Chapter 20 #2
“Oh, not much,” Nonna said, reaching over to pat Donna’s arm and nearly falling off the stool in the process.
Donna lurched forward and caught her. “Whoa.”
“Thank you,” Nonna said, smiling proudly, as if she’d just executed a flawless ballet move.
Across the bar, Nana sighed. “I am getting hungry. How about you, Elda?”
“Yes,” Nonna said. “Are you about done shaking those?”
Luanne looked like she wanted to sink through the floor. “Excuse me, but Mrs. O’Shea, we can’t serve food prepared by anybody but us in this establishment.”
“That’s just silly,” Nana said, her Irish lilt strong enough to make the words bounce. “This is the proper way to coat the wings.”
The air inside the bar was thick with flour, beer, and hot oil.
The ceiling fan did its best to stir the scent, but it only managed to spread it.
The crowd, half stunned and half entertained, murmured in low disbelief.
Somewhere, a jukebox song about Irish whiskey played faintly, and the absurdity of it all pressed down like humid air before a storm.
The front door creaked open, letting in a light breeze that carried the smell of rain and exhaust. I didn’t bother to look up. I should have.
“Excuse me, ladies,” a familiar voice said.
I jerked around to see Zippy O’Bellini standing far too close. Of course it was him. He looked the same as before in his perfect suit, slick shoes, and not a hair out of place.
“There you are, you lowdown son of a butthead,” Nonna blurted.
I pinched the bridge of my nose. We really needed to work on her insults.
“Yeah,” Nana said, her accent deep. “What are you doing here, head dick?”
“I think you mean dickhead,” Donna said helpfully.
Nana blinked. “Oh, thank you, Donna. Yes. Dickhead.” She giggled like a teenager.
“Good one, Fiona,” Nonna said with a smirk.
What was even happening? I looked between all three of them. “Why are you here?” I asked Zippy.
“They called me, told me they were here, and threatened to take me apart if I didn’t end the lawsuit against Fiona.” He looked from one grandmother to the other. “Are you two ever going to forgive me?”
Donna leaned closer. “Forgive you for what?”
“Nothing.” Nonna gestured wildly, nearly smacking me in the nose. I jerked back. She froze. “Sorry,” she muttered.
“No problem,” I said, though I wasn’t sure who she’d meant to hit.
Nonna’s eyes narrowed on Zippy, her voice low. “You really are a turd.”
“That’s enough,” Zippy snapped, his face flushed red beneath the bar lights. “You both got what you deserved. I should never have sent you those nice notes telling you I wanted to move back to town and hoped we could all be friends.”
Ah. So that at least explained the mysterious notes and quiet breakfast.
“That’s it,” Nonna said sharply, cutting him off. Before anyone could react, she levered up and reached behind the counter to grab the soda gun, yanking it all the way over the bar.
“Wait,” Luanne yelped.
Too late.
Nonna aimed and fired.
The brown liquid shot across the space, soaking Zippy from hair to suit jacket. He yelped, arms flailing as cola dripped down his face and onto the floor.
“Ha,” Nana crowed. “There you go, Elda. This’ll help.” She ripped open the flour bag and flung the contents at him. A storm of white powder and half-coated chicken wings erupted into the air. The mess hit Zippy square in the chest before exploding in every direction.
I coughed and stumbled backward, my eyes watering. The smell of soda, flour, and fried food coated the air like glue. My heels slipped on the wet floor, and somewhere nearby Donna sneezed three times in a row.
Nonna gave a victorious whoop that echoed like a battle cry.
Zippy stood frozen, dripping cola and covered in sticky flour. He looked like a melted snowman.
“That’ll teach you,” Nana yelled, pumping a fist. “Let me get some more flour—”
“No, no, no,” Luanne shouted, grabbing her arm. “Please, Mrs. O’Shea, do not go into the kitchen,”
“You bitch, Elda,” Zippy yelled, his voice cracking.
The sound hit me like a slap. Donna went still. The bar fell quiet except for the faint sizzle of fryer oil.
Nana’s mouth dropped open. Then she moved.
Fast in a burst of agility that defied physics and her age, not to mention the shots she’d consumed, she jumped onto the counter, both knees landing with a solid thud.
Before anyone could react, she launched herself into the air, sailing right over the bar, and colliding with Zippy.
He made a strangled noise somewhere between a yelp and a cat’s hiss. They both went down in a heap.
“No,” Nonna yelled. She darted forward, skirt swishing, and started kicking at Zippy’s legs. “Let her go! Let her go!”
Zippy grunted with every hit, trying to roll away, but Nana was relentless. Flour puffed up around them. She grabbed a handful of the powder and smeared it across his face with a ferocity that would’ve impressed an MMA fighter.
“Stop,” Donna shouted, running toward them, only to slip on the flour-slicked tile. Her arms windmilled before she went down hard, colliding with a chair. “Ow.”
Cormac Coretti appeared from nowhere, scooping her up like she weighed nothing. “You okay?” he asked, voice steady.
“Where the hell did he come from?” I muttered, bending down to grab Nana. I tried to haul her off Zippy, but she fought me, making odd, gurgly noises of fury while shoving handfuls of sticky flour into his hair.
“Enough,” I yelled.
It wasn’t enough.
Nonna reached into her monstrous purse and pulled out her wooden spoon like a holy relic. She brandished it high.
“Spoon,” I shouted to Donna.
Donna scrambled toward her as I wrapped my arms around Nana’s waist and tried to lift her. She twisted hard, and I lost my balance, tumbling sideways to keep from crushing her.
She landed right back on Zippy with a solid smack that made him grunt. His hand flew to his nose as blood started to trickle.
He rolled, flinging her off. I lunged and grabbed him before he could go after her. “Enough.”
Nonna reared up, eyes blazing, flour coating her hair like a crown. She swung the spoon down on his arm, his leg, his hip—each hit landing with a satisfying thwack.
He tried to kick her away. She hopped back with surprising speed, spoon still raised high. “Ha. Can’t get me, you turdwad.”
Nana tried to roll to her knees, throwing flour in every direction.
The bar remained dead silent except for the sound of my grandmothers’ heavy breathing, the drip of soda from the counter, and the faint Irish music still playing from the jukebox.
Nonna brandished the spoon so hard she lost her balance, the spoon flashing through the air like a misguided saber before gravity won.
She tipped over with a startled yelp, and Donna lunged to catch her.
Both went down instead, collapsing in a tangle of limbs and righteous fury that landed squarely on top of me.
My breath left in one painful whoosh.
“Get off, ow, someone’s elbow,” I gasped, trying to wriggle free as the pile groaned and shifted.
Cormac darted in to help, his expression half panic, half disbelief.
He reached for Donna just as Zippy kicked out, his polished shoe catching Cormac in the knee.
Cormac let out a guttural sound and dropped sideways, instinctively reaching for Nana and rolling to keep from squishing her.
Somewhere in the chaos, I heard several distinct cracks—wood, glass, maybe bone, maybe ego—and a rising chorus of gasps. Someone shouted to call the cops. Someone else was definitely taking pictures; the camera shutter clicks were sharp and fast, cutting through the noise like firecrackers.
“All right, that’s enough,” a voice barked. The sound cut through the chaos.
I blinked through the powdery haze just as a figure appeared in the doorway.
Officer Bud Orlov from the Elk County Sheriff’s Office stood there, hand resting on his holstered weapon, flour settling like snow around him.
His expression said he had seen a lot in his career, but probably nothing quite like this.
The room went quiet. Even the fryer seemed to hush.
“Everybody get up. Now,” he said, his tone calm.
Coughing, eyes watering, I pushed myself upright, dragging Nonna with me. Flour streaked her hair, her face, her clothes. She looked like a deranged Christmas cookie.
“I’m pressing charges,” Zippy said, shoving himself to his knees. Clumps of wet, sugary flour fell from his hair and splattered onto the floor.
My stomach dropped. I met Donna’s gaze through the haze of flour and disbelief.
This was not good. Not even close.