67 A face like a ferret

“Ow! Ow!” yelled one bicyclist with a face like a ferret. Baby Drew had whirled and kicked him in the shoulder while slaying two others at either end of the flyswatter. If he’d been smart by being silent, the bicyclist might have had the chance to run away like a scared pest out the side door, skittering past the Frisco Ninja’s nigh on laid ladies and the Good Hustle Ninja and his Little League teammates, over the footbridge and down to the creek where he could slip under a rock until it was time for baby Drew to go home for lunch. But the jabbery bitch, true to nature for a man on two non-motorized wheels, compulsively expressed himself.
Baby Drew heard, and the reflexive back kick took advantage of gravity, and again he swung mightily the flyswatter, and this one died without another word.
“Boss!” confided the Frisco Ninja into his cell phone. “Little fellow very adept!”
One of the huffing, puffing, red-faced bicyclists clapped his hands together, hopped, and trilled, “Goodie! Think of the memorial rides we’ll have this autumn!”
A more realistic Reluctant Dissenter said, “Let’s kill this kid first, before any planning. You want to be on the ride, right?”
“You’ve got to admit we can keep our calendar’s full – let’s see, fallen comrade times one, two, three, that must be at least five in a row there, that makes eight . . .” Before he could round out tombstone fantasy, and think of varieties of non-stop publicity for the fifty mile rides, baby Drew knocked his block off.
The other baby continued to guzzle formula.
Back at the Guss family grotequery, John Guss tried to get the mayor of San Anselmo on the line. But it wasn’t about the threat to his baby son’s safety. He hadn’t heard what was transpiring at the Plip Plop Coffe Shop. Nor had the mayor, it seemed.
“The mayor does not accept calls between ten and eleven every morning.”
“What could be as important as my plans for the restaurant? And Her Honor was the one who gave me the idea in the first place!”
“She’s polishing the Trophy of Virtue, and will not be disturbed.” The assistant had an entirely professional manner, and her voice didn’t betray that most of her attention was riveted on the screen, at the page of Job Opportunities in another town.
“Can I tell you about it?”
“You may.” Fragmentary listening would make her look busy.

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