“As long as you’re okay,” Theo said. “And you don’t want to press charges or anything?”

“No, just a misunderstanding. Soon as you get her out of here, I’ll be heading out of town.”

There was a collective sigh of disappointment from the regulars who had been placing side bets on who Mavis would hit with her bat.

“Thanks,” Theo said. He shot Mavis a surreptitious wink and led Molly out to the street, excusing himself and his prisoner as they passed an old Black man who was coming through the door carrying a guitar case.

“I ‘spose a man run outta sweet talk and liquor, he gots to go to mo’ direct measures,” the old Black man said to the bar with a dazzling grin. “Someone here lookin fo‘ a Bluesman?”

Molly Michon

Theo put Molly into the passenger side of the Volvo. She sat with her head down, her great mane of gray-streaked blonde hair hanging in her face. She wore an oversized green sweater, tights, and high-top sneakers, one red, one blue. She could have been thirty or fifty—and she told Theo a different age every time he picked her up.

Theo went around the car and climbed in. He said, “You know, Molly, when you bite a guy on the leg, you’re right on the edge of ‘a danger to others or yourself,’ you know that?”

She nodded and sniffled. A tear dropped out of the mass of hair and spotted her sweater.

“Before I start driving, I need to know that you’re calmed down. Do I need to put you in the backseat?”

“It wasn’t a fit,” Molly said. “I was defending myself. He wanted a piece of me.” She lifted her head and turned to Theo, but her hair still covered her face.

“Are you taking your drugs?”

“Meds, they call them meds.”

“Sorry,” Theo said. “Are you taking your meds?”

She nodded.

“Wipe your hair out of your face, Molly, I can barely understand you.”

“Handcuffs, whiz kid.”