Nick’s eyes closed, and he shook his head gently. “When did you find out? Well, why didn’t somebody call me yesterday?” Nick made a gesture as though asking God to save him from fools. “He suggested a band? Have you checked them out? No? Where are they playing?” He grabbed a pad to write on. “Yeah, I know the place. Mercy Malone’s here with me. If I can work it out, we’ll catch a few sets tonight and make a decision on whether or not to go with live music. Let Susan and Paul know the plan.” Putting the phone down, Nick cursed fluently in Frengish, a Cajun combination of French and English, before he told Mercy what she’d already guessed from the phone conversation. “The disk jockey managed to break both his hands.” “How?” “The first one while catching a baseball.” Mercy whistled. “Must have been some fastball.” “The second one when his wife slammed the van door on his good hand at the emergency room. Dieu! It’s a little late to be scrounging around for entertainment, but I’d rather have a band than another deejay.
