Dinah and Bobby were already out there, and they welcomed Kate and Katya with whoops of joy. The circle started small and grew, evolving into sort of a conga line that stamped and shimmied and boogied around the bar, between the tables, around Old Sam Dementieff, who was still grimly focused on the game, out the back door and in the front, scooping up people inbound from the parking lot in its wake. Bobby was the heart of the line, the beginning and the ending of it, rocking back and forth to the beat and frugging and shrugging and clamming and jamming and beating the band. The song wasn’t long enough for any of them, so it was a good thing when someone put five dollars into the jukebox and the Beach Boys took them all to Kokomo immediately thereafter. Bernie, in response to universal acclaim, turned up the volume, and the roof of the Roadhouse like to come off.

Katya was laughing and clapping her hands. “Clearly,” Kate told her, “you are your father’s child.”

“She got rhythm all right,” Jim said at her shoulder, and Kate became aware not only that he had taken part in the conga line but that he was directly behind her, his hands still on her waist. And maybe even a little lower than that.

She was three feet away from him in a single step. He raised an eyebrow. She didn’t like the look of it. Neither did she like the look in his eye as it rested upon her, as she couldn’t identify it. She knew all his looks and this wasn’t one of them.

She looked around for Mutt and discovered to her dismay that Mutt might have taken part in the dance, as well. She was leaning up against Chopper Jim’s manly thigh, gazing adoringly up into his face, tail thumping the floor.

Kate, revolted, said, “Mutt!”

Mutt was instantly galvanized and shot to Kate’s side. Her expression, to Kate’s severe gaze, looked distinctly sheepish. “Stop seducing my dog,” she said to Jim without thinking.