and cookies."

Two seconds later, I had the parking lot to myself I took a deep breath and counted to ten (in French, no less), called to the deputy that he could leave (no Les?), and followed the crowd into Jim Bob's SuperSaver Buy 4 Less.

The air conditioner was going full blast. The linoleum floor was shiny, the fluorescent lights bright, and the aisles wide enough to accommodate those wandering up and down with awed expressions. The three registers were manned by grim, pockmarked checkers. A ten-foot-square area beyond the last register was enclosed by plywood panels; the door had a suspiciously opaque mirror that hinted of covert observation. It was, I presumed, the office.

Jim Bob, Petrel, Mrs. Jim Bob, and Brother Verber had vanished, which was fine with me. I decided to explore the store. I took a hard right and found the produce aisle-and two members of opposing baseball teams on the verge of mayhem. I grabbed Saralee with one hand and a brutish Buchanon mutant with the other. "What's going on?" I demanded in my best cop voice.

Saralee jerked free. "This dumbshit says I can't play ball."

"She's a girl. Everybody knows girls cain't play ball," the SuperSaver muttered. He also jerked free and began to rub his arm. "She oughta stay home and sew doll clothes."

"Take it back, manure mouth," Saralee responded graciously.

"Listen here, you little fat bitch," the SuperSaver began, holding up a fist the size of an early-summer cantaloupe, "you better learn to-"

I blocked his path and glared at him. "Shut up-now." It occurred to me I was glaring up at him. "How old are you, anyway?"

"None of your beeswax, fuzz lady."

"In order to qualify to play in the intermediate league, you're supposed to be entering fifth or sixth grade this fall. Just how old are you?"

He tried to slouch down to eye level. "I be going into sixth grade this fall. If'n you don't believe me, you can call the school and ask."

"He could be telling the truth," Saralee contributed. "It must have taken him three or four years to get through first grade, what with him being such a dumbshit and all. I saw him driving down the highway the other day."

I hushed her and told the boy to drive down the highway right that minute if he didn't want to be charged with terroristic threatening. I could tell the phrase sailed over his head with several feet to spare, but after a dark look at Saralee, he slouched away.

I shrugged at her. "Even though it's illegal, some of the boys start driving at fourteen or even younger. But he must be six feet tall, for Pete's sake. If he's twelve years old, then so am I. And Ruby Bee's going on twenty-one."

She wasn't interested. "Where'd Hammet go? I was right behind him when we came inside, but then he took off like a hornet flew up his rear."

I suggested we search for him in the vicinity of the free food. The picnic pavilion wasn't difficult to locate; the bodies were packed in and the voices loud. As we approached, a cheerleader bounced up with a platter and invited us to sample a fried chicken wing. Saralee grabbed one. We were again halted by another cheerleader, this time with a platter of sliced meat. The third platter had cocktail wienies in barbecue sauce.

I scanned the crowd for Hammet, Ruby Bee, Estelle, or anyone else of interest. Dahlia O'Neill was of no interest whatsoever, but I watched as she came out from behind the deli case with a platter in each hand and, in the style of a naval icebreaker, forced a path to a picnic table covered with a red and white checked paper tablecloth. She banged down the platters, stopped to wipe her forehead, and trudged back through the crowd. Dahlia usually has a contented expression, verging on bovine, but at the moment she looked royally pissed. I caught myself wondering if she was in a snit because she wasn't in a red and white striped miniskirt, then told myself to stop before I conjured up that image.