“Yes, sirree.” Uncle Eddie stuck his thumbs in the straps of his leather vest and puffed out his chest. “Next year we’ll have even more.”
Bridget Peck adjusted her visor. “The committee will review your event and make the final decision on whether or not you will be allowed to proceed in the future as a sanctioned ICA event.” She lowered her readers and leveled Uncle Eddie with a look I associated with prison matrons, wearing steel gray hair buns.
“Looks like you’re the last of the bunch.” Without acknowledging Bridget Peck’s remark, Uncle Eddie peered at the list over her shoulder, a deep furrow appearing between his eyes. Poor man should’ve been wearing his glasses, but he was too vain. He could no more read the checkmarks on that page than I could dance the flamenco.
“Don’t give me one of your icy stares, Bridget Peck. Lucky was the one who just had to say good-bye to Becca for a good fifteen minutes before we could leave.” Whip glared at his friend.
“Oh, honey, I’ll miss you,” Whip said in a sweet falsetto. Along with the high voice he added a drawl right out of Georgia. “Give me another kiss, you big, strong handsome man.”
Lucky slammed the pen to the table. “Course I did, and you would too if she were still your woman . . . which she ain’t.”
He pressed a cell phone into my hand, and I immediately understood that he fit his moniker. His screen saver was a gorgeous blonde with fashionable inky roots, bright red lips, and light blue eyes like cornflowers in the sun. He was obviously Lucky in love and proud of it.
“Give him back his phone before he has a conniption fit.” Whip gave his friend a long-suffering look of amusement. “Can’t stand to go a moment without keeping her in full view.”
“She’s something, all right.” I returned Lucky’s phone. I was embarrassed for the shorter man. His friend needed a lesson in humility or simple good manners.
“When are you going to let us set up, Bridget?” Whip asked. “Lucky and his iron skillet are primed to take the win.”
“Eight o’clock tomorrow morning,” she answered, poring over the two men’s applications. “Same as every other event you’ve attended,” she said under her breath.
Lucky straightened his shoulders. “Now, Bridge, how do we know you didn’t bend the rules for this flyspeck town?”
I resented that remark. It didn’t matter that we had only three thousand or so residents—we had a hundred entrants.
“Bending the rules in my business can endanger the lives of animals and humans, not to mention the natural beauty of protected areas like the Chihuahuan Desert.” Frank Fillmore, the fireworks guy, had wandered over unnoticed. “Why not play by the rules and keep everyone safe?”
“Any of you know this joker?” Lucky, sneering, asked the rest of us.
“What do you think would happen to these fine folks and their houses, cars, businesses, and whatnots if I fired off my rockets and missiles at will?” Frank’s gaze narrowed on Lucky like a mountain lion tracking a desert cottontail. “You think I can shoot off rockets in any direction, anytime, day or night, and on any day of the year without following the guidelines set in place by the Texas fireworks code?”
“Hey there, Frank,” I said with a bright smile, hoping to distract him from his tirade. “Glad you could make it. Are you hungry? Would you like some quesadillas?”
“Thank you kindly.” He rubbed his hand back and forth across his forehead. “I apologize. It’s been a long day and I have a thunderous headache.”
Bridget Peck handed Lucky and Whip their lanyards and welcome packets. “No irregularities. Move along.”
With a glare at the ICA official and a curt nod to Frank, Lucky moved to a vacant booth, and Whip trailed behind, eyes wide behind his nearly invisible lenses.
“If you’re hungry, I’ve got the cure for what ails you.” I gestured to the buffet tables filled with flautas, quesadillas, and warming trays overflowing with fajita fixings: sautéed onions and peppers, savory chicken, and fajita skirt steak.
“How much?”
“All of the chili cooks eat from the buffet. It’s included in their entry fee.” We’d lose money, but it was our first rodeo—so to speak—and Uncle Eddie and Aunt Linda wanted to make a lasting impression. “For you, seeing as how you’re Aunt Linda’s prom date, it’s on the house.”
He cast a furtive glance around the room. “The state fire marshal nearly shut us down.”
“Good Lord! What was he doing here?”
“The mayor’s office set it up.”
“Why?”
“Every fireworks display site has to pass inspection.”
If we canceled, that would put a hole as big as the Grand Canyon in our weekend. Visions of angry tourists seated on blankets at the fairgrounds filled my head. Faces, young and old, looking up into a dark sky to a big fat nothing. As if the tooth fairy, Easter bunny, and Santa Claus all forgot to visit on that special morning.
“But we’re good to go? You passed?”
He sighed. “Yeah, after separating several launchpads and moving the whole platform one hundred more feet from the parking lot.”
My heart sang with relief. “But you passed with flying colors!” I would’ve offered him drinks on the house, but a hungover fireworks engineer—or whatever they called themselves—didn’t sound like a safe idea, especially if a state inspector was lurking around town.
Frank gave me a wan smile and headed for the grub.
“Each and every event must be run the same way.” Bridget Peck was frowning at Uncle Eddie. “Doesn’t matter the size or shape. It’s best for the hosts to learn the rules at the very beginning.”
She checked her watch and scurried to the center of the room. “May I have your attention?” Her voice took on a melodious tone, which projected to the far corners of the room. The volume slowly lowered until only one or two voices could be heard in the back.
“My name is Bridget Peck. I’ll be
