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much thought, but Ruthie had once told him she was convinced he did it to accommodate the Moxies of the universe, who spent their time looking up into his swarthy face, trying to interpret his wants and desires. Bartholomew had learned long ago that he had been blessed with the kind of personality that made people want to do things for him. He supposed his nudging sense of humor didn't hurt matters either. |
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He was doing it again, slumping back against the door of his truck. ''Come on, Moxie, how long have you known that woman?" |
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It was equally obvious the intended humor in the question had escaped the little Mexican. Moxie looked up at the man he called Boss Bart with a questioning expression on his face. Nevertheless, he dutifully did a couple of quick calculations and responded. "Almost ten year." Moxie had a curious habit of talking in the singular. |
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"Well then," Bartholomew chided, "if you've known her that long, then you know her well enough to know that Gladys Ann gets excited about a lot of things that aren't really worth getting excited about. Right?" |
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"But," Moxie sputtered, "the weather bureau people say by late tonight we could have a big problem." |
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Bartholomew nodded patiently. Moxie was |
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