Free Shop Talk by Carolyn Haines Page A

he got to where he didn’t bathe much. I mean he was living in his truck and all.”
    Mona put down the manuscript. “There’s something you have to understand, Lucille.” Mona felt the words pulse in her throat, little arrows of rage. It took a lot of effort to make them leave her mouth in a controlled fashion. “We don’t discuss our personal lives. Not at all. Not our parents’ names, not our uncles who raise hogs, not anything at all about our personal lives.”
    Lucille blinked. “Why not?”
    Mona lifted one eyebrow. “First, because the members of WOMB decided it would be that way. We don’t want anything personal interfering.” She leaned forward. “Second, because writers are cannibalistic.” She pointed her fork at Lucille. “You’d make a lovely chapter on uses for Red Devil Lye.”
    Another cracker disappeared in Lucille’s mouth. “I don’t get your meaning.” She chewed and swallowed. “If we meet at the shop, you’ll have to know my brother. That’s a really stupid rule.”
    Mona went completely still. “Maybe it is a stupid rule. Maybe it is.” She signaled the waiter. “I think I’d really like to hear more about Uncle Peter Hare. After we see the shop.”

Chapter Seven
    When the bell over the shop door jangled, Bo looked up from a 1973 Sylvania he had disemboweled. Radical surgery was required, and he was Mandy Pitinkin from the first season of
Chicago Hope.
The very best surgeon. Maybe a little arrogant, a lot crazy, but the best at a delicate procedure where the patient’s life hung in the balance. Wires and the tiny chip boards that showed his patient’s age were jumbled in his hands.
    He ignored the second jangle of the bell and wished that Iris was beside him, assisting him. Iris loved the
Chicago Hope
scenario. They could both relate to a character who had relatives in mental institutions.
    At the third jingle of the bell Bo gave up his fantasy and the television and went to tend to the customer. His annoyance turned to interest at the silhouetted figure that walked toward him. The woman had good looking legs, and she was wearing a short skirt and some kind of military hat. Behind her was a tall, slender woman in high heels, and then … Lucille. An image of Shelley Winters going down in the engine room of the Poseidon blanked out everything else. When his vision cleared, he saw Lucille was wearing a plaid suit that looked like something a demented Easter bunny would put on, or worse, a Junior Leaguer on acid.
    “Bo, these are my new friends, Ms. d’la Quirt and Ms. Frappé.” Lucille stood behind Mona’s shoulder.
    Bo cleared his throat. “Ladies.” It wasn’t the right thing to say, but there was no other salutation that served better.
    Mona stepped forward and held out her hand and captured Bo’s, giving it a firm squeeze. “My, that Y chromosome can make a difference.”
    The big metal door in the back of the shop opened and Iris rushed into the shop waving a newspaper. “Bo, our local celebrity, Dr. Beaudreaux, has mysteriously vanished. The newspaper says he disappeared with an old black and white television.” Iris stopped when she saw Lucille and the two strange women, one holding her husband’s hand.
    “That’s my sister-in-law, Iris,” Lucille said.
    Mona gave Bo’s hand a little squeeze before she dropped it. Lucille was an idiot, but her brother was a hunk. And the shop was the perfect place to meet. Perfect. It had an air about it, an energy. It would be the ideal place for a lot of things.
    Iris eased to Bo’s side and put her hand on his shoulder. “Your sister has the most interesting friends, baby.”
    Mona ignored Iris and let her gaze linger on Bo. “We’ve come to make sure it’s okay if we hold our writers’ meetings in the shop.” Mona decided to take the moment in hand. She didn’t have the rest of the day to fool around. “Lucille said you wouldn’t care if we met up here once a week on Wednesday night. To go over our