They had orders for thirty-five fried turkeys. These turkeys would be eaten sometime during the year and some of them maybe that night. There were ice chests full of turkeys lined up around them. The eight gas burners with tall pots of oil heating up for the frying were lined up along the wall—Doobie had placed them there to be out of the slight wind that was blowing like hot breath. “Thanks for coming to help us,” Doonie said, a whimsical grin cracking across his face. “We needed another turkey around here.” Tru laughed. “Yeah, believe me, I’ve been called that ever since I accepted this invitation to cook with you three.” “Hey, we’re glad you’re here,” Doobie said. He was wearing an apron with a slogan that read, “I’m not the turkey. That’s my brother.” “Yes, I’m not exactly certain how I got entangled with this motley crew. I for one have never fried a turkey.”
